As an older queer, allow me to say: the walls of the closet are load-bearing. It is our job as a community to stand in front of that door and tell everyone who wants to peek inside to fuck off.
There are so many reasons a person may choose not to come out and there is no reason a person would owe the public or a stranger that information. Certainly it's not owed simply because someone is famous.
We have fought for decades to make it safer for people to be open and authentic about themselves, but we are not yet there. And even if we were, the closet would still be something we need to maintain for those who are not ready to reveal that part of themselves.
i know we make fun of shane for being stuck in the saw trap of his mind but crucially the saw trap is also real. like it exists it's out there. he can see it and he tweaked it a little so it's Worse in his head. but he's Actually being hunted for sport it drives me insane
like most of his fears are not irrational nor were they created in a void. i know he has normal and chill parents or whatever but he's very much a product of hockey culture and at the very least, parents that were kind of passive about how that culture was shaping their son. i mean, they doubted he was gay and didn't bring it up once.
my point is shane spends the entirety of tlg going ohmygod they're gonna kill me because Gay. and then they try to kill him. because Gay
like i kind of have no particular opinion on shane’s desires to be captain i do think it would probably be healthy for him to not be cap for a moment but i also will maybe never get over the humiliation ritual that is him being ousted from the team he brought multiple cups and then being sheperded off to be the flotus of his gay lovers team who everyone already thinks he’s lowkey under the boot of
first post for context / see the tag 'open relationship au' for more snippets. this is a continuation of the previous part so please read that first.
MHL Awards, 2014
Shane's mind goes fuzzy at the first touch of Rozanov's lips against his.
It's been racing all night, running through different potential scenarios in Rozanov's penthouse like plays on the ice. Drifting constantly back to Brian, to you should at least try. Reminding himself that he shouldn't feel guilty for wanting Rozanov or for planning to act on it, now that he's been given permission.
Then Rozanov kisses him and it all disappears. Shane doesn't know what he was worrying for, not with Rozanov's tongue licking at the seam of his mouth or his hand on the back of his head, heavy and warm.
Rozanov's other hand grabs his shirt, tugging. Shane goes and they stumble towards the bedroom, lips locked. They're still just kissing and Shane's dizzy with it anyway, already half-hard. Rozanov kisses like he's trying to devour him. Shane kind of wants to let him.
Has he ever been kissed like this? He can't remember.
They reach the bedroom and Shane feels Rozanov stumble for a moment before they both tumble onto the bed, Shane in Rozanov's lap.
His hands land on Shane's thighs, running over them and gently parting them further, shifting Shane in his lap so their hard-ons are pressed together. It's searing hot, even through four layers of fabric, and Shane can't help but grind down.
"Fuck," Rozanov mutters, breath hot on Shane's lips, fingers reaching up to hurriedly undo the buttons of Shane's shirt. "You want this?"
Shane nods, whining when Rozanov pulls his shirt off and buries his face in the crook of his neck, planting a series of wet kisses on overheated skin.
"How long?"
"Years," Shane gasps, hips still moving against Rozanov's. "I - fuck. Years."
He's never even admitted it to himself, how badly he's wanted Ilya Rozanov, in a way he didn't know he could want men who weren't his boyfriend. The words slip easily from his tongue now, the shame that's always accompanied that want a distant memory.
Rozanov groans and then his arm is around Shane, twisting them around and throwing Shane flat on the mattress. His body already blanketing Shane in the next moment, kissing every inch of skin within reach and hands groping roughly at his chest.
Shane's heart is pounding, blood rushing past his ears. He's never been thrown around like this before. Brian's in good shape but he's not strong like Rozanov, his body so big it feels like it dwarfs Shane's even though, logically, Shane knows they're about the same size.
"Can I fuck you?" Rozanov asks.
Shane's cock pulses, wetting his underwear with precum. "Yes. Please."
"So polite," Rozanov coos, giving Shane a quick peck on the lips.
Then he sits up, shrugging his shirt off and throwing it on the ground. He reaches for the zipper of Shane's pants and they finish undressing in a hurry, almost clumsy in their eagerness.
Shane expects Rozanov to start prepping him with the same hurried desperation but he takes his time, kissing a trail down the column of Shane's neck, down to his chest. His mouth closes around one nipple, teeth scraping it, and Shane can't hold back the animal whine that escapes his throat.
