rookie shane down on his knees for captain rozanov in the locker room :)
he's fresh out of the showers, boxers on but nothing else. rozanov is naked but hasn't showered at all, and his huge, sweaty thighs are spread wide open and he's so hard, so big and thick in his own fist that shane has to look at the floor instead, which only makes rozanov laugh at him and grab him by the hair to drag him forward.
look at me, rozanov tells him, fucking look at my cock, and shane does. fuck. he knows he's blushing bright red and he can't help it any more than he can help the way his eyelids are going heavy, spit pooling in his mouth.
you want it? shane shakes his head because of courseâof course he fucking doesn't, what kind of question is that, only things feel kind of hazy so it takes him a second too long, and rozanov laughs at him again. lets go of his cock to slap him across the cheek. tell me you want to suck my cock, hollander. fucking say it.
shane swallows hard, watches rozanov take his cock back in his hand and jerk himself slow, foreskin rolling up over the head and a bead of precum leaking out at the tip. for me, shane thinks. out loud, quietly, he says: i want to.
yeah? beg for it, rozanov says, grinning. he looks mean. shane feels himself twitch and leak in his underwear.
please let me suck your cock. shane's voice is embarrassingly wobbly. tears gather in his lower lashes. he can smell rozanov's skin from here and it's only making his mouth water more and that only makes the tears come faster.
rozanov says fuck under his breath and hauls shane further forward by his hair and it hurts, makes shane whimper, and still when rozanov taps the tip of his leaking cock to shane's lips he licks at it and moans and sucks the head into his mouth. rozanov lets him tease his tongue under the foreskin for a few seconds. he gets to taste the precum pulsing onto his tongue and he knows he should be disgusted by that, by the sharp taste of rozanov's sweat and musk, by all of it, but all he can think about is rozanov in his throat, fucking all the way into him.
shane gasps when rozanov pulls him off like he really was that deep inside, then gasps again when he slaps his wet cock against shane's cheek, leaving a smear of saliva on his cheekbone.
wow, rozanov says, nowhere near as out of breath as shane, you really are a fucking cocksucker. he's jerking himself inches away from shane's face, teasing him, not letting him have what they both know he wants. you did this for your old coach too? your team?
no, shane says, recoiling but held firmly in place by the fist in his damp hair. no, i've neverâ
that's not what i have heard, hollander. rozanov's cock traces up his face, smearing precum across his forehead. shane is cross-eyed, staring. everyone says you are a faggot.
andâit's not like shane has never heard it before. but. a hot lump pushes up his throat.
rozanov shrugs. i think, no way, a fag will never be number one draft pick. is ridiculous. skin on skin dragging back down to his mouth, coming to rest on his lower lip. no opening his mouth to reply without opening up for cock, too. and then i see the way you look at me in the showers, and i think, ah. well. maybe so.
shane shakes his trembling head, tries to blink away his tears. crying makes you a fag, too, everyone knows that.
and look at you now. mock-tender, knuckles grazing his cheek. shane flinches. this desperate for your captain's cock and you think no one will notice.
a pathetic sound bubbles out of shane mostly through his nose, because his jaw is clenched firmly shut. one tear falls hot down his cheek, and rozanov's thumb swipes it away just to smear it around.
open your mouth, hollander, rozanov says, and what choice does he have? rozanov slides the head back onto his tongue and stays there, unmoving, letting shane feel its weight. it's different than shane imagined. his jaw feels tight already.
fuck, rozanov groans. he pulls shane down a few inches further, until the fat head is nearly pushing into his throat. shane lurches but doesn't quite gag. he manages to keep his tongue curled to the underside of rozanov's cock. gonna let me fuck your mouth? give you your first cock?
shane moans before he can even think about it, constricting his soft palate around the tip.
fuuuck, you fucking faggot, you love this dick, rozanov says, and finally pushes into shane's throatânot all the way, there are still inches left in front of him, but enough to make shane retch hard around him. shane grabs for rozanov's thighs in a panic, slaps at them, but rozanov only groans deep and thrusts back and forth shallowly enough to stay in his throat, forcing awful gagging sounds from his chest.
yeah, fuck, rozanov says, sounding just like the porn shane's been trying so hard not to watch lately, and despite the tears rolling down his face shane feels his cock pulse. shane blinks hard and looks blurrily up at rozanov to see him staring right back as he says take it, take this fucking cock, bitch.
rozanov chooses that moment to pull out, right as shane moans againâtoo loud even around his cock but even worse after the sloppy gluck of rozanov exiting his tight throat and then his mouth, too. shane heaves lungfuls of air, squeezing his eyes shut as rozanov smears the thick spit from the back of his throat onto his cheeks and into his hair, his eyebrows, across the delicate skin of his eyelids.
