Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, mentioned JJ Boiziau - Character, Mentioned Cliff Marlow - Character

Additional Tags:

Sub Top Ilya Rozanov, Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Tattoos, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Tattoo Artist Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander has tattoos, Shane Hollander Has Nipple Piercings, Ilya Rozanov Gets a Tramp Stamp, (And a lot more than that!), Dom/sub, Pain Kink, Impact Play, Frottage, Felching, Ass Play, Oral Sex, Come Eating, Come Marking, Come as Lube, Spit as Lube, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Edging, Orgasm Delay, Multiple Orgasms, Spanking, Sexual Overstimulation, Subspace, light humiliation/degradation, Light Puppy!Ilya (if you squint), Under-negotiated Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Brief mention of revenge porn (not between Hollanov), Hopeful Ending

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of HB Ink

Collections:

Sub Top Ilya Week

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-19 Words: 17,778 Chapters: 1/1

faded on the fine lines

Summary

If Ilya Rozanov was set to be branded for life in the space above his butt crack, he was damn well going to pay a premium for it.

Booking with one of the most exclusive tattoo studios in North America was the easy bit.

Having his brain melted into oblivion by Shane Hollander’s steady hands and even steadier voice was decidedly not part of the plan.

Or, the one where tattoo artist Shane is very good at giving instructions.

Notes

What’s up, lovers 🖤 I’m here with two sleeves and a dream for unserious Hollanov tattoo shop PWP.

My thanks to #subtopilyaweek for giving me the perfect excuse to blend my loose concept for tattooist!Shane with my favorite unconventional D/s dynamic for these two. Godspeed Ilya, you’re in for a ride.

If you’re a returning reader and/or follower of my mad ramblings on hrtwt, you’ll know that I always set out to write PWP and then… well, I end up fleshing out much more of the universe than anticipated. Like ‘researching plausible CHL to Canadian University hockey pipelines for a few sentences of backstory’ type of fleshing out. But since it’s fanfic and we’re all having fun, let’s ignore any minor inaccuracies in non-NHL hockey and tattoo industry standards in the LONG (😭) setup to the Boink. I know what you’re really here for 🫵

Lastly, for the purposes of this AU, I’ve tweaked Ilya’s canon tattoo lore just a bit. Staunch bear tattoo defenders — are you out there? — this is unfortunately not your moment.

Title and opening lyrics are from ‘Cemetery’ by Hazlett.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Oh honey
Tell me something but a little too honestly

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

The whole thing started out as a stupid bet. Obviously.

Loser has to get a tramp stamp, Marly had called out with glee, catching Ilya and a handful of other Bears liquored up just enough at his thirtieth birthday party to play the casino roulette wheel one more time.

Safe to say Ilya was never gambling again. Or drinking under Cliff Marlow’s influence, if he could help it.

But he was also a man of his word.

And there was… maybe… a very private part of him that found the idea sort of mind-numbingly hot once he’d accepted his fate; dreams suddenly awash with fantasies of scoring the game winner in the Stanley Cup Final as his jersey rode up just enough to expose a line of black filigree where you’d least expect it (which made no sense given all the layers he’d actually be wearing underneath), or even better, the press of a faceless lover’s hands against his lower back, sharp nails clawing at the skin there and drawing angry red lines through the healed design that he could admire for days afterward like a living work of art. 

Just chill, curious thoughts like that. Or whatever.

Though Marly hadn’t given him an out exactly — the team’s voted-upon ‘get out of bet’ conditions either two weeks of loaning his expensive sports car collection out to their idiot [said fondly] rookies or a lump sum cash deposit to the Party Bears Slush Fund that made Ilya feel… itchy, in spite of his multimillionaire status — he had acknowledged that even a ‘Phoebe from Friends’-style needle prick dot would technically fulfill the requirement.

“We know you love to commit to the bit, Roz, but no need to get anything you’ll actually regret,” Marly had offered with a wink, dressing for their first morning skate back from that cursed birthday rager. He’d pointedly dropped his gaze then to the snarling bear head on Ilya’s exposed left pec and smirked.

Clutching his practice jersey to his chest like a woman who’d just been walked in on, Ilya had made a scandalized sound, hissing back, “I was nineteen, asshole.”

“I’m nineteen!” one of the rookies had announced cheerfully from across the locker room, high-fiving his fellow teenage teammate, and yeah… no way Ilya was letting any of those newborns behind the wheel of his Bugatti. Christ.

Marly had also given Ilya a generous timeline at least, before further bet-related penalties were incurred: an end of regular season deadline to provide at-minimum proof that he’d booked the appointment. That schedule worked well actually, with the lazy mid-summer days after playoffs being a much smarter time to heal an open wound than in the petri dish that was a men’s hockey facility, and especially since the piece would be in an area affected by sweat and friction.

Knowing his tendency to procrastinate, Ilya had commenced his research immediately, aware that a) he wanted a quality piece in a particular style and was willing to pay top dollar for it, and b) much like concert ticketing, the caliber of artists he’d be interested in might have their books open for less than a day for several months’ worth of appointments. He’d poured over online reviews and Instagram profiles and Pinterest boards, deciding for once — after the walk-in tattoo misadventures of his youth — to be choosier about his ink. He wasn’t heavily tattooed by any means, just the unfortunately garish chest piece and a handful of small, sticker-like designs on his right forearm that hadn’t required much consultation, but he did know the process well enough to approach it thoughtfully this time around.

(And he liked to think that, at twenty-eight, he had somewhat better taste than a decade ago anyway).

In the end, all that effort had brought him here, to Canada. Or well, more specifically to a two-story white brick building in Old Montreal, not far from the banks of the St. Lawrence River. Ten seasons in the NHL meant Ilya had spent more than his fair share of time in this city, though usually farther south on the ice of Centre Bell. And while he’d long judged the Voyageurs’ fans to be suffering from collective delusions of grandeur, he could admit that Montreal itself was rather beautiful, especially in the bright July sunlight.

Unlike a few of the shops he’d passed by on his ride from the hotel, ‘HB Ink’ wasn’t labeled at street view, no neon sign or ‘tatouage et perçage’ decal in the window. Just a plain black door that Ilya recognized from their Instagram account, a set of silver metal numbers indicating the house number ‘24’, and a fancy intercom system affixed to the right wall of the nondescript entrance.

Ilya glanced at his watch, deciding that fifteen minutes was respectably early, and hit the buzzer. 

“Bonjour,” a man’s voice answered in greeting, followed by a rapid fire string of French that left Ilya blinking. When he didn’t respond right away, the voice repeated in accented English, “Ah, do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Ilya said quickly, “with, um, Shane? At two o’clock?”

“Ah, Mr. Rozanov, of course,” the voice said kindly, “Wait until you hear the lock click and then push down on the handle. Don’t go up the stairs, just veer right and I will greet you at the front desk.”

Ilya nodded, following the instructions as he was buzzed in. As described, a narrow set of wooden stairs with a carved handrail took up most of the entryway, with an even narrower hallway to the right presumably leading to the first floor shop. 

Walking the short distance past the staircase, he emerged from the archway into a gorgeous, open plan studio space. The vibes were immediately cozier and more inviting than Ilya was expecting, used to more industrial-style tattoo parlor aesthetics. Instead, HB Ink boasted gleaming hardwood floors and exposed brick walls like you might find in a hip coffee shop or downtown art gallery. Nearly every free centimeter of brick was covered by eclectic art prints and flash sheets in mismatched frames, the whole area bathed in warm light by an assortment of equally mismatched lamps and sconces. Where there wasn’t artwork, there were plants, a whole jungle of them in large free-standing pots and lined up along the shelves and bookcases, vines in myriad shades of green spilling down the walls.

While the two standard black client chairs and their accompanying artists’ stations in the center of the room were clearly the focal point, Ilya found his eyes drawn momentarily upward to where a massive ornate chandelier loomed, its golden arms dripping crystals that refracted splotches of rainbow light onto every surface.

“Welcome, Mr. Rozanov!”