His head is spinning, world narrowed down to Rozanov's lips, his hands, his body on top of Shane's. Rozanov grabs his thighs, spreading them none too gently and Shane throws his head back, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He startles when Rozanov pushes his knees against his chest, tongue just barely grazing over Shane's hole before he startles away.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Shane chokes out.
He knows what Rozanov's doing, obviously. It's just - he's only seen it done in porn. He didn't realize it was something people did in real life. Brian's never done it, and Shane's never felt comfortable asking him to.
"Eating you out," Rozanov says, looking confused at Shane's confusion. "What do you mean, what am I doing?"
Shane swallows. "It's just - you don't think it's gross?"
"You're clean, yes?"
Blood rushes to Shane's cheeks. "Yeah, obviously."
"Okay, then what's the problem?" Something passes over Rozanov's face, impossible to read. "You haven't done this?"
Hot embarrassment spears through Shane.
"You will like it," Rozanov promises. "Pretty little hole like this, deserves nice treatment."
"Jesus, Rozanov," Shane laughs.
The laughter dissolves into a gasp as Rozanov dives back between his legs, pressing a wet, messy kiss right on Shane's hole. He licks it languidly, spearing his tongue and pushing inside.
Shane's skin prickles, limbs going fuzzy, cock hard and weeping against his stomach. Rozanov's tongue is so hot and wet, so wriggly, and it's unlike anything Shane's felt. He's enthusiastic, his drool coating Shane's inner thighs, the wet sounds of it echoing in the room much to Shane's embarrassment and arousal.
He doesn't even notice Rozanov has moved his hand until there's a finger pressing against his hole, wet with lube, sinking easily inside. It is quickly joined by a second, twisting, honing in on his prostate with unerring precision.
"So good for me sweetheart," Rozanov mutters, still pumping his fingers inside, fucking Shane with them. "You will take anything I give you, won't you?"
Shane nods mindlessly, moaning when he feels Rozanov's other hand grabbing his ass, spreading him wide open as he adds a third finger. He's watching, Shane realizes deliriously, watching his fingers disappear into Shane's hole over and over again, brushing his prostate on every pass.
He hears Rozanov say something in heated Russian and then he's pulling his fingers out so fast it almost hurts. Shane watches with lidded eyes as he leans over him, reaching for a condom in the bedside drawer. He's so hard it looks painful and so big it makes Shane's jaw ache to look at him. It's gonna be the biggest thing Shane's ever had inside him, the realization sending his head spinning.
Rozanov rolls on the condom. He grabs Shane's legs behind the knees, pushing them back and spreading them, the casual manhandling sending a bolt of heat through Shane's body.
"Okay?" Rozanov asks. His dick is brushing against Shane's inner thigh, the head catching on his rim and pushing just slightly, a merciless tease.
"Okay," Shane says, choking on his next breath when Rozanov starts pushing inside.
He's huge, splitting Shane apart relentlessly, working his way inside in tiny thrusts. It feels like half an eternity until he's all the way in, hips resting against Shane's.
Shane opens his eyes (when did he close them) and sees Rozanov staring down at him, lips slack, face red, looking wrecked already.
"God, Hollander," he pants. "So fucking tight, what are you, a virgin?"
For one delirious moment, Shane wishes he was. That Rozanov could have been the first man to have him like this. Shame rises in his chest in the next moment, threatening to choke him. What the fuck is he thinking?
Rozanov starts moving his hips and Shane's mind goes fuzzy again as his cock hits his prostate. He fucks into Shane in quick, shallow thrusts at first as he loosens up around his cock, going deeper and harder as Shane starts pushing into it, back arching.
He's fucking into Shane properly now, slamming his hips into Shane's so hard it almost hurts. Fucking the breaths out of Shane's chest, an embarrassing litany of soft 'ah ah ah's that Shane can't hold back. Rozanov leans in, nearly folding Shane in half as he kisses him messy and open-mouthed.
"That's it," Rozanov growls, "fucking take it."
And Shane does, and does, pleasure rolling over his body in waves, skin buzzing with it. Rozanov seems to be carving a new space for himself in Shane's body with each powerful thrust, laying claim to him. It's rough, animalistic in a way Shane didn't know sex could be for him.
The orgasm is building at the base of Shane's spine but it still catches him by surprise when it hits, crashing over him, cock spilling untouched between them.