it's quiet for a moment, both of them panting, and all shane can hear is the echo of his moan. rozanov's hand is tight around the base of his cock and shane feels dizzy with how badly he wants him to feed it back into his throat and fuck in all the way this time until he's coming straight into shane's stomach.
rozanov breaks the silence between them with a small, disbelieving laugh and tilts shane's head back to look him in the eyes. you are fucking desperate for it, hollander.
shane stays silent. swallows, feel the ache in his throat.
beg for it, rozanov says, leaning back and giving his cock a slow, loose tug. beg and i'll let you swallow my cum. is what faggots like you want, right?
shane inhales a shaky half-sob. please, iâ
louder.
please, shane says, louder, wrecked voice catching on the vowel, his face burning. please, justâfuck, i want it, captain, want your cock. his tone shrinks almost to a whisper at the end.
rozanov tightens his grip in shane's hair. where. tell me where you want it.
in my mouth, shane says. want your cock in my mouth. captain.
fuck, rozanov says, his head tipping back as he jerks himself a few times before grabbing himself around the base again. fuck, you are fucking nasty. i've never even seen a girl this desperate. you will get addicted, i think.
shane doesn't reply. he stares helplessly at rozanov's cock. please, he thinks, please.
you are too desperate for cock, rozanov says, angling his dick up. faggot like you has to learn that nobody cares what you want.
suddenly, shane is tugged forward until his face is pressed flat to rozanov's crotch, nose to the base of his cock, curly trimmed hair prickling his skin.
suck my fucking balls, rozanov says, grin clear in his voice.
shane's cock throbs so hard he's sure for a moment that he's about to come entirely untouched. rozanov smells so fucking strong here, sharp and masculine and so dirty and shane knows it's disgusting, he does, but still he takes a long, deep, audible inhale of the hot skin against him and moans.
fuck, he hears rozanov groan. his head is shoved down further and he feels more than sees it when rozanov starts jerking himself again, his heavy, tight balls slapping against shane's cheek. he's so big, god, he's so fucking big everywhereâhis arms, his chest, his thighs, his cock, his balls. rozanov's knuckles graze his forehead roughly as he jerks himself and shane feels out of his mind, he can't help it, he closes his eyes and kisses at rozanov's balls.
the skin is so hot against his lips, and then against his tongue. rozanov says something in russian above him, and shane can't even wonder what it is, he's too busy opening his mouth to suck and kiss wetly at rozanov's balls. it's like making out, almost, but making out with a girl has never made him feel hot all over like this, and he's neverânever kissed a man, before.
rozanov keeps talking, keeps jerking himself faster. shane manages to catch bits and piecesâyes, fucking suck, bitch, like that...make you lick this whole team's balls...fucking faggot...bet you would lick my asshole too...where you belong...take a video, show everyone how much you loveâbut really it's hard to think of anything beyond how filthy he feels, drooling down his chin and ducking his head even lower to where his spit has run under rozanov's balls and licking firmly there at his taint too until he has to come up for air.
he's hauled back then, cool air rushing over the wet lower half of his face, rozanov jerking himself hard and fast above him. a wad of spit splatters across his cheek and nose. tell me what you are, rozanov demands.
shane shudders, nausea and pleasure swirling deep in his gut.
i'm a faggot, sir, he says breathlessly.
that's fucking right, rozanov says, and starts to come on shane's face.
shane opens his mouth for it immediately, and his eyes nearly roll back at the feeling of rozanov's cum landing on his tongue. he starts to come before he can get a hand in his boxers and quickly fumbles his hand down the waistband, swallowing and gasping and opening his mouth right back up while he works himself through his orgasm.
yes, fucking take my cum, bitch, rozanov grits. it's in shane's lashes, on his lips, on the bridge of his nose, and rozanov keeps jerking himself until there's nothing left to give. the last few dribbles land right on shane's tongue. shane's cock twitches in his hand.
rozanov tosses a towel toward shane as they both catch their breath, after. it hits him on the chest and lands on the floor.
maybe next time we see if your ass is as good as your mouth, he says as he pushes himself up off the bench. he regards shane for only a moment before walking away.
close your eyes until the logic's gone by shakebabyshake
Wordcount: 16,266 (WIP, 5/6 chapters)
Summary: "So fucking pretty," Ilya says, talking more to himself than Shane. He rubs his cock through the mess on Shane's face and taps it softly against his cheek. "Like a girl."
