Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane stares at his phone as his teammates mill around him in the locker room. He’s sweaty and aching from the exertion of the game as well as the bruise on his upper arm. He’s pretty sure he got that from one of the times Rozanov slammed him into the boards.

He thinks about Rozanov. About that night at the All-Stars in February. What they did. What they talked about doing.

Horrifyingly, his dick starts to stir. He immediately sets his phone back in his cubby and gets up, then deliberately presses down on his bruise until it hurts enough to be distracting.

“You okay there?” Hayden asks him from his left.

Shane drops his hand. “Yeah, just a bruise. It’s fine.”

“Was it Rozanov?”

Shane shrugs.

“What an asshole.”

“He really is, but it’s okay. Not worth thinking about.”

Hayden nods, and Shane heads to the showers.

Not worth thinking about. That’s what Shane repeats to himself over and over: while he’s showering, as he’s getting dressed, when he starts walking to his car. Not worth thinking about.

The problem is: telling himself to not think about it is absolutely, in fact, still thinking about it.

When he gets to his car, he finds himself pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket and leaning against the door instead of getting in.

Shane glares at the phone, gripping it so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t break in half. Somewhere else. As if it’s that simple. Fucking Rozanov.

He stares and stares at the messages. He’s tired, but his body is still vibrating from the residual adrenaline of winning a game. His bruise aches faintly.

He comes to a decision, makes a phone call, and starts driving.

###

Shane yanks open the door as soon as he hears the knock and pulls Rozanov into the room. Rozanov raises an eyebrow.

“What if I was room service?” he asks as Shane shuts the door.

Shane turns around and glares at him. “I didn’t order any!”

“Maybe I go to wrong room.” Rozanov boxes Shane in against the door. Shane’s hands automatically go to Rozanov’s waist. The heat of his skin radiates through the thin cotton of his t-shirt and into the pads of Shane’s fingertips.

“What—that doesn’t—” Shane is about to tell Rozanov that he’s making no fucking sense when he sees the laughter in his eyes. “Oh shut the fuck up—”

“Okay,” says Rozanov, and crashes his lips into Shane’s.

It’s embarrassing, but as soon as they kiss, everything just…settles down. That weird spiky restlessness he’s felt ever since the game—since he saw Rozanov at warmups, if he’s being honest—smooths out; in its place, a hum of pleasure fills his body. Rozanov presses Shane against the door aggressively, but Shane, instead of pushing back, melts.

Rozanov slows down, but doesn’t gentle his mouth; he’s still biting and sucking on Shane like he’s trying to eat him whole. His hands, however, are careful, brushing lightly over Shane’s cheekbones and down his neck. Rozanov has shoved himself so firmly against Shane that they’re practically sealed together from chest to hip, dicks pressed against hipbones. They’re both grinding against each other slowly.

Shane is so desperately hard. He’s leaking a little already, which might be a new record—they’re both still completely dressed and haven’t done anything other than kiss. He slips a hand under Rozanov’s shirt and runs it up and down, squeezing and stroking with no particular aim in mind. Mostly, he wants to feel the hard, dense bulk of Rozanov’s muscles. The solidness is reassuring. With girls, he sometimes feels like he might accidentally snap them in half.

No such danger with Rozanov. Shane can throw himself against him with all his strength and know that Rozanov can give as good as he gets. Has, in fact, done exactly that.

Rozanov pulls back, lips wet and eyes intent. “Bed,” he says.

“Yeah, bed.” Shane takes a step forward, but then collides into Rozanov, who hasn’t stepped back quickly enough, and somehow they’re lip-locked again and doing a weird, clumsy dance across the room while kissing, barely pausing for breath.

Rozanov pulls away again. “Clothes, off.”

“So fucking bossy,” Shane huffs out. He sounds way too turned on for it to be a good chirp.

“Not bossy,” Ilya corrects as he pulls Shane’s shirt over his head. “Correct.”

They shuck all their clothing off—Shane doesn’t even bother to fold his, he’s too hungry, too impatient—but as he moves to pull Rozanov towards him and into bed, he’s arrested by Rozanov’s grip on his forearm.