"Are you - ?" Rozanov asks, slowing his thrusts.
Shane wraps his legs around his waist before he can pull out, still riding the aftershock. "Keep going."
Rozanov doesn't need to be told twice, pumping into Shane hard and uncontrolled, chasing his own pleasure now and making use of Shane's body to do it. It's too much, the sensation of his cock hammering Shane's prostate so intense it tips from pleasurable to painful.
Shane loves it.
A few more thrusts and then Rozanov's coming with a choked off groan, fingertips digging into Shane's skin so hard he knows it's gonna bruise.
Rozanov collapses next to him and Shane bites back a whine as his cock slips out, already missing the feeling of being full.
"Fuck," Rozanov sighs. "You have killed me, Hollander. I am dead."
Shane smiles helplessly, rolling over to tuck himself against Rozanov's side. Warmth blooms in his chest when Rozanov's arm settles around him, hand resting on his head and softly petting Shane's hair.
Rozanov hums. "Worth the wait?"
"Yeah," Shane says, and he's too fucked out but he thinks he should feel guilty about how much he means it.
Maybe opening up the relationship wasn't such a bad idea.
+
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In a world where Shane doesn't get hurt by Cliff Marleau and Ilya does manage to break it off with him, the Raiders defeat the Admirals in the Eastern Conference final. Ilya channels all of his anger and despair and this feeling of helplessness and loss of control when he looks at Shane into absolute control and dominance on the ice. He drags the Raiders to another Stanley Cup, Shane watches at home, once again torn between pride and jealousy. (Scott Hunter seriously contemplates retirement. He gave up Kip for hockey but hockey doesn't give back.)
The next season, the grief had time to settle and time hasn't healed anything. Shane and Ilya play the worst season of the their careers.
The first time they play each other is a repeat of the post Rose Landry game. The second time is a little better, they both get a goal each and it feels almost a little like it used to. So much so that Ilya texts Shane, just two simple words. Come over.
Shane can't believe the audacity. (or maybe he actually can)
We're not doing that anymore, he texts back.
I know, Ilya writes. Come over.
No. Shane gets a cab anyway.
When Ilya opens the door he's smirking. “You came.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says and then flings himself at Ilya, gets his hands into his curls.
Ilya reaches for Shane, there's a moment where they fight for control and then Shane gives and Ilya can fit his mouth against his neck, make him moan, and Shane drops to his knees right there, Ilya grappling for balance against the wall as Shane gives him the greediest, sloppiest, most perfect blowjob known to man. Ilya comes so hard he almost misses how Shane jerks himself off and comes as soon as Ilya's finished. They stand there, kneel there, panting for a moment, no thoughts just bliss, then Ilya pulls Shane up, goes to seek out his mouth, all plush and red and spitslick now but Shane stumbles back, doing up his pants and says “shit, what are we doing” and turns on his heels and flees out of Ilya's house and Ilya thinks fuck, of course again, and fuck, we didn't even kiss.
The Raiders’ dream of defending the cup goes up in smoke. The Metros don't do much better and in the end the Raiders don't even make the playoffs and the Metros barely manage the wild card spot and get swept in the first round by fucking Buffalo of all teams.
Shane and Ilya still meet at the MLH awards. Shane is nominated for the sportsmanship award, and despite the Raiders overall poor showing their rookie is nominated for the Calder and Ilya is being a good dutiful captain.
They both seek out the roof, Ilya for a cigarette and Shane for peace and quiet.
“This can't happen again,” Shane says.
“What, you nagging about my smoking?”
“No. That neither of us is nominated for any of the trophies.”
“You're nominated for nicest player.”
“You know that's not what I mean.”
And Shane looks at Ilya, really looks at him. “If we're giving this up, then it has to be worth it. What we had, it could be good. So good.”
“If we were not who we are.” Ilya says bitterly.
Shane nods. “So it's only worth it if we're the best of who we can be. Together at the top. Dominating the league. Building an unquestionably legacy. Future Hall of Famers.”
“And then?” Ilya asks.
“Then we are beyond reproach. The greatest who ever played the game.”
“And then?” Ilya asks again.
“Then we can do whatever the fuck we want,” Shane says, calmly, evenly.
He doesn't say what that is. He doesn't need to. All of these years, all of the risks, and they cannot stay away from each other.
