Work Text:
"I thought you might chicken out."
There's genuine surprise in Rozanov's eyes, despite the fact that his tone is the same teasing lilt he uses on the ice when he's trying to get a rise out of the other team. It normally works.
Not tonight though. Tonight J.J., who had not even considered backing out, just scoffs and pushes past Rozanov into the house. Shane's house. Newly purchased for the express purpose of discreetly having his fucking boyfriend over more often. J.J. had to admit that the place was more private than the condo Shane had been living in since his first NHL paycheck hit. "Where's Shane?"
"Bathroom. Getting ready. Shoes off."
"Fuck off, I know that." He did. Shane hated people wearing shoes in his home. J.J. sits down on the bench and undoes his laces, tucking them beside a pair of trainers he knows must be Rozanov's. Shane would never own something so brightly colored unless they were a brand gift from a sponsor.
Rozanov watches him do so, then leads J.J. into the open living room/kitchen area. "Can I get you anything to drink? Water, beer, healthy smoothie?"
"I'm fine."
"Glasses are in the left cabinet, other drinks in fridge door. If you change your mind."
Unable to think of a witty response to that, J.J. just nods and stays quiet. They would probably spend the rest of the evening staring at each other in stiff silence if not for Shane. He appears in the doorway dressed in a thin blue robe, hair slightly wet.
He looks a little surprised to see J.J. too. "You came."
"You invited me."
It might be more accurate to say that Shane demanded his presence. Dared him to show up. Everything that happens in my bedroom is something I want, and I don't know how I'm supposed to prove it to you other than to let you watch. Is that what you want J.J.? Would you fucking lay off if you knew first hand that Ilya is good to me? Fine. Come watch then.
J.J. isn't a chicken and he is concerned, so here he is. At Shane's house, being led to the bedroom and shown to his seat in the corner. It's a nice chair at least. Very comfortable. There's a little table next to it with a box of tissues and a fake plant.
Shane moves to take off his robe, but Rozanov stops him. "Just a moment, moya lyubimyy. We should talk about rules first."
"I know the rules though." Shane, who had captained his team to two Stanley cups and won an Olympic medal, whines.
"I know, I know." Rozanov cups Shane's jaw and kisses him gently. "But our guest does not. Come sit."
Come sit sounds like an invitation for them both to be on the bed. What happens instead is Rozanov sitting on the edge of the king sized mattress and Shane dropping to his knees to sit between Rozanov's thighs.
"Shane, please tell your friend what our start/stop system is."
"Traffic light." Shane says immediately.
"And what does that mean?"
"I say green for keep going, yellow for slow down, and red if I want the scene to end. If my mouth is full or I can't speak for some other reason, I tap you three times." Shane demonstrates by tapping Rozanov's thigh three times.
"Very good." Rozanov praises, petting Shane's hair. "And when are you allowed to come?"
"When you say I can."
"Yes, thank you. Why don't you warm me up while I tell Boiziau his rules for tonight?"
"My rules? I'm not a part of this, asshole."
Rozanov levels a look at J.J. "Everyone has rules in this room. Fortunately for you, yours don't include being nice to me. Now listen: you can look and you can touch yourself, but you are not here for anything more, yes? I will even let you talk to either of us. That is it. You do not get to touch Shane, or me."
"I'm here to make sure Shane is okay, you pervert." J.J. hisses, eyes locked on Rozanov and not his friend, who is too busy tugging down Rozanov's sweatpants and underwear to pay attention to this conversation. "Not to…to get off."
"OK. Next rule is that you can leave the room if you need to, but not the house. You stay until end. Aftercare."
What the fuck? "Sure, fine. No touching, yes talking, no leaving. Are we doing this or not?"
"Good point. Shane, get up." Rozanov tugs on Shane's hair, pulling him off his dick. Shane hadn't even been sucking. Just…holding it in his mouth. In his throat. Getting it warm. "Undress."
Shane undoes the tie on his robe, shrugging it off carelessly. He's in the best shape of anyone on the team. He's rock hard without even being touched. He's covered in bruises that didn't come from playing an aggressive contact sport for a living.
Like the finger prints on his hips. The bite marks on his thighs. The dark lines around his wrists, which had sparked the argument that led to this whole thing.
Now naked, Shane moves to hang his robe up, then returns and begins stripping Rozanov. The Russian silent shifts around to make it easier but doesn't help as Shane removes his clothes, folding every piece and gently setting it aside. Every once and a while Rozanov will reach out and touch, a little squeeze to Shane's shoulder, a love tap to his cheek, and then a loud smack to his ass. The sound rings out in the quiet room, almost swallowing Shane's little squeak of indignation. "Ilya!"
"I could not help, your ass is so—" Rozanov clenches his fist. "I am going to eat it so good later, do not worry. After your punishment."
"Punishment? He hasn't done anything but what you wanted." J.J. spits, tense all over again.
