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It’s a mistake.
An honest one, yes, but still a mistake Shane’s not used to - one he doesn’t even realize he made until he’s halfway through dinner and he reaches under the table to fiddle with the watch that’s not there.
It’s just empty space, flooding him with flashes of the afternoon - the moment of satisfaction sandwiched between this dinner with his mother and his ridiculous interview with Urban Male Magazine this morning. Release. Relief.
Rozanov.
The door to the suite opens quickly because he’s expected. Shane texted him under the table at dinner, maybe a few too many times, about how he knows it’s his own shit but he needs that Rolex for ambassadorship reasons and it’s okay that Rozanov can’t find it because Shane has already retraced his steps in his mind and envisioned the exact place it has to be so if he could just come back to get it he could-
The door opens, and Shane steps in, nodding with a quiet little, “Hey. Sorry, I-”
But the rest gets swept up in the momentum of the door closing behind him - the air rushing past him as Rozanov says something in Russian - continues to, actually - nodding to Shane as he backtracks into the suite and-...
Oh.
He’s on the phone.
Right.
Shane watches after him, the tension that’s geared up in his shoulders now deciding to creep down into the rest of him as he stands here… Alone… Just one step inside…
Rozanov’s voice softens to a murmur as he disappears into the bedroom…
Which…is fine… Shane’s clearly interrupting…
But…
Okay.
With a deep breath in, he presses on, heading right where his watch should be. On the floor. By the couch. Right where he took it off in a hurry and then heard it hit the carpet later. Right where he told himself to remember to grab it before he left, fucked out and showered and ready to tackle another business talk poorly disguised as dinner with his mom except-...
Shane stalls out, frustration etched into his brow.
It’s not here.
Where it should be.
It’s-
The glint of the overhead lights over shiny metal catches in the corner of Shane’s eye. Redirects him, a mere foot and a half to the left.
It’s on the table.
His Rolex.
Strange.
Another mistake. But it’s fixed now, the metal cool and familiar as he fiddles with the clasp around his wrist - drawn, this time, to the way Rozanov’s voice carries out into the lounge area.
It’s friendly, how he speaks to the person on the other side. Disarmingly casual, even. Enough that it slips over Shane’s body, beckoned by words he doesn’t understand - words that aren’t even for him.
A breath to stay steady. And then Shane allows himself the moment of curiosity, flicking his gaze up only to realize, with a violent stutter in his chest, that Rozanov’s already looking out at him through the bedroom door.
Oh.
He’s-... Okay.
He pulls his attention back down to his wrist, finally closing the clasp that he’s never had a problem with before a day in his life.
Fixed. Done.
And now…
Now he should leave. He’s pretty sure.
Except…
From the end of the bed, Rozanov chuckles - this deep, charming thing that snakes out into the lounge area and wraps around every inch of his body.
And Shane doesn’t wanna leave, he realizes.
The relief of the soft, quiet atmosphere, familiar cologne clinging to the air… God, it’s got this way of pulling over him… Wrapping around his shoulders… Warming him from the inside out, just like it did hours ago, when he was under those confident hands, light-years away from the expectations of the day…
He already got his turn this afternoon and yet…
“You find what you are looking for?”
Shane’s inhale fills his chest at an alarming rate because fuck, he knows those words. Those words are for him.
When he glances back up, Rozanov is looking out at him again. Expectedly. Thumb still over the mute button on his phone. “W-...uh…” Shane lifts his wrist up helpfully, firing off a quick point to it in the long space between them.
See?
It’s here. He got it.
All the way in the bedroom, Rozanov eyes him, tracking him up and down as what could possibly be a grin starts to sneak its way out. But then, as the voice on the other line must prompt him to unmute, “Da…” he answers, attention returning to the call.
And…
Jesus.
It’s absurd the way it pulls Shane. Picks him way up and then puts him back down.
But nothing beats out the rush as Rozanov continues to speak, and then easily, very nonchalantly, reaches his hand out to him through the door without looking.
Release. Relief. And Shane follows after it despite every instinct in his body telling him that he should not do that. Rozanov’s on the phone. He’s talking to someone. They’ve already had their time together and it was really good and now he’s supposed to be gone and yet here he is, drifting quietly through the bedroom door, stalling to a stop when he’s one step inside.
Unlike this afternoon, the TV’s on, casting the dim room with steady, white light.
Whistles. A crowd.
He can place it without even looking.