Ilya nods. “Together at the top.”
Shane holds out a hand, just like he did all those years ago in Saskatchewan.
“May the better man win.”
Ilya grips his hand tight. “I will beat you.”
Shane grins. “That's not gonna happen.”
Letting go of Shane's hand is physically painful.
“1410,” Ilya says. “For old time’s sake.”
Shane looks at him very seriously. “For old time’s sake.”
They don't return to the party. It’s not even midnight.
They have ten hours and they don't sleep for a minute. They gorge themselves on each other's bodies, they kiss and fuck and kiss. They hold each other and touch each other. They talk and they're quiet, they laugh and at one point in the darkness they cry.
And in the morning they leave, flying back to their respective cities.
(During the summer, Scott Hunter announces his retirement. He is grateful for hockey and for the Admirals, but he needs to focus on his personal life.)
At the beginning of the next season, Hollander and Rozanov return to the ice with a vengeance. Record breaking seasons, top of the division, top of the conference. They meet in the conference finals and over seven hard fought games, the Metros take the victory. It's Shane who lifts the cup that year. Who gets playoff MVP.
At the MLH awards, Shane gets the Rocket and Ilya gets the Art Ross and Ilya is season MVP. Hollander and Rozanov are back, dominating the league like never before.
“1410,” Shane says to Ilya in passing.
Ilya was so annoyed when he tried to book that specific room and it was already gone, he should have known.
The next year, the Raiders take back the top spot.
And round and round it goes. There are years when neither the Metros nor the Raiders win the cup of course. Hockey is a team sport and not even someone like Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov can win a cup by themselves.
But they meet at the awards every year because they're nominated every year. Between them, there isn't a year where neither of them wins a trophy.
Hollander and Rozanov, together at the top.
The rivalry is as strong as ever. The tone of it changes though. They are less cutting, more complimentary in interviews. By unspoken agreement they start saying words like mutual respect, friends off the ice, challenging each other to be better. The media says they've matured. The league calls it sportsmanship.
Ilya and Shane don't call it anything. But once a year, in Las Vegas, in room 1410, they spend a night truly together at the top.
And once they retire, the same number of cups to their name, the faces of their franchises, their numbers hanging in the rafters in Montreal and Boston, Ilya leading Shane in career goals but Shane beating Ilya in overall points, unrivaled trophy rooms, the league defining players for two decades, once that is all over, they meet at the MLH awards for one last time.
“1410,” Ilya says who beat Shane to the reservation that year. One last victory.
In the morning, Shane hands him a piece of paper. An address.
“I have a cottage,” he says, “where I spend my summers.”
Ilya does not admit how often he's watched the documentary about it.
“Come whenever you want.”
Ilya takes the piece of paper and he knows that this is the true victory.
when you experience internalized homophobia and unrequited love for your straight best friend you may or may not develop kinks or fantasies you are not that proud of… one of the hottest things for me is a roleplay where the top is straight (or at least doesn’t admit being anything else) but fucks the bottom while watching porn because a hole is a hole. if that is something you can work with just know that there it at least one person who will get horned up because of it.
thank you for this. my mind ran away, i'm so sorry.
--
Pretty: A Hollanov Ficlet
rating: e | wc: ~1880 | tags: college!au, anal, feminization, “straight” ilya, discovering things about yourself by fucking your gay best friend, sex while watching porn (kinda), slight degradation, blink and you'll miss it breeding kink, One Spank, feminization of shane’s asshole (she's a pussy with she/her pronouns)
--
“You said you'd do anything.”
Shane swallows visibly, the saliva twitching his Adam’s apple as it goes down. “I know.”
“So is this your limit? You’ve wanted this for five years and this is your limit?”
Shane nibbles his lower lip, toying with the hem. “I didn’t say it was a limit.”
Ilya looks his best friend up and down, a hand sliding around the plumpness of his ass, beneath the gingham skirt and over the lace biting into his cheeks. It wasn’t a demand, so to speak. More of a highly requested suggestion if they were to try this out. Lucky for him, Shane followed through. He hovers over Shane’s lips, squeezing his ass. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it. Are you backing out?”
“I’m not backing out,” Shane snips, shrugging a shoulder anxiously. “It’s just…out of my comfort zone.”
“Well then, we’re even, aren’t we?” Ilya says, digging his nails into his thick ass cheek, and not entirely opposed to the high gasp Shane releases.