He follows the direction of Rozanov’s gaze and finally remembers: the bruise. He hasn’t paid much attention to it. Hasn’t felt it, really, since Rozanov has stepped into the room.

It’s a real beauty, about the size of his palm, and dark purple-blue. Rozanov is staring at it like he’s hypnotized.

“I did that,” he says, half question, half statement.

“Probably,” Shane says.

“No, it was me,” Rozanov says, and this time he sounds absolutely certain. He brushes gentle fingertips over it; Shane shivers.

“It hurts?”

“No,” Shane says immediately, which isn’t strictly true; it aches, but only a little, and it would’ve ached whether or not Rozanov was touching it. “I bruise easy.”

He immediately regrets saying that. It makes him sound like some kind of delicate flower, and he already gets enough shit for being Asian and kinda pretty. He braces himself for Rozanov to chirp him.

He doesn’t. Instead, his hand moves to a spot on Shane’s back, near his hip. “Yes, you do. Another bruise here.”

“Wait, really?” Shane cranes his neck, and barely catches it from the corner of his eye, a dark ghostly smear. “I don’t remember getting it. Can’t even feel that one.”

Rozanov puts his palm on it, gently, so gently, and Shane shivers again. His hand is so hot, and his calluses snag a little against Shane’s skin, but he likes it. He likes that edge of roughness.

Using just the lightest pressure of his hand, Rozanov pulls Shane closer. “I think I give that one to you, too.”

“Maybe. I mean, Marleau got me good too, and Carmichael.”

“No,” Rozanov says dismissively. “My bruise.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, a nervous laugh bubbling up, but it dies in his throat when Rozanov sets his lips on the bruise on Shane’s upper arm.

His lips are so soft. Softer than any girl’s. Goosebumps flash across Shane’s body as Rozanov gently mouths the bruise, at first just with his lips, then with his tongue. It should be nothing—it’s not even a sexy part of Shane’s body, it’s his arm—but his dick twitches at the sensation. He’s never realized how sensitive the skin is over there; what Rozanov is doing feels almost ticklish, but not quite, and intense as hell, so intense it’s making his scalp tingle and his breath go all weird.

Shane bites his lip and stays as still as he can, only a small, shaky hiss escaping from him when Rozanov scrapes his teeth along the bruise—not especially hard, but hard enough for Shane to feel it.

Rozanov lifts his head. Shane darts a look at his face, then at his dick rising from a tangle of dark brown curls; it’s hard and flushed, the damp tip peeking through the foreskin.

He wants that in his mouth. He wonders what Rozanov would do if he drops to his knees right now and just…takes it all in.

Before he can make his move, Rozanov pushes him onto the bed. Shane lands on his butt with a small oof and a little bounce.

“On your stomach,” Rozanov says, his voice quiet but firm.

Shane freezes. Right, that. Next time, they’d said, and it sure is next time now. “Uh,” he says, “So, I don’t—”

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” Rozanov says dismissively. “Not enough time, and it was long game. Get on your stomach.”

Part of Shane wants to tell Rozanov to go fuck himself, but a bigger part of him wants to obey like a good little boy; a mix of shame and pleasure twists in his gut as he sprawls face-down on the hotel comforter.

The bed dips as Rozanov climbs on. Shane turns his head so he can look at him. Sometimes, when the light hits right, Rozanov looks like he could be a marble statue in a museum—it’s his mouth, Shane thinks, or something about the shape of his cheekbones—and it makes Shane’s chest hurt.

The light catches Rozanov just right this time: the lamp behind him outlines his profile and his hair in gold, and he’s gazing down at Shane’s body with a small, preoccupied frown. He runs his hand up and down Shane’s back, like he’s trying to figure something out. Before Shane can ask him what he’s looking at—or for—he bends down and kisses the bruise on Shane’s hip.

Shane draws in a surprised breath. Nobody’s done this before. He’s never given a second thought to that part of him. Like the top of his arm, it’s never occurred to him that it could be sensitive. And it is. He can feel Rozanov’s lips all the way to the soles of his feet.