Again, Rozanov shoots J.J. a look designed to make him feel stupid. "He invited you here, without talking to me first and with very little warning. Very bratty about it."
"I really was." Shane murmurs, putting the last of Rozanov's clothes down on top of the dresser. "Sorry Ilya."
"I know you are, kotik. And I understand, but I would be a bad partner if I didn't make sure you really learned your lesson. Now come here." Rozanov scoots back on the bed a bit and taps his lap, which Shane falls over with familiar ease.
He's about to spank my captain like a child, J.J. realizes a moment before it happens.
The sound of flesh against flesh is so loud that J.J. jolts as much as Shane does. He death grips the arms of the chair as Rozanov raises his hand and brings it down again, and again. Under the slapping, he can just barely hear the soft grunts Shane is making. Pained, maybe, except they were professional hockey players. J.J. knows the force Rozanov was exerting was a fraction of his strength and a fraction of what Shane could handle.
Shane's head rests on the bed and he's facing away from Rozanov, towards J.J., meaning he can see the moment tears squeeze their way past his screwed shut eyelids. His mouth opens, but not to say no or stop or red.
Unable to deal with the expression on Shane's face, J.J. turns his attention to the Russian.
Rozanov's lips are moving in a silent in a silent count, his spankings raining down on Shane's ass like clockwork. Two on the left cheek, two on the right, two across both. High then lower down. The skin is red now. J.J. stares at the darkening shade for a lot longer than he should.
"All right. All done." Rozanov announces an indeterminable amount of time later, stopping as quickly as he'd started. "Punishment over."
" 'm forgiven?"
"Yes kotik. All forgiven. You're my good boy again."
That makes Shane grin. His eyes open slowly, the last of the tears escaping, and he meet J.J.'s eyes the same way he did after a particularly hard win. Exhausted but full of pride. He shifts to stare adoringly up at his boyfriend. "Thank you."
"Of course. Now up, up, I promised to eat you out before I fuck you. Hands and knees."
Shane scrambles to obey. His dick is maybe even harder than it had been when he'd stripped.
Rozanov is slower about it, standing to grab two things from the bedside drawer. The first is a bottle of lube, which he lays down next to Shane's knee.
The second is a strip of dark fabric that Rozanov uses to gently wipe the tears off Shane's face before tying around his eyes. "Can't have you looking at our guest when he takes his cock out soon." Rozanov explains without prompting. "I am very jealous man."
"Ilya, I see J.J. naked all the time." Shane complains.
It's not the argument J.J. would have gone with if he felt like he could speak right now. He's not going to touch himself to the sex part any more than he would the punishment. Any arousal J.J. feels right now is just…just a Pavlovian reaction to sound of skin against skin and the sinful little moans from Shane.
"Hm, it's true that we both know only I can satisfy you. Maybe the blindfold is so he cannot see your pretty tears, the ones that are only for me." Rozanov gets on the bed behind Shane and kneels down, heads spreading the still red ass cheeks. "Maybe I should gag you too, so that he can't hear the beautiful noises you make when I do this."
From J.J.'s vantage point, it's hard to see the details of Rozanov licking Shane's ass open, but he's seen enough porn to know how it works. The sound Shane makes is enough to assure him that it feels good, anyway.
Though J.J. has never messed around with his prostate, more than satisfied with how he and the women he took home touched his dick, he knows it's supposed to be…intense. Maybe he should be a bit more experimental. Shane certainly makes an excellent case for it. In a matter of minutes Rozanov has him begging, arms shaking and struggling to keep him up. Rozanov ignores the pleas, only pausing once to slap Shane's hand away from his dick and reminding him, "That's for me, you only come when I say you can."
"I can't, I can't, I can't, please I'm going to come." Shane moans. "Ilya stop, you have to fuck me now, I want to come, please."
His arms give out, and he collapses face first into the pile of pillows. He remains writing there until Rozanov decides to pull back. "That should do it. Good job not coming hands free, I know it is hard for a slut like you not to. Give me a color, baby?"
"Green. So green. Fuck me."
Smack. Rozanov laughs at the way Shane jolts from the unexpected spank. "If you insist, bossy."
He grabs the lube and pours a bit into his hand, which he spreads on his dick before unexpectedly tossing the bottle to J.J., who manages to catch it only thanks to a lifetime spent drilling his reflexes for the ice.
Doing so means taking his hands off the front of his jeans, where he's been subtly rubbing his hard dick against his palm through the denim. Or maybe not so subtly. This time, Rozanov doesn't have a smart remark. He just winks, drags Shane's hips back off the bed, lines himself up, and drives in.
The muted scream Shane lets out covers the sound of J.J. unzipping his pants at least. Shane is blindfolded and Rozanov will be an ass no matter what, so why should he sit here hard? It doesn't have to mean anything.