From behind a large L-shaped desk in the front corner, a handsome Black man waved him in, calling out another cheery French greeting. Notably tall and broad, with an impressively athletic build, the man sported two full sleeves of fine line florals, leafy tendrils creeping down his wrists and onto the top of each hand.

“Ah, just Ilya is fine,” he said as he approached the desk. 

“Ilya,” the man affirmed with a nod, “I am JJ, co-owner of HB Ink. We are thrilled to have you with us!” Thrusting a clipboard Ilya’s way, he continued, “Shane, your artist, is finishing a virtual consultation right now and should be done soon. But if you wouldn’t mind filling out some paperwork first, it will help expedite the process.” 

With a wink, JJ added, “It is good you arrived early. He will like that.”

“Sure, yes,” Ilya replied, taking the clipboard and pen JJ offered him and plopping down in one of the two leather armchairs that framed the mini reception area.

“Oh, and if I could see a copy of your ID, please?” JJ called out. He skirted around the desk to grab Ilya’s passport once he’d dug it out of the leather shoulder bag he’d brought along. “I’ll just make a quick scan of this and give it right back.”

Ilya nodded, returning to the paperwork — name, address, date of birth, last time he ate… a whole tick box list of medical conditions… He was just adding his signature to the line at the very bottom, lip pinched between his teeth in concentration, when a set of footsteps approached.

“Ilya Rozanov?” a voice prompted, the accent flatly Canadian and lacking JJ’s French flair.

His eyes left the clipboard, experiencing something akin to a punch to the solar plexus as he took in the man before him.

Almond eyes, the irises a rich dark brown, stared back at him, the intensity there alone enough to leave Ilya stock still and gaping. His gaze followed a path down the bridge of the man’s prominent nose, the tip painted with a smattering of freckles that spilled onto each cheek, and further still to where a pair of full lips were notched by a deep cupid's bow. Ilya watched as that plush mouth pulled downward into a frown, accompanied by two thick furrowed eyebrows — probably a result of his prolonged, incredibly awkward silence.

“You are Ilya, right?” the undoubtedly aforementioned Shane clarified.

He looked worried enough that for a moment Ilya panicked, thinking he might have spoken some of his crazed thirsty monologue aloud.

“According to this passport, he is,” JJ chimed in, looking distinctly amused by the proceedings. He walked between them, placing the document in Ilya’s hand before flitting off toward what appeared to be a back office area. “Heading out for the day, Shane!” he called back, tacking on another sentence or two in teasing, lilting French that made Shane hiss out a rapid fire reply.

Shane turned back, those dark eyes trained on him once more. 

“Sorry, yes. Yes, that’s me,” Ilya blurted, cringing at the way he stuttered out the words.

He set the clipboard down on the chair behind him as he leapt to his feet to offer Shane a hand.

Shane’s expression softened as he completed the handshake, before reaching up to brush a wavy lock from where it was dangling orphaned mid-forehead, his hair a rich jet black like the ink that saturated his right arm. The full coverage design, based on what Ilya thought might be East Asian iconography, trailed upward along the musculature in a swirl of red, black, and grayscale hues until it disappeared beneath the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. If Ilya squinted he thought he could make out more of the design peeking out near the hollow of Shane’s throat, wondering with a particularly horny groan if the tattoo covered his collarbone and chest area too.

“Well, Ilya,” Shane said, adopting a friendly smile, “Welcome to HB Ink. I’m Shane Hollander and I’ll be your tattooer today. I know you specified in your forms that you’d be okay with any of our resident artists doing a piece of their choice, me included, so I assume you had a chance to look at my work?”

Oh, Ilya was looking alright. And if Shane Hollander wasn’t already stupidly attractive in appearance, his intelligent, direct manner of speaking made him all the more so. Fuck if Ilya didn’t love himself a hot nerd.

“Um, I did, yes, on website,” he replied instead, “I have always wanted something more… ah, delicate in style and I also knew I wanted highest quality possible. HB came very recommended.” He gestured to his clothed chest, saying, “I, uh, did not always have best taste, as you will see. But your portfolio was very beautiful so… I trust you. Design is really for you to decide.”

Shane smiled, looking genuinely pleased by the rambling feedback. “Okay, great. It’s kind of every artist’s dream to get to do pieces you’ve been wanting to tattoo, so I appreciate the opportunity.” He pointed at the discarded clipboard, prompting, “And if you’re done with the release forms, we can go through a few sketches I prepared.”

Ilya nodded, passing Shane the paperwork and following him duckling-like over to the desk area. Shane slid open a drawer and pulled out an iPad and a digital pencil, tapping the screen to wake it. And, as if the universe hadn’t already plucked this man directly from Ilya’s wettest dreams, he produced a pair of glasses and slipped them over the bridge of his nose, eyes squinting adorably as his vision adjusted. Fuck.

“So,” he said, glancing up at Ilya with a cutesy, crooked half-smile, “let’s talk about placement. I was surprised by your request, I guess, given it’s a bit… nontraditional.”

“You can say it is weird, Shane. Will not offend me,” Ilya cut in with a laugh, “To be honest, I lost a bet.”

Shane blinked. “Sorry, you went through the booking process for our studio, knowing my hourly minimum, and waited months for this appointment besides, and it’s just… for the bit?”

Ilya gave a sheepish shrug. “Well, um. It started that way, maybe, yes,” he explained, feeling the strangest compulsion for a degree of honesty that would smooth over the furrow between Shane’s brows, “But I… I like the idea of something on lower back, actually. Has grown on me. I think it will be kind of… sexy?”

“It will be,” Shane affirmed as if on autopilot, his eyes widening as he followed up the words with an awkward cough, “Um, but I mean, I guess typically men opt for a reverse ‘tramp stamp’ in that case. Like along the V-lines or very low stomach as a sort of visual indicator for… ah. You know.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, watching Shane turn a very interesting shade of pink. “You think lovers will not also see it from behind?”

Shane’s cheeks were on their way from peach to raspberry colored at the line of questioning. 

“No, I know they could,” he blurted, almost… defensively. His shoulders sagged, chest expanding visibly with the depth of his inhale, “Look, I’m… I’m gay, okay. Just to, like, get any discriminatory worries out of the way. You probably saw our ‘tattoos are for everyone’ disclaimer on the website. So I would never imply that anyone of any gender needs to worry about their chosen ink having… um, implications about their preferences. Unless they want them to! Or that, like, a lower back tat isn’t masculine, whatever the fuck that means anyway. It’s just… less common for men to be comfortable with that. So I wanted to double check.”

“Good to know,” Ilya said after the breathless monologue, teasing a bit now, even as his heart sang foolishly in his chest at the confirmation of Shane’s sexuality. He smiled, adding, “And I appreciate your care and advice as professional. But I think for placement, I want this ‘tramp stamp’ the usual way. Condition of the bet, yes, but also because my, ah, masculinity thinks it is hot.”

Shane’s face did something a little strange then, his mouth and neck moving jerkily like he might have gulped at the prospect.

Be respectful, Ilya, his thoughts warned, as he squeezed one hand into a fist at his side, This man will literally be holding a needle gun to your upper butt while you’re face down on that chair for two hours. And then, in spite of himself, he actively shivered at the thought.

“Okay,” Shane agreed with what sounded like renewed resolve. He glanced back down to navigate through a series of files on the tablet screen, explaining, “Let me show you some designs I had in mind based on the information you sent over in the form. And a few of my own originals too, just in case you really did mean to give me creative freedom.”

Ilya cringed a little at the mention of the booking form, remembering the request for any specific themes or artistic motifs of interest (along with hard don’t’s for the design), including a space to upload reference photos as well. He’d initially written ‘my dog Anya’ in the Do’s text box, quickly backspacing when he realized that branding himself with something puppy-themed was probably a bad idea given his involvement in kinkier spaces, and that the name alone would not be much better — the surprise of ‘ANYA’ written in an intimate place surely a recipe for upsetting future hookups too. After a strong vodka cocktail mixed from his at-home bar cart for inspiration (and okay, maybe a little bit for courage as well), he’d carried his laptop back into the living room and committed to a tipsy brainstorm, the HB Ink form left open to record all his best and worst ideas.