It’s quiet though. Whoever’s on the other side of that phone call is more important, Rozanov speaking over the game to answer them more than once.
He should…go, probably…
Right?
It’s on the tip of his tongue, spurred by the age-old plague of never really knowing how to take up space the right way, when suddenly the words stall out - his ears perk up - everything sort of stills as his attention catches on the loud, high pitched laugh that echoes from the other end of Rozanov’s phone.
It’s-…a girl.
Rozanov’s talking to a girl.
The curl of sour realization in Shane’s gut is stupid because of course Rozanov’s talking to a girl. He talks to lots of girls, probably. When he’s not talking to Shane. Hours after he just wrapped Shane up and took him apart and fucked him so good that he completely forgot about how Urban Male was trying to pry dating gossip out of him. Unsuccessfully. Because Shane isn’t talking to girls. He doesn’t. At least not like-
Rozanov chuckles again, eyes on the game and attention on the call and Shane shifts on his feet, impulses firing in every direction. And he shouldn’t be here, maybe, but he is. He wants to be. Rozanov must want him to be too, with the way he beckoned him in here like this.
But now here he is, standing in the doorway like an idiot, waiting for god knows what as the voice on the other end tickles Rozanov half to death and-
Shane moves forward suddenly, propelled by a feeling he can’t name until he’s planting himself right in front of the bed - right smack dab between Rozanov and the huge hotel TV, something nasty swirling in his gut.
If this surprises Rozanov, he doesn’t show it. Just like how he doesn’t stop talking - doesn’t stop listening to the wrong person, even as he plucks Shane’s wrist from his side to pull it closer, giving his Rolex a halfhearted inspection.
Absurd. Picking Shane up and placing him down again with barely a touch. But it’s enough, is the pathetic thing. It’s just enough to get Shane’s pulse kicking. To get his brain whirling, wondering if he’s the only one who remembers this watch tumbling from the coffee table as they rushed to get everything else off.
And then Rozanov lets him go.
And Shane’s hand falls back to his side.
And it’s not enough, actually. He lied about that.
Another long sentence dances from Rozanov’s lips, inspiring one from the other end, and Shane steps forward between his lazily parted knees, fully blocking out the game now.
A tinny giggle from his phone. Annoying, but not in the way that her voice is annoying - that she’s annoying - just very much in the way that it’s happening at all.
Shane shrugs his jacket off, laying it beside Rozanov to the tune of pretty words that string together easily.
Nothing.
Okay.
He pulls his shirt up and over his head, pulse quickly licking up his wrists as he folds it and adds it to the pile.
Because Rozanov’s looking at him now, finally.
One big hand reaches out to graze his knuckles over Shane’s abs before hooking his fingers over his belt buckle, not undoing, just resting as he speaks.
Because believe it or not, he’s still fucking talking.
Shane huffs, clearly the only one at a loss for words.
Jesus, does he have to get naked naked? Will that get him to stop? For one second he has the beautiful mental image of reaching out and snatching the phone away from Rozanov, slamming his finger over the End Call button himself.
He can’t do that.
That’s insane.
Moving to the floor without looking away - keeping eye contact as he drops to his knees between Rozanov’s legs? That’s not insane. That’s a calculated move right from the playbooks.
One that works.
Shane swallows down the nerves that decide to start bubbling their way up the longer Rozanov watches him. Tears his gaze away, but only so he can move forward. So he can steady himself on those sturdy thighs and then let impulse take over, his head listing forward and into Rozanov’s lap.
It’s muscle memory.
Straight up instinct that he’s starting to get less and less self-conscious about, despite the way he should probably start checking himself on it.
But why would he, when it gets Rozanov’s attention on him? Why would he keep himself from rubbing his cheek along the warm inseam of his joggers, taking in the heady everything about him, if his cock is already stirring under Shane’s roaming mouth?
Words continue to fall over him from above, leisurely and content and like he doesn’t currently have someone’s face in his crotch. But it almost doesn’t matter with the way fingers suddenly slide through the top of Shane’s hair - fuck… Yes… Finally…
Call him pathetic, but he can’t believe how good it feels.
How good it always feels, dull nails scratching gentle, lazy patterns over his scalp.
It’s damn near euphoric, Shane’s eyes rolling shut as he mouths along the outline of Rozanov’s cock through his sweatpants. And maybe he doesn’t have his full attention, but it’s enough. For now. Except for the fact that it isn’t.
Not even close.