It took one conversation, after five years of friendship, and Shane very bashfully admitting that he’s always wondered what all the hype was about with every woman that Ilya got into bed. Shane’s attractions had always been his business. He never forced them onto Ilya, never told him he should “explore more”, they just had their own platonic intimacy apart from the sexual. Shane wasn’t flamboyant or exuberant, he was just Shane. Insanely talented hockey player, peak jock performance, captain of the McGill team, about to graduate and kick ass in the real world, in the real leagues. Ilya was just his junior league buddy-turned-best-friend whose father talked him out of hockey altogether after Junior’s and strong-armed him into a business degree to “make something of himself.”
Sometimes he thinks it’s because his father saw how good Shane Hollander was at just seventeen and knew Ilya would never be that good.
Truthfully, he’d never looked at Shane as an object of lust. He was just his best friend. Objectively attractive, sure. He could acknowledge that Shane was a beautiful man, with a gentle smile and adorable freckles. But that’s as far as it went. Until tonight.
“Did you do what you need to do?” Ilya asks, a knuckle stroking Shane’s cheek.
“Yes,” he mumbles. “It’s ready.”
“Ready for me to just slide in when I please? Like any other girl?” He clarifies, tucking a tendril from his falling bangs behind his ear, his head of hockey hair in full force and pulled into a bun at the back of his head.
“Yes,” he shivers, barely blinking when Ilya tugs at his hair tie and frees his locks for holding.
“Then get on the bed. Face down. On your stomach.”
He hears the muttered “Fuck,” under his friend’s breath, and something about it makes Ilya’s cock throb.
He’s not attracted to men. He fucks women. He has fucked a wide array of women of all shapes and sizes and backgrounds. He knows women.
Shane, well…
He knows Shane incredibly well. Just not like he knows women. But how different, really, can it be? Fucking an ass is fucking an ass, right? A fuckhole is a fuckhole. He’s done it countless times. He likes his women a little freaky, a little kinky; he’s no stranger to entering through a back door. Make Shane put on panties and a little skirt and it might as well be one of his countless hookups over the years.
Ilya strips himself naked, something that Shane has definitely seen before, but never been able to appreciate fully, so he gives him that allowance. He sees his breath catch as his cheek lies atop his forearms, waiting for him and devouring Ilya's body with his lurid gaze. Shane isn’t that far behind — the skirt and panties are all he’s clad in anyway. He throws lube onto the bed, rips a condom from the strip, and flings it, landing on the small of Shane’s beautifully dimpled back.
Laying like this, he really isn’t that different from a woman. Strong thighs, he supposes, but that’s not exclusively masculine. He’s fucked a few muscle mommies in his time. His slutty waist curves beautifully into sturdy hips, and if Shane was a girl, he’d think he could birth a baby from them. Maybe if Ilya tries hard enough, he can knock him up despite the biological setbacks. Shane would probably take him without a condom if Ilya had him stupid enough. Many woman have tried to beg for it before. He has pretty strong resolve, and proudly no pregnancy scares as of yet.
But something about the curve of that fucking waist. The deep dimples above his ass. The thick, perkiness of his cheeks. Ilya is already hard and leaking staring at him. He may not even need the porn.
He turns it on anyway, a laptop perched at the foot of the bed in front of Shane. He picked the video out specifically, long enough that he can do what he needs to do. A toned man, nothing special. A beautiful brunette on her stomach with her ass in the air and an asshole already stretched, her tits pressed against the mattress and hair flowing down her back.
Ilya can do this. Easy. Shane wanted a graduation present, and Ilya is going to give him one.
“Can we at least keep the volume off?” Shane mumbles as the woman starts moaning on screen as fingers fuck her hole.
“I like the sounds,” Ilya purrs, gripping his ass.
“Put something inside me like that and I’ll make sounds for you,” he assures.
Ilya thinks it over, and decides to give it a try. He mutes the video, leaving the woman throwing her head back in silence. That settles Shane a little, resting his head more and propping his ass in the air like a well-trained slut.
“You get fucked often, Shane?” Ilya asks, admiring his cheeks adorning the red lace. “That position seemed pretty automatic. You don’t really talk about it much with me.”
“I get fucked enough,” Shane says dismissively. “And I didn’t think you’d want details.”