Do’s:

• My dog Anya [photo attached]
• The numbers 81, 1991, or 2014
• Gemini sign
• Hockey stick. Stanley Cup. Is this cringe? Slept on it, definitely cringe. DELETE.
• Russian thing? Flag? Vodka? Stereotypical, bad memories. DELETE.
• Cross necklace I always wear [photo attached]. Could be богохульство ?? Get artist’s opinion.
• Flower one like this is pretty? [photo attached]
  

Don’t’s:

• Not sure about traditional tramp stamp look that is like very dark with sharp spiky pattern?
• Bears

“Okay, so here are a handful of options with florals,” Shane’s voice narrated as he cut through Ilya’s daydreaming. He rotated the iPad so that Ilya could peer closer and gestured with his pen, “We can combine or replace any of the individual elements. Like if you wanted a peony instead of a rose. Just let me know.”

The three designs were beautiful, a combination of delicate blossoms and leafy tendrils drawn in Shane’s meticulously detailed, fine line style. Still, Ilya found his eyes drifting to the man’s tattooed arm again instead, the scales of a koi fish in stark black and crimson swimming its way up from wrist to elbow.

“Your work is very different from what you have on you,” Ilya blurted, then immediately worried that the observation might be rude.

Thankfully, Shane just huffed in amusement, and said, “Yeah, I mean, would have been a bitch to tattoo my own arm left-handed so.”

Oh, Ilya thought, feeling another zing of pleasure lick at his skin, he’s a smartass.

“But I get what you’re asking,” Shane continued, a clear enthusiasm breaking through his sort of flat affect, “I love Japanese tattoos for their boldness, but there’s also a lot of tradition associated with the practice. I’m half-Japanese, but kind of… distant from my culture in the way I was raised, so the motifs on my sleeve — all done by a Japanese artist in Toronto — are a way to reconnect.” He shrugged, gesturing at his own illustrations on the screen. “When it comes to the types of projects I’m drawn to, I prefer the fine line stuff over deep shading and stark outlines, sometimes even single needle if I want a real challenge. It’s about technique and precision for me, maybe more so than the actual illustrative design work. Though what I tattoo on other people is arguably just as much about their taste as mine.”

Ilya blinked at him, nodding carefully even though he’d processed a generous sixty-percent of that explanation at best, the passion and knowledge in Shane’s voice distracting him from the actual words.

“Anyway, sorry for rambling,” Shane said, his cheeks pinking again. He pointed back down at the screen, asking, “What do you think? Any of these speak to you?”

Ilya hummed, trying to imagine the pretty, flowery ink on his own body… thoughts drifting to flashes of sensation: thick masculine fingers grabbing at the skin there and warping the trailing leaves of the first design; thumbs pressing into the center of the roses on the second, hard enough to bruise them red and purple for days; a warm tongue laving across the burst of lilies in the third, dipping lower and lower until—

“Could I see some of your originals?” he asked instead.

Shane nodded, swiping to another tab. “I’ve been wanting to do something mythic or celestial in nature for a while, so these are inspired by those concepts. Again, we can swap elements around as you like.”

Ilya felt an immediate sense of rightness in his gut as he took in this next set of sketches. There was one in particular — a radiant sun in the center pierced clean through by a winged sword, flanked by two crescent moons and set against a dreamy, cosmic swirl of clouds littered with tiny stars — that made his breath catch in his throat. Underneath, in incongruously terrible handwriting, Shane had scribbled: Overcoming. 

“That one,” he said.

“Really?” Shane asked, looking up to flash him a gorgeous, full-toothed smile, “Good choice. That’s my favorite too.”

Ilya nodded, feeling definitive about his selection. There was… something curious rumbling in his chest at the thought of a design that was uniquely Shane’s — his favorite, even — belonging to Ilya alone, marking him up in a way no one else would be allowed to have. A thought which Ilya could admit was fucking crazy given they had literally just met. And, if he prodded at that spot under his ribs a bit more, there was something even stranger there, with the way a pleased blush had warmed his cheeks at the ‘good choice’ delivered in Shane’s even tone. With the way that being given options and asked to choose and getting it right had sparked a peculiar desire to make Shane say it again.

Ilya frowned. He had fucked countless people up to this point without uncovering some hidden praise kink, as much as that could be said for any person performing in the public eye, but being good for Shane Hollander? He shivered a little at the proposition, finding that he wanted to leave the studio with an A+ in sitting for his tattoo, and Shane’s number in his phone as a reward if he could swing it.

“Cool,” Shane replied, none the wiser to Ilya’s inner turmoil. He made a few copies of the design on the screen, pen moving rapidly, and said, “Let me print out some different sizes for you to look at and then we’ll do the stencil and get started. Sound okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, grateful that the question required a simple one-word answer. No chance he’d manage full sentences right now with the way his thoughts had been reduced to a jumbled mess of Shane’s warm smile and good, good, good.

Shane disappeared in the direction that JJ had gone earlier, returning after a few minutes with Ilya’s soon to be tramp stamp printed out in small, medium, and large dimensions. He spread them out across the top of the desk, noting, “If you go with the largest one, we could have the sword handle nestled right into your lower back line. It would stick out above your waistband in a pretty way too. Um, if you wanted the tattoo to show a little with your shirt off.”

Ilya swallowed, mouth going pathetically dry at the thought. He pretended to consider all the sizes, knowing damn well that his next words would be: “The largest one, yes.”

Shane nodded, announcing he would go create the actual stencil, and disappeared once more around the corner. Alone again, Ilya inhaled sharply, placing a hand on his stomach as if the pressure might quell the churning anxiety in his gut. So what if his tattoo artist was unexpectedly the hottest guy he’d ever seen, and also potentially unaware of his status as a professional hockey player, one who wasn’t exactly… publicly into men but very well-versed in them anyhow? And so what if he was going to touch Ilya a lot, extremely professionally of course, though it wasn’t like his body would know the difference… the constant low buzz of pain from the tattoo machine only liable to make things worse.

Ilya could grin and bear it for an hour or two, right? He was an athlete, after all, who suffered through prolonged physical discomfort, bordering on torture, on NHL ice on the regular. He could—

“You’ll need to hold up your shirt for this part.”

Fuck.

Shane was back, staring expectantly, transfer paper in hand. “Or you could take it off? Might be easier than trying to keep it out of the way while we do the stencil.”

Swallowing, Ilya slipped his shirt over his head, hesitating before placing it on a nearby chair at Shane’s nod. Still, he didn’t miss the way those dark eyes lingered on his chest and abdomen before quickly cutting away, a blazing heat there that Ilya pretended for his sanity was simply judgment for the ridiculous snarling bear on his pec. Honestly, it might have been a little of that too. With a flick of his hand, Shane motioned him over to stand by one of the client chairs, grabbing at a bottle of disinfectant spray at his station.

“Um, if you could roll your shorts down at the waistband too?” Shane asked, moving to stand behind him. They now faced a gold-trimmed standing mirror against the wall, Shane positioned over his shoulder in a way that made them fit perfectly in the full-length frame.

We look beautiful together, Ilya thought nonsensically as he slid a finger under the elastic of his running shorts and folded them over, letting them ride dangerously low on his hips.

“Just one roll should be fine,” Shane murmured, as he wet a microfiber cloth, “Going to touch you now, okay?”

Ilya’s nod was jerkier than intended, holding his breath as Shane ran a disposable razor over the area before swiping gently at his skin to disinfect it. The studio was dead silent, save the mingling of their exhales and the soft sounds of Shane’s methodical preparation.

“Do you ever play music while you tattoo?” Ilya asked, gasping with a little shimmy as Shane smoothed the gooey primer gel all over his lower back.

“Not really,” Shane said distractedly, deep in focus on his task, “but I can if you like. We installed a nice overhead speaker system last spring.” His free hand came up to grip at the divot of Ilya’s waist, voice dipping lower as he instructed, “Hold very still for this part.”

