the hush of holiness

Shane stops breathing. His skin goes hot, then cold, prickling, his hair standing on end. There's no way. He must have heard it wrong, there was no way-

"Now why are you limp dick losers talking about my best girl?"

Shane has to shut his eyes. This is not happening, surely. Ilya Rozanov is not swaggering up to the next table, calling Shane his - his -

"Ayyye, Cap. We were just talking about our top fucks."

"Ah, I see. You all had nothing to offer so you had to talk about my conquests, I understand."

Boos briefly follow.

"No but seriously, Cap. Yours has gotta be Jane, right?"

Rozanov hums, slow, indulgent, like he's savouring something. "Mmmh yes. My Jane."

Some catcalls follow, lurid. Shane's pulse is in his throat, thumping thumping thumping. He stares out into the throng of writhing bodies on the dancefloor, unblinking.

"Yeah okay so you love banging this chick, but that still doesn't answer the question: what was your best fuck with her."

Rozanov's laughter is rolling, incredulous. "This I cannot answer - no, no it is true!" He adds when he's met with crows of denial, "My Jane, she is always surprising me. She is crazy for my cock. You would not understand what this is like, for a girl to want your dick so bad she is biting your belt buckle."

It's like getting shoved in the solar plexus, hard. Boston's jeering rises but it doesn't dim the memory - they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and it was coming off of summer besides, and Shane had felt like he was on fire, like he'd die if he didn't get Rozanov's cock inside him now now right fucking now, and in his desperate rush, mouthing his way across denim, over Rozanov's zipper, he'd clipped his teeth against -

"I call bull. No way she's that easy for it."

"Oh, but she is," Rozanov's voice is inescapable, like he's whispering straight into Shane's ear, "I go to eat her out and I can already work three fingers inside - she opened herself up for me in the shower because she needs it so bad."

That's not fair, Shane thinks dizzily over Boston's whooping, that wasn't the same night as the belt thing.

Ilya is still talking, rapturous now:

"- but it does not matter if she does not open herself up before I get there because the way this girl gets wet for me? Oh my god, she is like - like faucet, just dripping, always, making a mess in her little panties -"

And suddenly Shane is standing, uncaring if the movement is obvious through the dim lights of the club. He's weaving, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Jesus, people probably think he's wasted what with the way he's walking, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything apart from getting behind a locked stall door right fucking now.

When the lock clicks shut, Shane is scrambling for his pants. He's so hard he's throbbing, hot to touch. And he's - he's dripping, all down his shaft, down to his fucking balls, making a mess of his -

Panties, Shane hears in Rozanov's indolent drawl, and he puts his fist in his mouth and bites down, hard.

It's enough to muffle his noises, if not the shwick shwick shwick of his hand jacking his cock.

It's enough so that he doesn't miss the door handle of the bathroom turning.

Shane's hand doesn't (can't) stop working, neck arching as it flies over his dick, but he's not worried, not really.