A grumble escapes Shane before he can stop it but it’s muffled - lost in damp fabric and the rush of Rozanov’s fingers sweeping around to the back of his neck. This isn’t a unique experience in the slightest, but there’s just something about the way it’s hitting after a day of too much stress and expectation. How it feels extra good now that Shane’s on his knees for him. The absolute mindfuck of how getting pet like this - getting Rozanov’s attention like this, no matter how divided - both riles him up and mellows him out into fucking putty.
Picking him up and putting him back down again.
Shane groans against Rozanov’s cock and it’s loud this time.
And it occurs to him that he really couldn’t care less.
The only downside is the direct consequence, that hand disappearing from his hair to slide between Shane’s face and his lap so he can cup Shane’s chin and fucking drag him up.
Behind him, the goal horn blares on the TV.
A shout from the other end of the call.
And Shane blinks up at him, hair messy and lips parted, just a little bit hazy with it.
He can’t dive back down even though he wants to. Because Rozanov is holding him firmly in place, eyes taking him in even as he rambles on in that deep, compelling tone of his.
Fuck…
Please get off the phone…
Please.
And then, by some miracle, a few more words get tossed in and then Shane’s prayers are answered, the rush of adrenaline absolutely killer as he watches Rozanov bring his phone away from his ear and finally toss it next to him on the bed.
And then it’s silent.
Just the two of them and the game in the background.
“‘Sharing is caring’, Shane Hollander…”
Heat works through his entire body from it - the undivided attention after having to wait. “No.”
It comes out a bit petulant with the way his chin’s being firmly held in place. And Rozanov hears it, because he’s the one keeping it there.
“You could not wait until game was done…” he observes more than asks. “Watch like a normal person...”
And it occurs to Shane for the first time that actually yes, he could have done that. That is definitely something he could’ve done, instead of floundering in not one but two doorways that he had no trouble walking through this afternoon. But, “No.” He repeats. Because it’s fun.
And because it gets a little half-smile tossed his way, almost all of it melting into pure, outrageous bliss as that free hand reaches down to scratch over his scalp again.
Shane’s eyes drift shut in spite of himself… Head grows heavy as Rozanov pets it in just the right way…
Fuck…
“Who were you talking to…?”
He hears himself ask it. Some other part of him that’s still stuck a few minutes back.
And when Rozanov answers, it’s nowhere near his normal brand of instigation. “Why…”
And you know what? Great point. Shane actually doesn’t care who he was talking to. Not anymore, at least. Not when he’s got all the attention focused on him.
“Mm…” Rozanov murmurs up there, big hand ruffling playfully through his hair, “…puppy is back…”
It’s got this way of lighting something very specific in Shane’s chest. Something he hasn’t thought about since the last time he heard it months back, in this same exact position, feeling like his entire world was crumbling into dust around him.
Admittedly, he feels a lot less tragic this time.
But he also doesn’t intend to start thinking about the nickname now. “Rozanov…”
“Hollander…”
“Enough…”
“Why?” Asshole… “You like too much,” he answers for him, like he’s already decided this is the case.
Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response, despite the way he can feel the tips of his ears warming. Instead he tries to focus on the tension working out of his shoulders, easing away with each soothing card of Rozanov’s fingers through his hair.
Dropping it is not a shared gameplan.
“If not puppy, then what…” he wonders, stroking slowly in thought. “Kitten…? Bunny…?”
If Shane could roll his eyes, he would. But he’s much too mellowed out for that. “How ‘bout a human being…?”
Above him, Rozanov clicks his tongue, fingers dropping to brush over the curve of his jaw and then tenderly cup his cheek. “Boring...”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. Truth be told, ever since that night there’s a part of him that’s been craving this. Not the puppy talk. Everything else. The very deliberate way Rozanov touches his face, like he knows exactly how to shut up the racing thoughts in his brain. How to melt down the tension that seems to make a home in his body. How to keep Shane blissfully mellow, curled up at his feet so he can pet him into a state of hazy oblivion.
…okay, maybe the puppy talk too. “If I’m a dog…” he supposes groggily, “I get to bite you…”
It’s only fair, he half-thinks.
But Rozanov sounds completely unbothered up there. Convinced, even. “Mm. You will not bite me.”
“Wanna bet…?”
His answer is another hum, but nothing further. Just the sweep of his thumb over the apple of Shane’s cheek…across his slack mouth…over to his jawline and then back again.
It stalls over his bottom lip, the pad slipping to the tip of his thumb and Shane doesn’t even think about it - doesn’t even remember moving - before the weight of it has settled in his mouth.