Ilya might as well have been a statue with the way he froze at the words, frowning at himself again with how desperate he was to please. Shane’s other hand palmed just above the swell of his buttocks as he applied the stencil and held firm, pressing down to transfer it evenly.

There was a pause.

“Sorry to be like… so gym bro gay about this but… what the hell is your glute routine, dude?”

The comment startled a snorting half-laugh out of him. “Oh, uh, a lot of skating,” Ilya answered honestly, wincing when he realized that would probably lead to more questions.

“Well yeah, I figured,” Shane said with a laugh of his own, surprising him, “But mine didn’t turn out like that.”

Ilya froze, then turned to look over his shoulder.

“You knew?”

Shane’s face was sheepish, if a little guilty too.

“Arguably the most famous player in the NHL? Almost won a third consecutive Stanley Cup with Boston like a month ago?” Shane replied, “Yeah, I knew.”

“Stupid Game 7,” Ilya hissed, making Shane chuckle.

Okay, so Shane wasn’t like… freaking out, at least. HB Ink had higher profile clients than NHLers all the time, from what Ilya had seen — a post from Hollywood starlet Rose Landry currently pinned to the top of their Instagram feed. And Shane had been really kind about the whole tramp stamp thing in general too, all while apparently being well aware that Ilya was meant to uphold a macho, hetero hockey bro reputation.

“Not to be creepy but when I saw your name in the forms with no artist specified, I practically fought off my co-owner JJ, who you met earlier, for the privilege,” Shane admitted, removing his hand to peel back the transfer paper. “We used to play hockey together at UNB actually. There’s a pretty solid scholarship deal if you start in the CHL and then move to a Canadian university.”

Ilya nodded, though he was largely unfamiliar with the intricacies of non-NHL Canadian hockey programs, outside of the IIHF clashes between this country and his Russian youth team in the years before he was drafted. He felt a growing warmth though, at the thought that the ‘ridiculously his type’ artist about to tattoo him apparently knew puck too. What a cruel fantasy. It was becoming more and more likely that this was a very specific dream he would soon wake up from and not the universe actually dropping the perfect man into his lap with a wink.

Curious, he asked, “How did you end up in Montreal?”

“Oh, I’m finishing my MFA in Studio Arts at Concordia.”

Out loud, Ilya queried politely, “You need a degree to do this?” 

Internally, he bemoaned: Oh god, he’s hot and athletic and talented and smart? You’re fucking doomed, Rozanov.

Shane smiled, shaking his head. “Nah, the MFA is for my love of painting. The tattoo business started out as a side hustle after JJ did a few scratcher tats out of our hockey house’s basement at university and I got horrified enough about the hygiene to suggest we rent a real studio space.” He frowned, explaining, “You don’t actually need a license or anything to tattoo in our province, unlike in the U.S. And anyway, we never really expected it to blow up, but the flexibility is nice; I can take as many clients as I like and spend the rest of my time painting.”

Shane gestured sort of vaguely toward the ceiling. “Plus, I own both this studio and the apartment above it now, so it’s extra convenient. Basically a work from home situation.”

Ilya bit back a groan, imagining Shane’s bed just a floor away. Imagining Shane in it, too.

He fought to refocus. “And the hockey? You didn’t want to go pro?”

Shane smiled wryly, their eyes meeting in the mirror again. “I was pretty good, don’t get me wrong. Captained us to back to back Memorial Cup championships actually and had some potential offers lined up for after. But I had bad luck with repeated TBIs throughout CHL play. Final straw was losing consciousness after a rough hit during a game in my third year at UNB. Fucked my spine up in a fairly serious way too.”

He paused to palm at the back of his neck, as if noting a phantom pain. Ilya knew the feeling, one rib never fitting in his chest quite right after a fracture ugly enough to puncture a lung. He breathed in sometimes and still imagined the air leaking out of him like a nail through a car tire.

Shane rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, continuing, “Took the rest of the academic year to recover fully and it was kind of terrifying, feeling all the lingering neurological effects. I decided I’d finish out my career on the ice with a free undergraduate degree at least and then figure out what non-hockey thing was next.”

“It can be scary,” Ilya agreed, “We are hurt very often in NHL and face the consequence later. You made a smart choice.” 

It was hypocritical of him to say, of course, with the number of concussions he must have played through by now, not to mention the laundry list of orthopedic injuries and dental emergencies and general wear and tear. Add to that the mental weight of his once untreated depression too, and Ilya was just another walking (for now) cautionary tale against professional hockey.

“Thanks,” Shane said, sounding genuine, “It was still hard to give it up, especially after playing my whole life basically. But my family are… pretty well off and I’ve been lucky that I can kind of explore my interests without more pressure to perform.” He laughed in obvious self deprecation. “Hence the art degree. And I also coach U12 girls hockey in the summers for a series of local camps. A former teammate of mine runs the organization with his wife. Clinics start up again next weekend.”

The image of Coach Shane in a community rink, probably wearing smart trousers and a polo or something… holding a clipboard, a whistle around his neck… Christ. Ilya started to sweat a little.

“Do you have a favorite NHL team?” he fished, trying to change the subject but too temporarily enamored to have more than his primitive Hockey Brain activate.

“Of course,” Shane said, clearly amused, “But you’re not going to like it.”

Ilya thought for a moment. “Where were you born?”

“Ottawa,” Shane replied, laughing at the way Ilya couldn’t help but turn up his nose, “but…”

“But?” Ilya echoed, raising an eyebrow and drawing out the word like Shane had.

There was the press of gloved fingertips against his shoulders as Shane stepped closer, mouth in the vicinity of Ilya’s right ear as he whispered, “Go, Voyageurs, go.”

Ilya made an instinctual noise of disgust before he could stop himself. He heard Shane giggle behind him in response, a sound he was starting to like very much. Too much, if he was honest.

“You are in Montreal, you know,” Shane said lightly, “Enemy territory. You’ve placed a lot of faith in me that I won’t tattoo something even worse back here.”

Ilya attempted to hide his wince. Voyageurs fans had a habit of burning his scarecrow effigy at the stake seemingly whenever the mood struck. Giving their rival team's captain a shitty tattoo? He could see many of them chomping at the bit for the opportunity. 

“That would be very unprofessional,” he hedged.

And then he further attempted to keep the thought of unprofessional choices from reopening his new rolodex of tattoo studio based fantasies. There was a lot of time left together, which did not bode well given that Shane hadn’t even put needle to skin yet and Ilya was already losing his metaphorical bisexual marbles.

“Only teasing,” Shane clarified, smiling sweetly, “though I would be careful showing your face around these parts.” He frowned. “And maybe don’t order any food or drink in person.”

From his vantage point in the mirror, Ilya watched Shane take a few steps back, pausing to evaluate the stencil placement, the bridge of that freckled nose wrinkling cutely under his glasses. Apparently satisfied, he reached out a gloved hand, spinning Ilya one-eighty so that he faced away from the mirror.

“Don’t move,” Shane instructed after a moment, tone gentle but firm.

Compliant under Shane’s care as if spiritually compelled, Ilya straightened into a rigid, soldier-like pose immediately, a little eagerly even, and in a way that must have been pretty transparent with the way Shane chuckled under his breath.

“Take a look,” he said, returning to pass Ilya a smaller hand mirror from his work station so he could see his back in the full-length reflection. “Tell me if the size and placement make sense. We can adjust as many times as we need to get it right. No rush.”

“Trying to trick me, charging for extra hours,” Ilya joked as he raised the mirror up, breath catching in his throat when he saw the design on his skin. Even in the rough blue-purple lines of the stencil, it was…

“Oh.”

“Not good?” Shane asked, shrinking in on himself a little.

“No, it’s…” he huffed out an incredulous laugh, “You made it look… ah, elegant. Classy, almost.”

“We can move it lower,” Shane offered. It was deadpan enough that Ilya wasn’t sure he was joking, until he winked and added, “Or flip the sword part upside down, have it come from between the cheeks.”