Rozanov raises his head. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Shane is proud that his voice doesn’t shake.

“Good,” says Rozanov. “Tell me if it hurts.”

Rozanov starts kissing it again—not especially hard, even, he’s kissed Shane’s lips way more aggressively than this. He’s just pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bruise and occasionally alternating with chaste close-mouthed pecks.

Shane doesn’t know if it’s the bruise making the sensation more intense, but it feels like when Rozanov was kissing his arm, except ten times worse. It’s almost like being zapped by electricity, a series of soft shocks that rock through his body with every contact. He bites back a whimper and barely manages to restrain his squirming, but he can’t quite stop his feet from kicking a little. He grabs a handful of bedding and twists it in his fists.

Rozanov raises his head again. “Are you okay?”

Shane drags in a breath and tries to gather himself. “Yeah,” he says, and this time he can’t stop his voice from shaking a little.

“You like it? You want more?”

I’m going to fucking explode if you keep doing that, Shane thinks, but instead he says, “Yeah.”

Rozanov sets his mouth against the bruise and starts sucking firmly.

Shane buries his garbled yell into a pillow. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t not, either; it’s so weird and intense that words like “pain” and “pleasure” don’t apply. It feels like a swarm of, of something, something small and soft and buzzy, has taken over his body, something fast and out of his control zipping along his blood vessels and through his nerve endings, and he can’t do anything except hold on for the ride. His brain whites out. There’s only Rozanov’s mouth and how it’s making him feel.

Eventually Rozanov raises his head. Shane collapses into the sheets. He hasn’t realized how much he’d tensed up, and now that Rozanov’s mouth isn’t on his hip, he feels mostly normal. A little worked up and desperate to come, but normal, instead of possessed.

“There, now this bruise matches your arm.” Rozanov’s voice is smug.

Shane goes still. “Did you just give my hip a hickey?”

“You have bruise there already.” Shane can picture the shrug and the hand gesture. “I make it a little darker. Now when you touch it, you will remember who gave it to you. Twice.”

“Fuck off.” Shane scrambles into a sitting position; Rozanov backs off to give him room.

“You did not enjoy it?” Rozanov’s eyes are hooded, his lips dark and a little swollen.

“I—” Shane considers lying and saying no, but he can’t quite bring himself to. He can’t bring himself to tell the truth, either: that he’d liked it. He’d liked it so much. Maybe too much. That he’s never felt anything like it; that maybe he liked it even better than getting his dick sucked, but it was impossible to tell because having that part of him kissed turned his brain into scrambled eggs.

He settles on a limp “I liked it.”

A crooked smile forms on Rozanov’s lips. “Good. I like doing it. Maybe every time I see you with a bruise, I do this. If bruise is not too painful.” He’s looking at Shane’s face while he says this, and he must see something in Shane’s expression, because his smile turns wide and evil. “Or maybe if it is.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, and shoves Rozanov. Rozanov just laughs and shoves back, and it turns into a little wrestling match, the two of them tussling in bed trying to pin the other down, but it doesn’t last very long; soon enough, they’re kissing again, their hands on each other’s dicks, and it’s so good, Shane cannot ever remember it feeling this good with anyone.

Except the last time he was with Rozanov.

They eventually end up on their sides, Rozanov spooning Shane from behind. He’s tucked his dick between Shane’s thighs and is thrusting slowly and steadily, the way made slippery with spit. Shane is pretty sure he should’ve found the way Rozanov casually spit into his palm a little gross, instead of finding it so hot his dick jumped.

And there’s something about the position and the way Rozanov is working his dick so assertively. He isn’t fucking Shane, except he absolutely is: he’s angling Shane’s hips exactly the way he wants it, and Shane can feel the entire length of Rozanov’s dick: when it’s almost entirely withdrawn the head is tucked right against the crease of Shane’s ass, and when it’s thrust in all the way it's bumping against the back of Shane’s balls. It’s hard, it’s hot, and Shane can’t stop thinking about how it’ll feel inside him, how different it would be from the dildo—different texture, different hardness, plus it would be Rozanov doing the driving and not Shane’s own hand. He hears the wet, obscene noises of Rozanov fucking his thighs, and he wonders if it’ll sound the same when he’s fucking his ass.