A tiny noise slips from him and it’s pleased. Betrayingly so.
For a move Rozanov pulled off during their very first hookup, this hasn’t made an appearance as often as Shane would like - not that he’s keeping tabs. So now that it has again…
It’s instantly all-consuming - eyes closed, lips wrapped securely around Rozanov’s thumb.
He pumps it very slowly, the pad dragging over Shane’s tongue - slick and just heavy enough to light sparks that melt at the base of his spine.
If Rozanov’s itching to make fun of him, he keeps it to himself. Just slow, enticing pumps… And god, Shane can’t help the hum that seems to take over his whole body, anchoring himself around sturdy calves with both hands.
It’s only when his mouth truly starts to water that Rozanov pulls back - drags his other through Shane’s hair - says it, very very lowly. “Sit back…”
Shane does. Even though he doesn’t want to. And with hazy blinks he watches Rozanov stand to full height, attention pulled right along his movement across the room.
“Stay.”
A moment of decision, muddled by the pulsing need to see what comes next.
He waits though, hands limp in his lap, head turned to watch Rozanov slouch back into the armchair by the window.
He lets out a satisfied exhale. Then, patting his thigh twice, “Come.”
Shane’s lashes flutter in a startled blink. Jesus, that really does it for him, huh…
It’s not a long way to go, if he’s being practical.
He can easily make it there on his knees, and standing sounds like too much work right now, so…
Impulse. Instinct, his palms flattening over the steam-cleaned carpet until he’s right where he wants to be - right where Rozanov told him, something dangerous glinting in those eyes as he watches every closing inch.
Shane slips into place between his legs, eyelids heavy as he blinks up at him without a word.
And…
“...wow…”
Shane swallows, voice shaky for some reason. “What…?”
But after another second, Rozanov shakes his head, using the momentum to lean down to him instead. His lips brush the top of his hair, lingering for one blissful moment, before dropping to press against Shane’s forehead. “Stand up…”
“…do I have to…?” But he can feel the way Rozanov’s lips curl into a grin against his skin.
“Yes, Hollander. You have to.”
The grumble of unhappiness is supposed to stay an inside thought and it doesn’t. But with a wistful sigh and a little help, Shane gathers to his feet. After that it’s quick work - fuck, he doesn’t even have to do anything, his body swaying to the side a bit with the momentum of his belt getting pulled off.
Then his button… Zipper… Pants, the ones he wears for press interviews that are uncomfortable but look good on him, apparently. They get shoved down to the floor by expert hands, the same ones that help him step out of them and then lower him back into place.
It’s much better here.
Much more comfortable, sat up between Rozanov’s legs in nothing but his boxer briefs, his pants getting folded and placed on the side table for him.
And then Rozanov’s attention is back.
Front and center.
“You are very pretty like this…” he says down to him, and god, the way he pets through his hair with both hands… “Listening to instruction... Sitting like good boy…”
It’s got Shane’s body flooding with an intense, pulsing heat because oh…
Okay…that’s-...
He’s gotta get it together.
“Thank-…uh…” oh god… “…thank you…” But before he can fumble through anything else, Rozanov is leaning forward in the armchair to slot their lips together, saving him from further humiliation.
It’s a slow kiss, but heavy. Deep. Tongue circling around Shane’s so good it goes straight to his dick.
Christ…
“Tell me…” Rozanov murmurs, hot and heavy against his lips. “You leave very important watch on purpose…?”
There’s too much going on to track all the way back to the beginning, but Shane gets there. Eventually. “No…” Because why the hell would he leave it here? It just doesn’t make sense. Rozanov feeds him a hum that actually sounds convinced this time, believe it or not, then seals it off with a kiss that makes Shane’s spine tingle. And that’s nice and all, but… “You moved it…” His watch… Up off the floor… He found it and said he didn’t.
Why would he do that…?
Rozanov’s mouth presses over his firmly. A move he doesn’t need all his synapses firing for to recognize.
He’s trying to get Shane to shut up, voice low and steady when he finally leans back in the thin space to look at him. “You think too much.”
Shane frowns, glancing away.
Yeah, no shit. “You started it…”
Not what Rozanov wants to hear, apparently, judging by the way he hooks his chin to lift his face close. “Hollander… Enough pouting.” It’s too close, Shane’s eyes flicking away again before being drawn right back in by the little brush over his bottom lip. “Relax. Day is done now, yes?”