Ilya gasped, reaching a hand out to shove at Shane playfully. Instinctually. Like they were friends or— He yanked his arm back the moment he made contact with Shane’s firm chest, blurting out an apologetic, “Sorry, that was—”

“It’s… okay,” Shane said slowly, gaze locked on the place where Ilya’s five fingers had splayed out over his pec. “We do seem to have, um, a natural rapport I think.” 

With visible effort, he rearranged his features into something placid and friendly again, remarking, “I thought you might be a little… different, to be honest. The media has always made you seem…”

“Like an asshole?” Ilya filled in, not unkindly. At Shane’s resultant grimace, he clarified, “It’s okay, I am not offended. I was an asshole, especially when young. I did not do much to convince them otherwise.”

He held up the hand mirror again, admiring the way the handle of the sword did indeed sink beautifully into the deep contoured line of his back as Shane had described, the moon and stars and clouds of space dust swirling outward from the pierced solar centerpiece in two perfect symmetrical lines. The fact that this masterpiece would soon be on him permanently made him dizzy.

“Playboy and womanizer too, they would say, yes?” he continued, when Shane didn’t move to fill the silence. Heart in his throat, he murmured, “Though only part of the truth.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the lingering quiet, Ilya’s pulse thrumming so hard now it was in his ears. 

“And the whole truth?” Shane prompted.

Safe space, Ilya thought, and then, What’s stopping you now that the league is—

Deciding to take the leap, in a way that his PR team would surely badger him for after, Ilya offered, “Well, was not just women, anyway.”

“Fuck me!” Shane yelped, the reaction startling Ilya until he appended the exclamation with, “Ostie, I owe JJ a hundred dollars, that bastard.”

Ilya frowned. “You… bet on me?”

In return, Shane winced like he’d been struck. “Um, that sounds bad, now that I’ve unexpectedly met you in person but… yeah, years ago back at school, JJ was convinced with basically no evidence besides some like random Tumblr posts to be clear, that you were a little… fluid. We’ve kept the same silly wager going since then.”

“Just me?” Ilya asked.

“Hmm?"

“Did you only bet on me? Or was there whole list of possible queer players?”

Shane blinked. “Oh, just you.”

“Why?” Ilya probed, back to teasing now. 

Upon explanation, he found the wager between two collegiate hockey players to be amusing and mostly harmless — his own participation in a stupid bet as a fully grown adult had brought him here, after all — and he was sort of flattered that he’d been boldly bisexual enough to ping on at least someone’s radar back then. He wasn’t out via official statement or anything, but in recent seasons he’d made a much less concerted effort at hiding it… and that had resulted in an ugly ultimatum from Bears’ management and the NHL Commissioner that was going to produce some very interesting news, very shortly.

Shane was blushing again, avoiding Ilya’s eyes as he replied, “I might have had… a tiny crush. And spent a lot of time in university complaining about how impossibly straight you were, which JJ vehemently disagreed with. Though looking back I think maybe he was just being nice to his lonely gay teammate by indulging in the fantasy.”

Ilya bit his lip, hoping against all hope that the past tense description of that ‘tiny crush’ still had some future potential. “You and JJ are not…?”

Shane’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh! Oh my god, no. We’re best friends and business partners only. And I, um, I’m joking about telling him about you to be clear. It would cost me money to admit I lost.” He winked at that, expression sobering, “But also, outing someone would be shitty in general, obviously. If you need me to sign an NDA or anything I’m happy to. It’s not uncommon with our celebrity clients. A lot of people treat their private sessions like therapy.”

Ilya swallowed and shook his head in return, the concept of ‘coming out’ sort of a sore topic for him right now for reasons beyond this poor stranger’s control. His beleaguered PR team would certainly prefer he take Shane up on the NDA offer, for sure, but the thought of continuing to treat his sexuality like a dirty secret was… unappealing.

“But anyway,” Shane was saying, a hand sweeping back his dark waves, “we should get going on the part you came here for, instead of more of my awkward chatter.” He motioned to the client chair, all business again, before Ilya could protest that he would probably let Shane talk at him for the rest of his life.

“You can put your shirt back on, so you’re not uncomfortable on your stomach against the leather, but we’ll just kind of tuck it up so I have room to work,” Shane explained, sitting down on his rolling stool and beginning to prep his tattoo machine’s pen and inks.

Ilya obediently reached for his shirt and slipped it back on, careful not to let the hem hit his lower back, before maneuvering face first onto the chair and flopping with a happy sigh. Rest was sparing during the regular season and playoffs had been even more brutal, enough so that sometimes even the simple act of laying down felt like a miracle. He turned his head, resting his cheek on one arm and looking in the direction of Shane’s station, those expressive eyebrows furrowed again in concentration as he worked.

“I want to go back to the crush thing,” Ilya said, primed to be extra annoying now that they’d cleared the mutually queer air so to speak.

Shane snorted, rolling closer to him as he readied his pen, “I’m sure you do, you egomaniac.”

Gasping, Ilya protested, “You can’t treat your clients like this!”

“On the contrary,” Shane said mildly, more of his real personality clearly slipping out, “You’re getting the house special. I normally let my clients do all the talking.”

It was a well-aimed retort, the way he left Ilya fighting the urge to preen at the thought that Shane might be conversing with him, flirting a bit even, in a way that was unique. That nonexistent praise kink Ilya had mused about earlier was increasingly becoming a realistic threat.

“Well,” he sniffed, “you probably did not have most clients’ posters above your bed in dorm room so…”

Shane made an indignant sound from behind him. “I did not have a poster of you, or any other Boston Bear. Gross.”

He hummed, as if musing on a memory, and added, “I had one of Alexei Kovalev in his Voyageurs uniform though. Maybe I should hang that back up in here?”

The thought of a different Russian forward adorning Shane’s walls had Ilya gearing up for a vicious chirp, though his words were immediately, comically silenced by the press of Shane’s hand against his back and that perfect full chest leaning into his upper thighs. He all but melted into the vinyl upholstery at the contact, confused as hell by the sudden urge to be held down with greater force.

“Ready?” Shane prompted, sounding amused at Ilya’s puddling, “And remember, you can ask for a break at any time.”

“Ready,” Ilya echoed, and then, before he could stop himself, tacked on, “I am good with pain so should not need break. But thank you.”

Shane didn’t dignify that with a response, a buzzing sound filling the air instead as the tattoo machine came to life.

The first pass along his skin was electric, as he knew it would be, Ilya fighting a sigh at the way the sharp, scratching sensation immediately grounded him. Besides his terrible teenage taste, there was another core reason he’d avoided getting any larger pieces for this long: the knowledge that he harbored an addictive personality and the tendency to chase a serotonin rush past the point of marginal utility. Usually, hockey was enough to satiate the desire for heart-pumping, adrenaline-fueled action and delicious licks of pain. But the season was over and that left him extra vulnerable to the rush of sensation, worsened of course by the fact that his brain (and his not entirely disinterested dick) knew the person inflicting it was gorgeous to an unreasonable degree.

“So, tell me about the bear,” Shane said, breaking the silence after a few minutes of focused work, “I’ve seen it in your interviews sometimes obviously, but I always wondered.”

Ilya full-body cringed at the remark, sinking further into his mortification when Shane lifted the pen from his back and chastised him with a hissed ‘Ilya, no squirming.’

“It is a terrible tattoo, very rushed, with sloppy line work,” he managed after a moment, grateful for the way he could remain face down, cheeks hot with embarrassment, “Done by friend of a friend in Moscow for late birthday celebration. Mostly I say I got bear for Russia, but in truth, I was excited to be the first pick in the draft and I loved my rookie season. So really, I got it for Boston too. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Okay but that’s adorable,” Shane said, sounding shockingly genuine about it, though Ilya couldn’t see his face to confirm. Apparently satisfied with Ilya’s efforts to regain stillness, he began tattooing once more, musing, “And look, I would never comment unsolicited on another artist’s work, but since you started it… Yeah, it’s um… it’s kind of a mess. In a technical sense. But bad tattoos, or the ones we regret, still carry memories too. It meant something to you as a teenager, you know? Even if you feel like you’ve outgrown it.”