"Look, I wasn't sure how to bring this up," Shane started, putting his voice into a different register, the register he uses when he knows he's about to get what he wants, all breathy and a little whiny. A dirty little trick. "But I don't think I have the money to pay you this week, but you know I'm good for it."
"You're good for it?" Ilya asked, and he's fallen into his role seamlessly. In another life he would have been a thespian, he thought. "I don't think this will work for me," he said, taking a menacing step towards Shane who is doing all he can to keep a giddy little smile off his lips. Not the best scene partner, admittedly. But he's got the spirit
"No?" he quivered out.
"No. I don't think so." Ilya took another bite of his popsicle and tried not to break character by wincing at the brain freeze. "I have bills to pay, you know. And I spend extra time making your yard look perfect," Ilya gestured over his shoulder with the popsicle stick at the wobbly, imperfect mower lines in the grass. "and now I might not get paid? No. That won't work for me."
Shane's eyes widened under his sunglasses, lips cherry red, bitten and juice-stained. "Could we come to some kind of arrangement?"
Armed with the past, and the will, and a brick by SatsumaSegments
Wordcount: 5,888
Summary:
âListen to me carefully. You have two choices.â Rozanovâs voice is low, dripping with a dangerous calmness. âYou can look me in the eye and tell me that you want me to leave. If you tell me you donât want this, you donât want me, youâre not interested, I will walk out now. You will go to your girlfriend. I will go out and find someone else for tonight, touch them, kiss them, fuck them. I will block your phone number. There will be no more texts. We will not speak again. We will never fuck again. I will move on. I will forget about you.
âOr,â Rozanov continues, âyou can accept that this is what you want. What you need. What you are. You will get on your knees and take what I have to give you. You will do as youâre told. You will be a good little slut and beg me for more and let me remind you who you actually belong to. I will fuck you until you cry and you will thank me for it. I will make you come on my cock until you canât even remember your girlfriendâs fucking name.â
Shane is the best hockey player on the goddamn planet and nobody knows this better than his husband, who plays on the same team as him and is privy to all of his overlapping intricate rituals and basically fucking grew up with him and is so fucking proud and smug of the fact that he's married to the best hockey player on the planet that sometimes he zones out in public with his eyes in the middle distance and the most self-satisfied smirk on his face and his hand shoved deep in the back pocket of Shane Hollander Hometown Hero Hockey Jesus' jeans.
"You can't make that face in public," Shane hisses, and Ilya squeezes the part of Shane's body he's got lovingly cupped in his hand and that, for some reason, is worthy of some clickbait on TMZ where Shane looks bored out of his mind because he's going to that place in the back of his brain where he used to hide from all of his desires and now mostly just uses as a way to avoid crying or getting hard in public. Next to him, Ilya just looks fucking smug. Because he's got his hand on the ass of the best player in the NHL.
(Second-best ass, though. Ilya knows where his assets lie.)
Ilya also knows with no hint of uncertainty that he can never tell Shane that he knows that he is the best hockey player in the entire fucking world. Shane once told him that when Ilya told him so, that night at the 2021 All-Star Weekend, he'd gotten the ick so hard that he'd almost asked Ilya to pull out.
"The Ick?" Ilya said. "What is this, the Ick? Like you were grossed out--"
"I dunno, kind of? Like when something turns you off, takes you out of the sex--Rose said it's called the Ick--"
"Is called a turn-off, Hollander, fuck! What is this fucking...the Ick..."
("You are a curse on my fucking marriage," Ilya tells Rose, some time later, and she smiles serenely and tops off his already impressively full wine glass while Shane yells incoherantly about the Detroit team captain's machinations to be traded to one of the Florida teams in exchange for what Shane is only referring to as 'PISS AND SHIT' but is apparently, Ilya gleans through context clues, a rookie center and two retirement-age defensemen)
So Ilya knows that he's married to the best hockey player in the league. He also knows that if he tells him this, stops competing in any way for the label, that it will read to Shane as some kind of pity, some kind of gentle acquiescence, and that Shane will get so mad about it and so sexually disappointed that Ilya may have to crawl into Anya's dog house with her and earn his spot back in his marital bed via a series of labors that would make Hercules himself lie down and die.
He can't even brag about this shit to other people because those people inevitably cannot keep their mouths shut. His marriage almost fucking ends one night in November because Ilya is engaging in some lighthearted negging with his own fucking husband and the idiot in the seat across from them on the bus (Formerly known as Troy Barrett, but Ilya is taking those privileges away until Fucking Idiot learns from his mistakes) says, "That's not what you said the other day, Roz," and then physically flinches because Shane turns a look onto him that could peel paint and Ilya immediately begins manifesting Troy's imminent and perpetual stubbed toe.