It’s never ever been that easy, but, “Yes…” he caves. Because if anyone can help with that, it’s the man in front of him.
It’s already happening again, each thought that just started to spiral held off instead, by the big hands that come to frame Shane’s face, holding it as securely as can be. “Relax now…”
And soon he’s not gonna have to wonder about the move from the floor to the coffee table. Soon he’ll be able to shake the awkward discomfort of his press interview - the unique annoyance that comes with mourning just a simple dinner with his own mother. It’ll all be gone from his brain and his body. For good. Without it coming back.
Shane sighs. He wants that shit more than anything. To let himself have this again. To stop ruining everything Rozanov’s trying to build up for him, on a night he isn’t even supposed to be here.
And when Rozanov kisses him, it’s mind-numbingly tender, pulling the words from his mouth. “I…want-...”
Another kiss. Slow… Easy… “What do you want…”
And Shane… Honestly, he isn’t sure. He was hoping Rozanov would take the lead again, something that comes so naturally in the man above him that he just goes along with it when he feels it, the gentle brush of his mouth replaced by the pads of his pointer and middle fingers…
Shane presses his lips to them. Loses a bit of time from the headiness of it all just being so close - Rozanov’s warmth…his breath…his fingers, steady and familiar as Shane finds himself dragging his parted lips down the front of them, his tongue joining the glide on his way back up.
It should be strange, but Rozanov hums in approval. Even traces over Shane’s lips with them before sinking them onto his tongue and god… Yeah, that’s good…
The whimper that slips past is tiny but noticeable. Honest. Joined by another, as Rozanov goes with the flow and starts to pet the pads of his fingers over the flat of his tongue.
“You like this…” he observes quietly. And if Shane had the wherewithal to keep his eyes open, he might notice the careful interest blooming in his face.
But… “Mm…” is all he manages, heat settled good and heavy in his face.
His mouth is starting to fill with spit. It’s hard to swallow when he’s so focused on the stroke of those fingers over his tongue, but Rozanov doesn’t seem to mind as much as he does.
“Open…”
He hears it float down over him.
Feels the wet drag of fingers slipping from his mouth.
Swallows, finally, and then keeps his head tilted up as he lets his mouth open.
His cheeks burn the more he sits. The more Rozanov must look at him - he just assumes he is, Shane’s body is too relaxed to open his own eyes. And what’s he-... Maybe he should-...
“Pretty…” Rozanov declares before the shame can fully bloom, and then all of his warmth is rushing in again as he licks straight into Shane’s mouth, open and for the taking and oh god…
Shane moans into it, pleasure points popping and melting between his legs.
Both hands cradle his head…keep his face tilted up…open for Rozanov to gently suck on his tongue - fuck… - why is that so good…?
Shane’s mouth fills with spit again…
Hands reach to blindly hang onto Rozanov’s forearms…
Eyebrows furrow, everything swooping over him like a huge weighted blanket and, “Fuck…” comes gasping out the second Rozanov slips off his tongue for a breath.
“Good…” he says down to him, “Doing good…” a kiss to his spitty bottom lip and then he’s sliding his fingers right over his tongue again. “Good boy…”
Shane’s entire body runs hot with it. Like his muscles have melted down into nothing. Like it really is a struggle to keep himself up on Rozanov’s arms, pleasure coursing through him as those fingers pump in and out of his mouth again.
He doesn’t really know what this is, but he fucking loves it. And he isn’t doing a particularly good job at hiding it either, judging from the way Rozanov’s voice lifts with a tease.
“Always something in your mouth, yes…?” His fingers slide out but don’t go far at all, a nasty spark curling in Shane as they trace, slowly and wetly, over his parted lips. “Is nice…” he admits, “...but maybe you want something else…”
It’s just in time for Shane to register how empty he feels without them. How bad he wants them back in his mouth. Rozanov’s fingers… Or…
Or ‘something else’...
He opens his eyes, heavy and needy and fuck, the smirk on Rozanov’s face as he looks down at him is absolutely killer.
“Yes…?”
Shane swallows and it’s thick. “Yes…”
The smirk grows, something flashing in it for a moment as he gives Shane’s cheek a couple pats, hard enough to get a rise out of him.
And then he’s sitting back, pulling leisurely at the drawstring of his sweatpants.
Shane reaches up to help but-
“No…” he insists, “You stay…”
It’s not what he wants to hear, Shane huffing as he pulls his hands back into his own lap, feeling a bit like a kicked puppy if he’s being-...