"Do you regret any of yours?"

Shane chuckled. "Um, not really. I mostly regret not getting my sleeve sooner. I researched obsessively for a long time, and kept talking myself out of it, worried about the commitment and what others would think, and like, if being tattooed even fit my personality. I was... pretty uncool, to be honest, even as a supposed jock or whatever. I think a lot of people who knew me when I was younger would be surprised by what I look like now."

"Like what? Hot?" Ilya replied before the words caught up to his brain.

The honesty only made Shane laugh again, the sound addictive to Ilya's ears. "You'd be surprised. I had kind of an ugly duckling transformation in my early twenties. The tattoos helped the confidence a lot though."

Ilya found the idea that Shane Hollander had ever been ugly extremely hard to believe, but nodded anyhow, saying, "They suit you, really."

"Thank you," Shane replied softly, patting Ilya's upper glute with his free hand as his tattoo pen traced the outline above it, "And this piece is going to suit you too. I can already tell."

Focus returning to the tiny needles thrumming into his skin, Ilya fought a groan, brain on the edge of something hazier with the whiplash of physical discomfort and embarrassment and soothing reassurance. All of it at Shane’s hands.

He knew what this was turning into, having experienced it once before with an adventurous German model in New York who had explained the word ‘shibari’ to him and then gone to town with an endless length of red rope. Never one to knock it until he tried it, Ilya had been shocked when he’d blinked back into consciousness, wrists and ankles beautifully chafed and cum drying on his stomach. She’d come in from the balcony a moment later, smelling like cigarette smoke and cooing at him condescendingly until he was hard enough to fuck her through two more of her own shuddering orgasms. It had been intense and a little bizarre. Even now, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Perhaps it had been the lack of proper aftercare, given that they’d both needed to rush out for flights at different airports, combined with her chilling indifference toward him post-coitus in general, but… Ilya had left the otherwise pleasurable experience feeling raw in a bad way. That unintentional submission had been disgustingly vulnerable, a visceral loss of control that his body rejected like a mismatched organ. He knew the visible contours of subspace intimately, as an otherwise strict dom in practice, and yet… there was always a lingering question mark. Was it possible someday? To have sex with a partner he trusted so thoroughly that he could dive off the ledge of ‘eager service top’ and descend into out of body bliss? He couldn’t imagine it permanently replacing the intoxicating head rush of an eager sub in front of him, desperate to the point of tears, but sometimes… sometimes…

“Ilya,” Shane’s voice cut through, the sound of it making his toes curl, “are you doing okay?”

“Yes,” he said, after a long moment spent wading through his soupy brain to find where his tongue connected, “Feels so good.”

No, fuck, that wasn’t—

“Oh,” Shane whispered.

Ilya could feel himself slipping further in spite of his shame, lower back stinging beautifully when Shane took a moment to wipe away the excess ink. His hips kicked at the sensation, dick rubbing against both the seam of his shorts and the chair’s leather ridges beneath him with unavoidable friction. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Shane hurried to say, probably piecing together the reason for Ilya’s worsened squirming, “Happens all the time. Everyone’s mind and, um, body react to the trauma of tattooing differently.”

Shane must have leaned in closer, or maybe the break in pain granted Ilya a moment of lucid thought, with the way his voice grew louder in Ilya’s periphery. “You’re doing so well, Ilya. This is a sensitive area. But I really need you to hold still while I finish the outline. Can you do that? For me?”

“Yes,” Ilya said quickly, his voice adopting a pitch that sounded unfamiliar to his own ears. 

Yes, yes, yes. That was all he was capable of now, with Shane’s voice seemingly everywhere and those large gloved hands radiating warmth, and the hypnotic humming of the machine lulling him back into the ether.

“Oh, you wanted music, didn’t you?” Shane asked, sounding for all the world like he was unaffected by Ilya’s pain drunk state. Maybe he was.

The pulse of lo-fi hip hop filled the air a moment later, the gentle rhythm only serving to pull Ilya in deeper. The beat seemed to sync with Shane’s movements as he moved into shading, packing the ink in with short, steady strokes. Awash with sensory overload, the transition happened without Ilya’s awareness, time nothing more than a theoretical measurement as the physical sensations faded out until there was absolutely … nothing … at all.

Ilya.

A voice again. Shane.

Ilya, hey. Need you to sit up for me.

Shane was so pretty. So nice. And someone was humming. No, purring. Delighted.

Clearer then, a body leaning over him, and the press of a hand to his cheek: “Ilya, we’re done now. Are you still with me?”

“Yes,” he said automatically, feeling out of it still, his thoughts akin to the black and white fuzz of lost signal on an old TV. There was something on his back, a clinging sensation stretched tight across the skin there. And the crinkle of paper towels tucked into his waistband. Irritating.

“Hey, no, don’t touch,” Shane instructed, grabbing Ilya’s wrist and moving his hand away, “I applied a Saniderm strip there. You’ll want to leave that on for at least eight hours, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya echoed, rolling himself up to a seated position as the room slowly came back into technicolor view. His eyes met Shane’s own and he smiled dopily.

“I think you fell asleep there for the last half.”

It was an out, and a generous one at that, but Ilya shook his head. “Not quite sleep exactly.”

Shane regarded him carefully. “No,” he agreed, ever so gentle, “maybe not.”

“How long?” Ilya asked, stretching his limbs as he rose to standing. Shane was in his orbit in an instant, a now-gloveless hand on his waist again to steady him.

“About twenty minutes,” Shane replied, not yet breaking contact, “You were mostly there for the rest of it. Answering simple questions, at least.” He awkwardly shifted his weight foot to foot, eyebrows knitted with concern as he asked, “Does that—?”

“Happen often?” Ilya supplied, feeling more and more like himself even as the sharp embarrassment flooded in, “No. Only once. And was during… well, you know.”

“I do know,” Shane said, something in his eyes shifting, “given it’s what I like. Typically.”

“Ah,” was all Ilya could say in return, his mind briefly leaving Shameland and arriving somewhere in the realm of ‘infinite universes of Shane Hollander begging on his knees.’

It must have shown on his face with the way Shane shook his head sharply, doing that Thing again, where he seemed to consciously rearrange his facial features into a placid, business-like expression. “Do you want to see the finished piece?”

Ilya nodded, the mirror placed back in his hand as he lined up in front of his full-length reflection once more. Though a bit of plasma and ink had started to seep below the bandage, Ilya could see the work for what it was: absolutely fucking masterful.

He, Ilya Rozanov, had a tramp stamp now. And a gorgeous one at that. Holy fuck.

“I love it,” he said, referencing the tattoo just as much as the feeling of Shane’s appreciative gaze tracing his body head to toe. He let his shirt fall down, fabric brushing against his lower back as the whole area pulsed with that delicious post-session heat.

“I’m glad,” Shane said, idly tidying up a bit at his station before turning toward him. “I know you’ve had tattoos done before. Do you have experience with aftercare?”

Ilya tried not to snort at the euphemism. “Yes, I remember the basics.”

Shane nodded. “Okay, great. The Saniderm makes things pretty straightforward, but you’re free to call the studio if you have any issues. If you’ll follow me back to the desk, we’ll get you checked out.”

Ilya swallowed, taking a shaky first step as he toddled across the space, heart pounding with the adrenaline of the comedown. There was a tension sparking in the air, a thread of attraction he wanted to chase, but he didn’t want to be sleazy. This was Shane’s place of work, his craft, and Ilya was grateful for the way he’d transformed a stupid bet into something meaningful on his skin. And he’d been extraordinarily professional about it too, even as Ilya had… drifted. No, it was better to leave this as a pleasant flirty memory, maybe. Unless—

Shane looked… conflicted, standing behind the desk and typing at the computer there until a price (appropriately staggering) appeared on the attached card reader screen. 

“Cash or card?” Shane asked, the neutral expression he’d fought to wear throughout their session time visibly cracking at the edges.