“Maybe we can try in the future. You can tell me all about the men who fuck you not as good as I’m about to,” he touts as he rolls the condom down his cock and lubes himself up. With a sharp hand, he smacks Shane’s ass, and the man gasps, his shoulder blades pulling back as he arches gorgeously at the treatment. Ilya chuckles. “I should’ve known. Hockey players like it rough, huh?”
Shane, his defenses dissolving, just exhales, “Yes.”
Ilya jerks down the panties, just under the seat of his ass, and groans as he flips his skirt up. He clearly shaved, made himself smooth and pristine down the split of his ass. Ilya inspects his future dwelling and finds it dark, dusky brown, and shining with lubricant. Shaved, maybe even waxed for how smooth he is when Ilya runs his fingers over the skin. Shane inhales at the touch, leaning back into it searchingly.
“You groomed for me.”
“I wanted to be…pretty,” Shane admits quietly.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, dragging his thumb over his slick, clenching hole. “You are very pretty. Look at this pussy, all clean and wet for me.”
Shane whimpers into his arms at the words.
“You like that?” Ilya coos, dragging the heel of his hand up Shane’s back and tangling into his shaggy hair. “You like when I call your pussy pretty? I think she wants me to fuck her. She’s winking at me like a little slut,” he teases, pulling his cheeks apart over and over with his free hand just to rile himself up at the ephemeral sight of him.
Fuck, his best friend is hot. And he wants to fuck him. God, he really wants to fuck him. Is he really this horny that his cock is leaking over his male best friend?
Now isn’t the time to overthink it. Shane is moaning, writhing at his sentiments, and Ilya feels a flush burn over his chest as he lines his cock up to his best friend’s hole. He shakes himself out of a daze and glances past Shane’s plump lips, up at the screen where the brunette is already getting plowed by a cock not that different in size from Ilya’s own.
He makes sure to stare at the girl, stare at her face, as he plunges past the tight ring of his entrance, but all the sounds are Shane. The cry of pleasure is deeper than he’s used to, but it still makes his cock ache as he sinks in deeper and deeper. Shane doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t tell him to stop or slow down, just moans and whines into his arms as his ass poises in the air. And when he starts to fuck, when he angles it right, Shane’s ass clamps around his dick like a vice, like good cunt when it’s coming around his cock. But he doesn’t even think Shane is close to coming yet.
That’s his prostate. Fuck, that’s hot. Ilya shifts to fuck into it again, and Shane’s thighs shudder as he keens, his hands now clutching the sheets beneath him. Ilya’s hand buries in Shane’s hair, pressing his cheek into the bed as he sets a ragged, relentless pace, feeling out what makes Shane tick like he would any woman.
“Did I find your secret spot? Your special little G spot? You like when I fuck it like that?” Ilya growls into his ear, feeling Shane’s ass bounce back against his hips as he forces himself to watch the screen again and not Shane’s pinched and pleasured face, where the woman is also being pressed into the bed and pounded, clearly shouting in manufactured bliss. But Shane’s noises are real. Very real. He knows fake when he hears it, and it isn’t when a hole is squeezing around his cock like this.
“I think I’m gonna come,” Shane whines, panting, wrapping a hand around his cock and jerking aggressively.
“Already, baby? Video’s not even half done,” he jokes, not sure where the pet name came from, but it felt natural with such a beautiful body beneath him, swallowing his cock like it's nothing at all.
“Fuck me through the whole thing, I don’t care,” Shane whimpers, and then his body jolts, his ass pulling tight around his cock as he splatters onto the interior of his skirt, panting and moaning.
It hits him all at once, a brick to the face, at the expression Shane pulls as he comes, looking so fucking beautiful, so angelic, so pornographic, but better than any porn he’s ever seen. He feels it in his fucking chest when he blows inside him, blindsided entirely and nearly blind himself as his vision blacks out before coming back in blurry and disoriented.
“Oh, fuck. Oh fuck. Jesus Christ,” Ilya babbles, running hands up and down Shane’s back as his cock softens in the messy condom. He pinches it gingerly and extracts himself, slamming the laptop shut and lumbering onto his back with a huff. “Господи. Shane. Fuck.”
“You’re sure you don’t like men? Like, really sure?” Shane breathes out with a wide smile.
“Don’t ask me that now. Let me have a fucking cigarette first.”