…wait a minute.
“No pouting…” Rozanov reminds him, “or you don’t get treat…” and all the energy in the room seems to draw to his lap as he finally frees himself from his sweatpants, already hard and waiting.
Jesus…
Shane’s lungs fill, mouth watering. “M’not pouting…”
He’s not.
He just really wants something in his mouth again. That, specifically.
“Show me, then,” Rozanov challenges, armchair creaking as he sits up closer.
The atmosphere shifts around them and Shane feels dizzy with it right away. Latches back on, fingers tangling in the soft fabric bunched around Rozanov’s ankles.
“Hollander…” he hears, and then he’s tilting his head back up, lips parted and breath heavy with anticipation. “More…” Wider…helped by the gentle hold on his jaw to ease him open.
And despite the rush of hungry adrenaline that pulses through him, it’s too hard to keep his eyes open. A lot of things are getting too hard to do. Like focus… Or put words together… Or remember what he was so fucking stressed about when the only thing that matters is-
The atmosphere rushes inward again the second Shane feels it, heavy and unmistakable as it slides over his waiting tongue.
Not fingers this time.
Fuck, it’s so much better than fingers.
“This is what you want…?” comes Rozanov’s voice, and he’s right on the fucking money because yes…yes…this is what Shane wants…
He can feel his brow furrowing as Rozanov’s cock slides to the back of his throat… His nostrils flaring with the sudden breathlessness it leaves him with… His own dick stirring, arousal blooming as he wraps his lips around him…
And at first, Rozanov doesn’t even move. He just gives it to him, letting Shane appreciate the moment - the coveted feeling of a full mouth, tongue held down perfectly by the weight of it.
The only shift is the pleasure that simmers as he rakes both his hands through the back of Shane’s hair, blunt fingernails scratching his scalp in a way that makes him fucking ache…Jesus…
Shane moans around him and it’s loud. He can’t help it.
He can’t help a lot of things anymore.
But that doesn’t seem to freak Rozanov out at all. It only gets him moving, the chair creaking beneath him again as he starts up a slow, easy pump in and out of Shane’s mouth.
Doing the work for him.
It’s a relief. A release. Intoxicating, everything else starting to haze out around the edges of Shane’s existence.
It’s just this…
Just Rozanov.
Just his cologne and his skin and the hot, slick slide of his cock over his tongue.
Shane’s mouth fills with drool and he doesn’t fucking care anymore. It only makes things easier. Just has Rozanov making these quiet, satisfied noises up there. Satisfied with him.
Man, he loves those noises…
“Good…” he hears, like it’s right up on him. “So nice for me, Hollander…” And it is… It is really nice… All of this is really, really nice. “Open now, please…”
It’s easy when he pulls out for him. Shane doesn’t even have a chance to feel disappointed before he’s feeling it, two fingers pressing over his tongue and sliding back… Playing… Tapping a couple times before disappearing and getting replaced with much thicker weight… Much thicker taps…
Shane groans, chasing blindly after it but-
“You stay,” Rozanov insists, “You can stay for me, yes…?”
Shane can do fucking anything for him, actually.
Like nod… He’s pretty sure he’s nodding, more focused on staying put like Rozanov asks him to, tongue out and eyes blissfully shut and yeah… God, there it is…
Another moan falls from his open mouth, pleasure pooling in his lap as Rozanov taps the head of his cock against the flat of his tongue with thick, wet slaps. It should maybe be gross…or humiliating…or something, but Shane’s so fucking gone that he couldn’t find this hotter if he tried. Fuck.
And it’s the slide back in that gets him, pleasure and muffled atmosphere wrapping over him as Rozanov slides in deep and then stays, both hands cradling the back of his head as he keeps him stuffed and still.
“Fuck…” he hears. Winded. Then Russian strung together into something nasty and sexy and Shane’s not even on this fucking planet anymore. Doesn’t need to breathe, he’s pretty sure, perfectly content to sit here with his mouth full and his body floating and Rozanov’s cock keeping him stuffed and still and dizzy and-
The choke sneaks up on him, Shane’s face scrunching and body jerking and Rozanov’s pulling out so fast it makes his head spin, drool clinging to his lips as he coughs and-
“Sorry-” Hands all over his face. Wiping at his mouth as he swallows. “Sorry. You’re okay…?”
And, “Okay…” Shane pants and he means it, vision gorgeously blurry as he damn near crawls after it into his lap, “...‘m okay.” And then he’s got it back, head tilting forward this time as he swallows Rozanov’s cock back down on his own because fuck it.