“Card, please,” Ilya answered, sick with the way that time appeared to be running out, “It will give me option to tip, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane replied, shifting his weight again, those tell-tale brows furrowing in thought.

And then: “It’s not just me, right?”

Oh, thank fuck.

Ilya’s hand froze on its way to the reader, card hovering in the air. Shane clearly mistook his silence for him being offended, blurting, “Ilya, sorry, I thought—”

“Let me pay, Shane,” he interjected, a bit of his own dominance cutting through.

Shane cowed, and yes, Ilya could see the potential there. Submissive and so, so pretty, he would go down beautifully. Given that opening, Ilya, in full possession of his mental faculties, would’ve had him pleading for it. Right on the desk maybe.

“What?”

“Let me pay for this,” Ilya repeated, “And after that, I am not your client anymore.”

“Oh,” Shane whispered, in the same wondrous tone as earlier, when he’d realized just how affected Ilya had been by the tattooing process.

And then something shifted once more, an almost devious smile spreading on Shane’s features as he slid the card machine forward. If clear words of mutual interest hadn’t just been exchanged, the size of the tip Ilya punched in would have been a similarly transparent declaration. The beep as the transaction completed rang out between them like a portent.

Much to Ilya’s dismay, Shane slid the reading glasses off his face, folding them and tucking them into the drawer from earlier. He took his time with all the rest too, powering off the iPad and plugging it into a nearby charger, stacking the clipboards with the standard printed forms… Everything went into the desk drawer with precise, neat dedication.

Ilya could have left at any moment then. But he hadn’t, watching Shane’s ritualistic movements with fondness, and finding that his feet were glued to the floor with the anticipation that maybe something might really happen between them after all.

“Mr. Rozanov,” Shane said lightly as he skirted the desk, eyes darkening with the full force of his arousal now on display, “Pleasure doing business with you. Enjoy the remainder of your ev—”

“Enough,” Ilya murmured, grabbing at Shane’s shirt collar with single-minded intent as he swallowed the rest of that silly goodbye with a furious, bruising kiss.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

They crashed through the door of Shane’s apartment minutes later, having barely detached their lips all the way up those damn stairs, clinging to one another like they shared one symbiotic life force.

“Need you to…” Shane was gasping against him, wriggling as Ilya spun them to press him up against the nearest wall, “Need you in me, fuck.”

Ilya choked, reaching down to palm at Shane through his faded black jeans, and feeling the stark evidence of his arousal there. “Were you hard? When you were—?”

“Fuck, of course I was,” Shane hissed back, grinding into his palm, “You know what you look like.”

“I don’t though,” Ilya remarked, peeling off Shane’s shirt and immediately getting a mouth on his neck, tongue dipping to trace where the edge of his ink began. He was thrilled to find that Shane’s sleeve did extend to cover his collarbone and all of his right pec too, a second jet black koi swimming into a waterfall surrounded by lush red blossoms. “Not when I am… out of my head like that.”

“You were gorgeous,” Shane said, moaning when Ilya latched onto a (pierced!) nipple for a moment, a hand finding its way into his curls. Testing almost, with the way his grip left room for harsher promises, he pulled Ilya’s head back up to eye level. “So eager to please. Begging for instructions. Thought you might come all over my chair each time I had to hold you down.” He swallowed. “Did you… did you enjoy the experience?”

Ilya gaped, mouth making a breathless motion, no better than the ornamental carp on Shane’s chest.

“Answer me, Ilya,” Shane said, grip tightening at the roots. He looked a little uncertain still, as if the dominance did not come entirely naturally to him, but there was a spark of delight in his eyes that made Ilya impossibly harder regardless.

“Yes,” Ilya gasped, groaning when Shane kissed him again in reward, biting at his bottom lip hard enough he thought it might bleed between them. “But… we don’t have to do… all that. I am very good at other way around. How you like it, you said.”

Shane pulled back and looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching. For the first time in his life, Ilya realized how it might feel to be the prey. He shivered in Shane’s hold and that was seemingly all it took. In an instant, Shane decided for them:

“On your knees.”

Fuck.

Ilya dropped cartoonishly quickly, like he’d been sliced at the legs, hands scrambling at Shane’s fly until he could yank down his jeans just enough to free his prize. A sizeable bulge encased in black Calvin briefs greeted him and he dove in, mouth saturating the fabric as he sucked around Shane’s clothed length.

“Jesus, Ilya, that’s—” Shane moaned, fingers in his hair once more.

After a moment, Shane’s hand slid to the back of his head, applying the same confident pressure as when he’d held Ilya down on the chair as he deposited his inks. Ilya’s nose ended up somewhere in between his shaft and balls as Shane rutted against him, hips kicking like he was humping a pillow and not Ilya’s surely bright red face. Head spinning from the lack of oxygen, Ilya felt used and euphoric in turn.

What the hell was happening to him?

Shoving Ilya away with a gasp, chest heaving, Shane bent down to tug off his jeans and soaking underwear entirely. Walking past Ilya and into the open plan living room, he stopped only briefly to palm at Ilya’s spit-slicked cheek where he kneeled, waiting and still fully clothed, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog as he panted.

Shane collapsed to a seat on the nearest couch cushion and motioned at Ilya to come over, tsking immediately when Ilya moved to stand.

“Crawl,” he said, the single-phrase instructions, plain and without embellishment, lighting Ilya’s puppy-like brain on fire.

Ilya did as he was told, the carpet burn against his knees an added bonus. He reached Shane’s feet, scooting pathetically between his legs and waiting again, finding himself eager for the next simplistic command. Shane gazed down at him, something briefly enamored on his features, before he schooled his face into a glower. It was clear that he was consulting some sort of mental script, trying on dominance like shopping for clothes, but Ilya had been so far under already today that his mind wasn’t bothered by Shane’s slight hesitation before each word.

He waited, and then:

“Suck.”

Ilya needed no further invitation, swallowing Shane down hands free in a way he knew would impress. Shane was big, bigger than a lot of men he’d taken, and typical Dom Ilya would have thrilled in teasing him about his massive, useless cock as he fucked into Shane from behind. 

Next time, maybe.

In any case, Shane was responsive in a way that betrayed his submissive preference, the rough hands in Ilya’s hair falling away to grip at the couch cushion as he babbled out a string of praises, and then one particularly funny ‘thank you, oh my god’ when Ilya took him into his throat, nosing into the wiry hair at the base. Sucking cock was blissful, mindless work and Ilya was clocked in for his shift, prepared to do overtime even, if it meant Shane would keep whining so prettily above him.

“Do you…” Shane continued to gasp through Ilya’s ministrations, fighting for coherent words, “Can I eat you out?” He coughed, voice changing as he rephrased, “I mean, I’m going to eat you out. If you want.”

The offer turned question-marked command made Ilya puff out an amused breath through his nose, jaw hinged and aching a bit to accommodate Shane’s delicious girth. Stubbornly still seeking some semblance of control, Ilya pulled off centimeter by centimeter, tongue flat against the underside of Shane’s cock as he traced the veins there. It was a mean trick, a bit of his underlying desire to tease coming through; blessedly, Shane moaned the whole way, thighs shaking beneath Ilya’s hands, and did not chastise him for it.

Mouth empty, Ilya hesitated. “I… I might like. A girl did once. But… I’m not… so clean?”

“Yeah,” Shane said dreamily in response, “Even better.”

Ilya felt his face heat up at the implication that Shane didn’t mind a bit of natural musk, was craving it even. He kept the hair down there in its natural state too, with the infrequency of … visitors, but maybe Shane wouldn’t be bothered by that either.

The next one-word command arrived just then: “Strip.”

Ilya shuddered, removing his clothes, still careful not to catch anything on the edges of his clear bandage. His back was stinging properly now, skin surely inflamed as the ink settled in the deeper layers. He bit back a particular request, doubting he could get away with begging Shane to hit him there without ruining the fresh design. Ilya knew he liked pain, yes, but this was… he wanted Shane to really hurt him. That was a first. And yet another thing to table for later, his mind already made up about finding his way to Montreal for a future appointment. He’d cover his entire body in Shane’s ink, in fact, if it meant this after.