It’s making him insane.

He can feel Rozanov panting against his neck, and the soft, sloppy kisses he’s giving the back of his shoulders, and that’s making him insane, too. Shane’s not touching his dick—he wants to focus on how Rozanov feels between his legs—but it’s getting more and more difficult to hold back.

Rozanov’s breathing changes. The rhythm of his thrusting stutters, stops being perfectly controlled. Shane can feel it between his legs—how Rozanov has become impossibly hard.

“Shit, Rozanov,” Shane breathes. “Are you gonna come?”

Rozanov grits out something in Russian and fumbles for Shane’s dick. His grip is firm—kind of rough, actually—and absolutely perfect. Shane squeezes his thighs together and squirms up into the hold. Rozanov makes a guttural sound and gives one last convulsive thrust; the first splatters of come coats the inside of Shane’s thighs and makes things incredibly slippery, allowing Rozanov to thrust frantically between Shane’s thighs as he rides out his orgasm.

Shane comes, too; as soon as he feels the first jet of blood-warm liquid between his legs, he’s gone. Rozanov tightens his hand brutally hard, and it’s exactly what Shane wants. They come together in a bucking, moaning mess; Shane has to bite a pillow to stop himself from shouting.

They come down eventually. Shane feels like a wrung-out rag; he barely stirs when Rozanov pulls away, and can barely lift his arm to take the tissues he’s handed to wipe off his thighs.

He wonders what Rozanov would’ve done if Shane had told him to lick him clean. He’d probably tell Shane to go fuck himself, but what if he’d said yes? Shane’s exhausted dick gives a little hiccup of interest but nothing more. It’s completely spent.

Once they’ve cleaned up, Rozanov gathers all the covers they’ve managed to kick onto the floor and puts them in order before pulling them over Shane. Shane blinks blearily while Rozanov does this; how does he have all this energy? All Shane wants to do is fall into his own bed and go to sleep.

And then he remembers. “Fuck,” he says, trying to sit up, “I need to drive home.”

Rozanov leans over and shoves him back onto the pillows.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Shane protests.

Rozanov raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you stupid? You are in hotel room that you paid for, and you want to drive home? You’re half-asleep!”

“But—your entire team is here—”

Rozanov blows out an impatient breath. “We have morning flight. We leave hotel at 7 AM, so leave after 8. Easy.”

Shane settles deeper into the pillows. Rozanov has a point. While his tired brain is trying to do the math, Rozanov is rooting around their clothing on the floor before emerging with Shane’s phone.

“Here,” he says, shoving the phone at Shane’s face. “Set alarm for 8:30.”

Shane does, and checks his battery. Sixty percent. More than good enough for the rest of the night. Rozanov takes the phone and puts it on the nightstand closest to Shane.

“There. Problem solved. I’ll text you when we check out. Go to sleep, Hollander. You look tired.”

Shane bristles a little—part of him wants to jump up and run a few laps, just to show Rozanov he can, but honestly, he doesn’t have it in him. He flips onto his side and pulls a pillow to put between his knees and another to hug.

When he looks up—did he fall asleep there, for just a moment?—Rozanov is dressed.

“See you ’round,” Shane says.

“Bye, Hollander,” Rozanov says with a crooked smirk, and walks away. Shane closes his eyes and doesn’t even hear the door closing.

###

When Shane fumbles for the phone to turn off the alarm in the morning, he sees a text notification.

When he gets out of bed, he notices all his clothes are neatly draped over the back of the chair. He frowns a little; when did he do that? He loses that train of thought, though, when his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he didn’t eat much last night. He needs to get out of here.

As he pulls on his underwear, he can’t help but brush a hand over the bruise on the back of his hip. He can’t really see it, and it still doesn’t hurt, but he shivers anyway. He knows it’s there. He knows who gave it to him.