It’s kind of a headrush. He’s pretty sure what Rozanov huffs out is a swear word, but it’s breathy. Like maybe he’s having a headrush too.
All very rushy…
Or maybe Shane’s about to pass out…
Or-
Suddenly, another direction change, two strong hands framing Shane’s face and lifting him off and away and what the fuck-
Murmuring. Shane doesn’t quite catch it with the earth shifting under him like this but Rozanov’s very close, keeping his heavy head up for him as it lists forward, voice coming again. “Hollander…”
He can hear it this time. Just a few inches away.
Shane steadies himself and then opens his eyes, for what feels like the first time in hours and god, they’re heavy. They’ve never felt like so much before. So big, somehow. And Rozanov is staring at him with this look, like he’s trying to find something on his face and he thinks he’ll be able to if he just looks really really hard and god-
The smile that breaks through Shane feels huge. Feels bigger than his head. Feels bigger than his body as the breathy giggle bubbles out of him from nowhere because god!
“Oh. This is funny for you?”
And Shane just has to nod through his grin because yeah, it is! It is fucking funny. Or maybe not so much funny, as it is delightful. Shane is fucking delighted. This is all just so delightful and he’s maybe never been so happy in his stupid life and-
“You are delirious now,” Rozanov says, but he’s smiling too. Shaking his head and taking his big ol’ hand and swiping it over Shane’s mouth because he just doesn’t give a shit about the spit anymore. And god, can Shane stay here forever? Can they just keep doing this? Can he feel like this all the time? “You need break…”
But, “Mm-mm,” he slurs. Face on fire. Heart pounding. Teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he blinks drunkenly down into Rozanov’s lap. That’s what he needs. Not a break. “...c’mon…” Talking is hard, Jesus Christ…
It must be obvious because Rozanov takes pity on him, running his fingertips over his scalp so fondly that it’s got his head lolling to the side with it. “I assume this is English for ‘please’...” Which just has Shane smiling goofily all over again because oh, he loves this.
He loves this, he loves this, he loves this.
“Please…?” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet and giddy it doesn’t even sound like him.
He can’t look up. Not until Rozanov helps, at least, with a little tug of his head back by his hair. And when he looks down at him, it’s fucking electric - like Shane’s gonna float off the carpet and into the stars with how playful Rozanov’s expectant little eyebrow raise is.
Shane feeds off it like it’s candy, unable to fight off the smile as he really puts some sass behind it this time. “Pleeease…?”
A slam dunk.
A headrush, sweeping over him in the best possible way as Rozanov plants a kiss to his lips that tingles all the way down - all the way back in - Shane’s eyes rolling shut again as he’s helped right onto that cock he wants so bad.
And maybe he’s already floating. Maybe he has been for a while now, because he’s completely forgotten about unimportant shit like his arms until they’re helped up and over Rozanov’s thighs so he can hang on - so he can slump forward, nothing else really registering except for the slick glide of his tongue up the underside of his cock - the insane heat it detonates as it fills his mouth.
Above him, Rozanov is saying shit he can’t even hear. He’s missing things left and right. But it’s impossible to miss the fingers tangled in his hair…squeezing the nape of his neck…scratching down his bare back. Every touch is as grounding as it is unraveling him completely and he loves this shit.
He loves it, he loves it, he loves it.
Head tilting back to breathe - to pant - wet and messy and perfect and when his lips nudge along the head of Rozanov’s cock he just fucking goes for it, dragging them over and down the side and it’s so slippery. Everything is so wet.
“Fuck, Hollander…” and the hands on the back of his head are guiding him back on - pushing him down low - snuffing out the lights still trying to fire in his brain and Shane is fucking floating off the carpet, happier than he’s ever been in his life. “There… I am close…”
Full.
Full, full, full and those hands are trying to ease him back but he wants it, moaning with this sick, full-bodied satisfaction as Rozanov tenses and groans and cums right in his mouth and-
He’s saying shit up there. Pretty, strung together words that Shane doesn’t know but are absolutely for him and when he sits back - when he swallows - he finally opens his eyes again, as heavy and blissed out as the smile that dances over each panting breath while he looks up at him.
Because Rozanov is sooo…
God, he’s just-...