"Oh my God," Troy says, out loud at the looks. "All I meant is that Rozy told me he knows you're the best player in the league, Hollander. He's proud of you."
"Shut up," Ilya says. "Barrett, I will literally kill you."
"What is happening."
"Don't touch me," Shane says, when Ilya puts a hand on his knee.
"Baby," Ilya croons, "Baby, no. Your edges were shit tonight. That fall you took in the third period? Fucking embarrassing. You looked like a fucking turtle. Cute and helpless. Maybe you needed a big Russian man to help you--"
"Not in the mood," Shane says firmly. Ilya begins plotting Fucking Idiot's goddamn demise.
Will be murdering your boyfriend Ilya texts Harris after an hour spent staring at the back of Shane's neck while he lays on the edge of the bed with his phone in front of his face and his arms crossed. Sorry not sorry.
Harris doesn't reply. Doesn't even read the stupid text.
Ilya throws his phone to the end of the bed and rolls over, shoves a hand down the back of Shane's pants, massages his asscheek.
"Ilya," Shane says, warningly
"I tell you what you are the best at," Ilya murmurs into the back of his neck. He sinks his teeth in, sucks a kiss over the mark.
"Don't wanna hear it," Shane snaps. "I don't need you to pay me fucking lip service. I need you to keep showing people that we're not going soft on each other. We need to keep playing our best, we can't get complacent, we can't--"
"You," Ilya growls, "are the best fucking hole in the NHL." He yanks Shane's sweatpants down over the curve of his ass.
"Oh," Shane says, all of the wind out of his sails. "Fuck."
"So good at taking cock," Ilya continues. Hand between Shane's thighs, smoothing warm and firm on the soft skin inside, broad side of his thumb nudging the silky skin of Shane's sac, a warm and plush place on Shane's body that should have Ilya's fucking name written on it because only he ever gets to see or touch it.
"Yeah," Shane says. "Yours. Your cock."
"Prettiest fucking cockslut," Ilya says. "Nobody loves getting fucked like you. Can't even call you a whore because whores expect something in return. You take cock and say thank you. You take cock and ask for more cock."
"Yeah," Shane whines, back arching, phone dark and clattering to the floor. "Fuck. Fuck. Please."
"Say it."
"I want your cock. Please give me your cock. Fuck, can I--"
Ilya flips him completely onto his stomach and looms over him, shoves his own pants down his thighs and slides the throbbing ridge of his cock along the fluttering pucker of Shane's hole.
"Tell me what a good slut you are, Hollander."
"I'm--I'm a good slut--"
Ilya slaps his ass, hard, slides a finger into his crease and rubs dry at his hole and watches the muscles in Shane's back go crazy.
"Fucking tell me what you are, Hollander."
"I'm the best slut," Shane says, almost incoherant in the pillow. "Fuck, fuck, I'm the--the best cockslut in the world--"
Ilya shuffles down, spreads Shane's cheeks apart with his thumbs dug ungently in until flesh wells up on either side, white-red mottled with blood that will burst and bruise. He spits on his hole, watches it clench.
"They should call that thing the Hall of Fame," Ilya growls.
"Oh my God," Shane babbles. "Oh my God."
("Who asked this?" Ilya asks, microphones in his face after their game the following night. "Why are we talking in riddles? What was the question again?"
"Do you feel increased scrutiny from hockey fans now that Hollander is on the team with you? By most metrics, Hollander is the best player in the league, and it's hard not to draw direct comparisons between your records and play styles in light of Hollander's transfer to the Centaurs, not to mention your former rivalry and marriage. Are you feeling the pressure?"
"Hah," Ilya says. "First mistake is assuming that rivalry is over. It is very much alive. Hollander and I still keep score."
"Yeah, it's on a white board in their kitchen," Bood jokes, and the press scrum titters, and Ilya reminds himself that Bood is the father of a toddler and that toddlers love to make messes with glittery gifts bought for them by well-meaning hockey uncles.
"Second mistake is calling Hollander best in league," Ilya says, then shrugs, then winks. "Always room for improvement.")
Entropy had stuck with Ronan as the only bullshit involved in chemistry that he could actually see as feasible. Not because heâd ever understood the intricacies of molecular structures or anything like that, but because of moments like this one: where the universe had decided to condense an intense amount of chaos together into a single instant and dump it on him without warning, and he was all at once spitting out his beer and tripping sideways over a to-scale cardboard model of Henriettaâs post office and listening to Gansey say âwhatâs wrong?â in the most Gansey voice ever used and lookingâyes, looking with his own damn eyesâat a nude photo of Adam Parrish on his own damn phone.
