#sub drop shane

[bts-ship-bloggg]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“Hollander? You are still here?” Rozanov called, breaking the TV static silence filling Shane’s head. He blinked.

“Uh. Yeah, just leaving,” he answered, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. Good, that was good. He knew he couldn’t show Rozanov any weakness if he wanted to keep coming back.

But did he want to come back if it made him feel like this?

“Door is too heavy? Or I fuck you too good, you cannot move legs,” came Rozanov’s taunting response. Shane could practically see the tilted smirk on his face, cigarette smoke wafting around his freshly-showered curls.

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane muttered.

[bts-ship-bloggg]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[bts-ship-bloggg]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/77592201?view_adult=true#main

Shane is used to feeling fuzzy with Rozanov. Like he’s floating higher, higher, higher. But this - this isn’t that.

Shane isn’t floating, he’s falling. Sinking down, down, down below, into darkness. It feels like there are waves crashing over his head, cold and sharp like needles against his skin, and when he does manage to breach the surface for a moment, he’s met with thick fog and a starless sky. It feels sort of like a concussion, but not. There’s no pain, just…haziness. Just a gaping, empty feeling, right in the centre of his chest.

(Or, Vegas rewritten.)