Shane couldn’t be any fucking-
The air in the room rushes forward. Inward. Close. Hands over his face and lips against his forehead and his mouth and Shane is fucking lightheaded, losing time as arms fold around him and lift and move and-
“Fuuuh-...” he tries, losing balance in the sweep, but Rozanov’s arms are closing him up tight - I’ve got you-
“I’ve got you,” he hears.
And when he opens his bleary eyes, he’s seeing new shit. Shit he doesn’t remember doing. Shit that makes him giddy with this airy, fluffy sort of feeling in his chest as he realizes they’re on the bed. Shane’s facing forward, tucked securely between Rozanov’s legs and Rozanov’s chest behind him and Rozanov’s hands, big and wide as they sweep down his bare stomach, lips at his ear.
“Smiling so much tonight…”
It has his heart hammering in his chest. Has his fingers quickly drifting up over his own mouth to find that yeah, he is smiling.
Still.
“Your turn now,” wraps over him like a dream and then it’s lips brushing against his earlobe…fingers tucking into the waistband of his boxer briefs…soft bed sheets under his skin and warm air and fuck…
His turn…
Shane swallows thickly, breath never really settling after that last round. And when he lets his eyes drift open to watch, it focuses first on the noiseless movement on the TV in front of them, then drops in close, to the hand waiting in front of him, palm up.
“Spit…” Rozanov directs, “you are good at that, yes?”
And Shane has no idea what he means by that but it’s all pooling in his mouth anyway. On command. Fucking Pavlov, or some shit.
His head is heavy when he leans forward but he manages, heat in his cheeks as he spits right into Rozanov’s palm.
“Mhm…” Like it isn’t even gross to him. Like they’ve been doing this for years. “More.” Patient as Shane gathers it in his mouth and then tilts forward, drooling until there’s no more left. “Good boy.”
And then Shane’s brain is fucking short-circuiting, his back arching and a noise he doesn’t even recognize falling from his mouth as Rozanov’s slick hand wraps around his cock from behind and fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck…
“This will not take long, I think…” and Shane is melting back into him - into hard muscle and soft cotton and is it crazy that this is the first time he’s even thought about getting off too? “Is right here already…”
Rozanov’s doing the thinking for both of them. Is back on the planet for both of them. Knows exactly what’s going on with Shane’s body right now even though Shane doesn’t really and god that is sooo-...
“Roz-...”
“Mhm…”
“Rozanov-...”
“I know.” And he does. “Spit.”
Shane’s toes curl, pleasure wracking through his whole body as he leans forward and drools into Rozanov’s palm again, sloppy and gross and missing, Rozanov’s other hand coming up to wipe at his mouth while the spitty one drops to get back to work and-
“Good boy…” Fingers swiping up his chin and over his lips and into his mouth - fuck yes - delicious heavy weight right on his tongue that stays there while he jerks him off from behind and he’s gonna cum. Shane’s gonna cum.
Shane’s gonna cum.
Release.
Relief.
Picking him up and keeping him there. Keeping him close. Keeping him grounded, even as his body floats up into the ceiling and never comes down again.
“...oh my god…” he hears himself panting and it’s delirious - just like Rozanov said. “...oh-...oh my god…”
And, “You are fine, Hollander,” like honey against his ear. “You are here…with me…”
And that’s-...
Shane’s lungs fill with a breath so big it hurts…
Tilts his heavy head back and over, already trying to find a place in Rozanov’s neck to figure out why his cheeks hurt too.
And he-...he loves this shit. He loves it. God, he’s so happy…
The arms wrapped around him squeeze just a little tighter, and then there’s movement he can’t place…sounds that don’t really sound like anything…something soft against his belly and between his thighs…
And…
Shane takes another breath that fills his lungs up, pleased to find it no longer hurts.
He doesn’t really have the strength for it, but he does his best to shift anyway, gracelessly, until he’s come to lay down perfectly flat on top of Rozanov’s chest. Melting down…melting down…melting down…
Ah…
Yes…
“Time for puppy’s nap…” he feels more than hears, Rozanov’s voice buzzing against his ear.
But Shane doesn’t even think to correct him. He’s feeling far too blissful, the weighted blanket of satisfaction settling over them as he gets lost in the rhythm of Rozanov’s breath…the pattern trailing up and down his back…the familiar, comforting murmur of the game when it returns a while later…
Relief…
Release…
Even after a day that ran him ragged, now nothing can break through the bone-deep peace.
Not even the lift of his hand as Rozanov slips his watch off his wrist, dim light catching in the metal as he leaves it just out of eyesight on the nightstand.