âDo you,â Laurent screwed his eyes shut. âDo you ever want to hit me?â
âNo,â Damen said immediately, almost automatically.
âOh, shut up,â Laurent snapped. âYou do. Everybody does, at one point or another. I can be incredibly irritating.â
 or: laurent explores his burgeoning sexuality. damen is just happy to be here.
The door opened to reveal Adam Parrish, Esquire, Attorney at Law. He was well dressed, tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes set deep in a handsome, angular face. His forehead was furrowed in a perturbed manner that made his fair eyebrows look like one long pale, blonde line. He had not one single hair out of place anywhere on his head, nor a wrinkle in his neatly tailored suit. He had dark circles underneath his eyes, and a few faded freckles dappled the bridge of his nose. Despite those two very human and almost boyish physical attributes, there was an innate peculiarity to his demeanor. He looked uptight, just like his office. He looked annoyed, just like Ronan.Â
Adam Parrish frowned at Ronan, and then he said, âIâm sorry. I donât take criminal defense cases.âÂ
Jeremy isn't quite sure how he ended up here or why Jean's letting him do what he is. He expected to be pushed away, turned away with prejudice, except... Jean's just sitting here, on the edge of the bed, eyelids closed, fingertips gripping the side of the mattress, inexplicably letting him.
âI donât know what to do with this. Itâll be better in your hands,â Jean says after a few more beats, holding the toy out as if it personally offended him. Jeremy quickly takes it and examines the size in his palm. He senses Jeanâs gaze from the bed across from him, heavy and purposeful. Jeremy thinks of the similar weighted stare when he passes Jean in the shower, when he strips off his shirt to get changed, when he wears the swim trunks that hug his legs just rightâŠ
Jeremy thinks of all these things as he lets his big dumb mouth say something heâs been thinking for a while, but had been continuously shoving it away until a more appropriate time.
âI can show you?â
or:
The âLaila buys Jean a sex toyâ trope thatâs been explored a million times.
(except i use it as an excuse to make jeremy masturbate while jean watches. thatâs it, thatâs the fic).
Late at night, early in the morning; it doesnât matter. Regardless of the time, Shane is thinking: what would it be like? To always be of use.
To strip his captain jersey and the control that comes with it, but not the responsibility.
Sometimesâoften, he lets himself imagine it. Whether he lets himself think about the feeling (to be needed like this, to be the only thing that can help Ilya find release and relief) or about something more palpable depends on the night.
or: Shane just wants to be useful, at all times, not just on the ice.
âWhat was that noise?â Shane asks.
âOh!â Harris says, holding up his hand and showing off the plastic device from earlierâitâs a black oval shape with a bright yellow, raised circular button in the center. âThis is a clicker. Itâs used for training for dogs. When Sadie does something good, you click and then give her a treat or praise. Itâs to indicate she did something good! Positive reinforcement and all that jazz.â
âAnd if the dog is bad, then what?â Shane asks before he can stop himself. Ilya shoots him a curious look, one that asks why do you care? And itâs a fair questionâitâs not like theyâre planning to discipline Anya in any way. But Shane honestly doesnât know why heâs so intrigued; he just is.
There is a thing Shane wants. Forgiveness, absolution, a way out of his imagined sin. But at the same time, he cannot accept the desire, canât look at it head on. Will stall forever in the hair-shirt stage, causing himself pain, because he stubbornly refuses to create for himself any path towards atonement.
This is fine. Repressed desire, unconscious craving for release. Ilya can work with this. Might even call it his area of expertise.
OR
After the Centaurs lose in the playoff semi-finals for the second year in a row, Ilya has to save Shane from himself.
Written for Mean Dom Ilya Week, for the prompt orgasm control/denial.
Ch 1: It doesnât take Ilya long; he was worked up already. And the knowledge that this is the bot that so often bested him on the ice, about whom a commentator once said âmatches Rozanov in everything and beats him with the cool head advantage,â makes everything hotter. His supplication for Ilya. Taking orders. Ilya always thought sex with a robot would feel like that in a cold, abject way. He likes push and pull with girls especially, he likes when they obviously want it. But the bot â Shane â does suck dick like he wants it; like he needs it, really.
Ch 2: The thing is, Shane was built to play hockey. His initial coding likely covered that and not much else, at the beginning. And then an additional set of processes were imported, to cover the sexbot capabilities. Those still have a relatively limited reach. His system has no answer for what Ilya said to him. Prove it.
origamiaround
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
janainaart
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
