i'm so curious, what's the first best scene in television history!?
the people have been asking. so, let me elucidate on the best scene in cinema:
Rozanov hits like an angry fuck.
Shane always has to be careful to not be careful, taking his checks. Has to lean hard into two decades of instinct on how to take a man's body against the boards. Not tense up, not try and turn and escape. Rozanov is too heavy for that, too powerful.
You take his hits and you breathe through it and you elbow him back where the refs can’t see and feel the heat of his answering grunt in the kick of your cock against your cup and you beat him to the puck and you clear it out along the board to the guy waiting out of the pile up and work on tangling Rozanov up so he can't go after him. You stay on top only by anticipating what he'll do. Because you can't stop him from doing it. The Raiders fucking phenomenal winning cup run in June lit a fire under Roz's ass that's still burning. He's whipped his boys up into fever pitch for this mid-October season opener, gunning for the repeat.
That's fine. Shane knows his team. Knows which way the ice will tilted. They play their best with a challenge.
When Rozanov slams into Shane's back as he's hunting down the puck behind the net, Shane defends the puck. Stick clashing with Rozanov's, scuffling, shuffling his left skate to cover the hole left behind. Pinning it so Rozanov can't find it. Jabs back with his elbow. Feels the solid weight of Rozanov's big body. Listens for JJ at the point, calling for the puck, slapping the ice loud over the call of the home crowd, eager for violence.
Rozanov laughs, shoves on Shane's back, digs at Shane's skate with his own, and Shane rolls his tongue over his mouthguard. His cheeks hurt as he bites down on the smile. He squirts the puck free, feeds it over towards JJ's waiting tape. Bad angle. Tangles his stick with Rozanov's. Keeps him there for three extra seconds, keeps him mouthing off, "shit pass, Hollander. Did you forget to practice in summer?" while JJ and Lukes tag team the net, late Boston change, only one D, and there. By the time Rozanov slams Shane one last, skin-shivering time, the goal horn is wailing at the ceiling.
"Nope," Shane says, and slides his body free from Rozanov's. Taps Rozanov's shins with his stick. "Seems like you did, though," and skates up the ice to crowd around Lukes for the celly.
Rozanov will get him back, but that's the point; Shane loves it best when Rozanov goes down swinging.
Rozanov fucks like game seven overtime.
Shane always has to be ready to be ready, taking his cock. Has to lean into the mess underneath him, the months of training to relax enough to accept a cock in his ass. Not tense up, not try to take it too fast. Rozanov is too thick for that, too hard, usually.
You take his cock in increments and push back into every thrust and exhale and hook your ankle around his shin and brace yourself in the cushions and tilt your hips for the right angle to find the empty, craven space inside you. You stay underneath him, by knowing how to arch into the slap of his balls against yours. Because you don't want him to stop doing it. The season starts with Rozanov slamming Shane's door and leads into Rozanov slamming Shane into the couch, hands ripping down Shane's sweats without asking, without needing to ask. Fever pitch, between every inch of salt-stick skin, both of them racing to the finish.
It's good. Shane knows his body. Knows Rozanov's body. They do their best work overheated, supercharged.
When Rozanov slaps his hand into Shane's cheek as he's picking up the pace, Shane groans wetly. Hole clutching up around Rozanov's dick, shuddering, squirming his right leg up to deepen the stretch. Proffering the bruise on his hip Rozanov made. Feels the solid squeeze of Rozanov's big hand. Listens to their shared heaving, the echo of announcers calling their names, still inside his molten bones.
Rozanov laughs, shoves on Shane's face more, knees Shane's legs open wider, and Shane smears spit and pre-come and cut-off pleas everywhere. His head pounds in tune with the thrust of Rozanov’s cock deep in his guts. The cool lube Rozanov hastily squirted into him is churned loose, replaced by Rozanov’s driving heat. Glorious angle. Wraps his hand around Rozanov’s flexed wrist. Keeps him pushing down, muttering, “so tight, Hollander. You have been waiting for me all summer?” while the rhythm goes ragged and rough. By the time Rozanov spears his teeth into the sweat budding across Shane’s shoulders, he can feel the orgasm screaming in his nerves.
"Yeah," Shane says, and clenches up around Roz's body. Feeling Rozanov’s pulse drum against his sweaty palm, inside his ass. "Yeah, it's. I did. Fuck."
Rozanov leans down to sucks a kiss across Shane's nape, pulls too hard at Shane’s blood, but that’s the point; Shane loves it best when Rozanov leaves marks behind.