When he's fucking Shane, the careful calculation J.J. hadn't even realized was there vanishes from Rozanov's face. He fucks like he plays hockey: with force, passion, and incredible stamina.
Shane has to be outright sobbing now, behind the blindfold. He's lost the ability to beg with words, to do anything but lay there and take what Rozanov gives him. Physically and verbally, since Rozanov is alternating between calling him a good boy, telling him he's a slut and a whore, slipping into entire Russian sentences, and reminding Shane that he's not allowed to come.
"You're mine, all mine, and you love it. So tight when I open you with just my tongue. I should tie you up in my bed forever, just a hole for me to fuck. Your friend is never going to look at you the same way. Three Stanley Cups and yet what you were really built to do is take my cock. Tell me it's huge."
"You're so big, you fill me up so well, please let me come. Touch me." Shane blabbers.'
"No."
J.J. feels his own orgasm build, faster than he'd normally come from just jerking himself off. Maybe in sympathy for Shane's poor, untouched dick.
Whatever sound he makes as he comes gets Rozanov's attention, who redoubles his efforts to make Shane unable to sit down tomorrow. Moments later, he groans as well but doesn't pull out before reaching to touch Shane's cock. "Okay baby, come for me."
Shane does after only two pumps of Rozanov's hand. The two of them collapse into the bed. A sweaty, come covered mess.
They don't stay that way for long. Rozanov sits up and coaxes Shane onto his back, half propped against the headboard. He kisses Shane's lips, undoes the blindfold, then licks at the tears on his face. "You need a shower."
Shane mumbles an argument.
"I know you're tired but as soon as you catch your breath, you're going to be mad about your come on the sheets and my come up your ass."
Another mumble. Rozanov just presses his lips to Shane's forehead. "Fine, a few more minutes. Shower, wash sheets, cuddles, round two? Good. Boiziau?"
"Get out?" J.J. guesses.
"Not yet. Clean up, then get us all a drink."
J.J. nods, not even bothered by the lack of a please. His own mess was contained to his hand an a tissue, which he disposes of in the bathroom trash while washing up.
When he gets to the kitchen, he fills a glass with cold water and chugs it. The refreshing chill helps cut through some of the fog in his brain. Then J.J. just…stands there. Staring out the window into Shane's backyard. Processing.
He's not sure how much time he spends staring off into space before collecting two Cokes and a ginger ale to bring back to the bedroom with him. It's long enough that Shane and Rozanov are emerging from the bathroom. Shane's in his robe again, Rozanov in a towel.
(How long did it take to wash a whole load of come out of your ass? How did Shane, neat freak and minor germaphobe, even go about doing that? )
The couple accept their drinks, then lounge against the headboard practically entwined. Shane has moved on from being fucked dump to radiating the kind of smugness normally reserved for beating J.J. at video games. He looks like a fucking king on top of the stripped bed, pillows everywhere, half perched in his boyfriend's lap.
"So?"
"So." J.J. pops the tab on his soda and leans against the doorway. Sitting back down in the chair feels too weird.
"Still think my boyfriend is abusing me against my will?"
"No." Not against your will, anyway.
Shane nods. "He blew me in the shower too. Because he's amazing."
"Sex god." Ilya agrees, and Shane elbows him. "What, Hollander? You cannot deny. You were literally begging for it not long ago, and now I have Boiziau as my witness!"
"Hey now, I'm always on Shane's side." He can't help but put in.
"Always?"
J.J. meets his captain's eyes. "Always. I just want what's best for you. If that's this asshole and chains and whips, then fine. I think I understand better now. You can stand up for yourself, and he does deserve you. Barely. But if that ever changes—"
"Oh my god, spare me the shovel speech." Rozanov rolls his eyes. "We are done hurting each other. Happily ever after now. You do not need to watch round three, and you have drink. Listen to some calming music and stop at McDonald's on your way home—"
"Do not stop at McDonald's, that shit is so bad for you."
"—take care of your mind and body. Nothing that happened here tonight was bad or shameful. Just private." Rozanov finishes.
Not the parting sentiment J.J. was expecting. He nods, a bit surprised when Shane gets up to walk him out. Less surprised that Shane kisses his boyfriend before he leaves him even though they'll not be apart for more than a few minutes.
J.J. slips into his shoes, then turns to Shane, who extends a hand like this was some fucking business meeting they'd just finished. Idiot. "This is a hug situation, I think."
"Fine." Shane lets J.J. pull him into a brief, manly hug. Distantly, J.J. remembers the rule about not touching Shane. Did that still apply right now? If it did, it wasn't like J.J. could get kicked out any faster. Would Shane get punished in his place? He'd probably enjoy that. "So you understand now?"
Classic Hollander overthinking. He reaches for the doorknob. "Yeah buddy, I kinda do. Now go get your third orgasm of the night."
Shane just grins.