“On the couch long ways, ass up, face down,” Shane commanded, “Let me admire my work.”

Ilya’s next words might have been in Russian, a volley of broken curses as he clambered onto the sofa and arched in the pretty way he preferred from his bottoms, hole exposed and face burning with the wrongness of the position.

Shane’s hands smoothed over each cheek, an admiring sound leaving his lips. The rough pads of two curious fingers brushed against Ilya’s rim, tapping lightly. And then, Shane swung.

Ilya jolted at the contact, a moan knocked out of him at a pitch he did not know he could reach. He’d never been spanked before, never really in the arrangement to do so, and the pleasure was visceral.

“Again,” he begged, shocked at the pure need in his tone. He was falling quickly now, at the blurry boundary between enthusiastic compliance and a true subspace he knew would leave him mindless and feral; nothing more than a tool for Shane’s pleasure alone.

Chuckling darkly, Shane complied, a cracking blow to the left side for balance. Ilya yelped, burying his face into the cushions as his dick wept heavy between his legs.

“Who else has had you like this?” Shane questioned, two more brutal smacks applied when Ilya didn’t answer in time. One hit came so close to the Saniderm patch it had him nearly sobbing. 

Fuck, where had this Shane come from?

“No one,” he cried out, voice cracking, “I’ve never—”

“Good,” Shane said, confident and firm now, as he seemed to relax into his role, “I am going to get you wet with my mouth now. Wet enough down there that I can drag my dick through it until I come on your back. Right on the pretty landing spot I made for myself today, okay?”

“Fuck, please,” Ilya gasped, head spinning so violently at the prospect of being marked he worried he might pass out.

“You’re going to hold still while I do it,” Shane warned, his breath on Ilya’s hole now as he ducked lower, “Like you should have when I was trying to do my job. Do you know how difficult you were being? How hard I had to work to keep from making a mess of your slutty little design?”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya blurted, pathetic with it, and shocking himself once more given how rarely he was moved to apologize in real life. Yet here he was now, ass in the air, wanting another man’s mouth on him so badly he was left repeating a mantra of ‘sorry’s’ like a prayer. “Sorry, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

“Good,” Shane murmured, pausing to lick a stripe from the base of his sack and upward, wetting the rim, “You like that word, don’t you? I do too.”

Ilya fought the urge to writhe back against the intrusion, that warm tongue alternating between teasing circles and fat, flattened licks. Good, good, good, his brain echoed again.

“I always thought,” Shane murmured, “in my dreams, at least, that you would be so mean to me. Call me names. Fuck me until I’m overstimulated and begging you to stop, ignoring my safe word maybe. Leaving me wrung out and full of you.”

Ilya’s muscles were aching at the effort to keep still, to stay good for him. “I can do that,” he agreed, practically sobbing the words into the cushion, “I can do that for you. Fuck you as long as you want. Longer.”

Shane hummed but it was almost condescending. “I know you can, baby. And you’re going to fuck me today too, right? Just as good? Even though we’re doing things differently?”

Baby. Shane’s baby.

Ilya nodded so hard he worried his forehead might chafe with the friction, a litany of promises spilling from his lips. Shane seemed pleased by the response, mouth back between his cheeks with renewed fervor, tongue fucking into him occasionally now, just teasing pokes past the first ring of muscle. Ilya was grateful for that, not theoretically opposed to further tongue (or fingers) in a physical sense, but still fearful of the vulnerability of the action. He could get there one day, he thought, with Shane talking him through it.

Even now, Shane had taken him somewhere entirely new — bent over and feeling so filthy it was sinful, rivulets of saliva dripping down the inside of each thigh, his untouched cock still bobbing uselessly between his legs. There was a spitting sound, another glob landing on his hole and then a different warmth there, Shane’s cock gliding through the mess just like he’d promised. Ilya arched even deeper, instinctually seeking… something. Surely not a dick inside him, but… the tip maybe, with the way he shuddered each time the head accidentally caught against his hole. Shane had a hand on each of his ass cheeks now, spreading them to make more room for his girth, his beautiful moans echoing loudly through the space.

The sensation of being taken from behind was making Ilya’s stomach clench in confusion. He’d never come close to anything like this before, thighs connecting with the backs of his own as a strong body’s warmth blanketed him from toe to cheek. His mind was doing cartwheels, turning in circles and leaping from rooftops, knowing Shane didn’t actually want to fuck him, but feeling the terrifying thrill of ‘what if?’ just the same.

“Close,” Shane muttered after another delicious stroke, tip catching at Ilya’s sopping, stretched hole again until it pushed in just the tiniest bit, no further than the tip of Shane’s tongue had gone before.

“Shane, fuck, please,” Ilya whined, needing to wring an orgasm out of Shane now. He would come himself otherwise, with the wet rub of a cock head on his most intimate area, and that was unacceptable, not good, not when he needed to fuck Shane like his life depended on it. “Come for me. On my hole, on my back, I don’t care. I—”

“Yes, Ilya, I’m— I will,” Shane cried out, hips stuttering as hot spurts of cum painted Ilya’s twitching entrance. Still coming, Shane’s hands found his waist again, pulling Ilya’s ass flush to his groin as his cock slid upward, a similar sensation of warmth coating Ilya’s stinging back where the Saniderm kept his new tattoo safe.

Head turning to shove his face back into the cushions, ass thrust high in the air, Ilya burned.

“Fuck, oh my god,” Shane said, bending back down immediately to lick at Ilya’s rim, tasting himself there.

Struck mute, Ilya was hanging on by a thread, cock throbbing as Shane’s mouth refused to let up. He was disgusting, the smear of cum across his back, across Shane’s permanent brand on him, making him feel like a true whore. The very definition of a tramp stamp. From now on, he would look at the tattoo in the mirror, would hear teammate’s teasing comments about it in the locker room, and be transported instantly back to this moment.

Ilya Rozanov, submitting. And loving it.

“Need to clean this,” Shane was murmuring above him, the couch shifting as he departed, “Still an infection risk.”

Ilya groaned, letting his knees slide out from under him until he was flat on his stomach, aching limbs stretched across the full length of the sectional.

He heard Shane’s feet padding closer once more, and then felt the gentle swipe of a moist towel across the clear barrier on his back, moaning again at the sting. He imagined a similar burn, the scratch of Shane’s fingernails across his shoulder blades as Ilya fucked into him, clawing hard enough to draw blood. Red and raw all over.

No. Just once with Shane Hollander would not be enough.

“Can you walk?” Shane asked, voice softer than the one he’d used for his commands.

Face down, Ilya shook his head, feeling bratty.

“Are you lying? Because I’m going to my bedroom now. Might open myself up without you.”

Groaning, Ilya pushed himself up to a seated position. “Stay here.”

Shane looked at him, a bemused smile on his face. “I thought you said you could fuck me, hmm? Shouldn’t I get fucked where I’m comfortable?”

Ilya blinked, feeling hazier than ever with the sweetness in Shane’s tone.

“Um. Yes.” He had already forgotten what he was agreeing to.

“Good choice,” Shane said, “Now get up. I won’t make you crawl this time. I, uh, actually didn’t think you’d do that, to be honest.”

“But I was good?” Ilya asked, words slipping out from between pouty lips. He wasn’t sure he’d ever pouted during sex before.

Shane smiled, some of his natural kindness slipping through as he agreed, “Yes, baby. So good. The best.” He palmed his cock for a moment, sinking back into his leading role to say, “Need you up now though and following me, okay?”

Ilya stood, legs wobbling and rubbed pink at the kneecaps. “I’m going to fuck you now?”

“Yes,” Shane affirmed, laughing at him openly. He grabbed Ilya’s hand, tugging him toward a door at the end of the room.

If pressed for details later, Ilya could say nothing concrete about the design of Shane Hollander’s bedroom, not when the man himself pulled him straight onto the bed and let Ilya kiss him thoroughly into the pillows. There were entirely too many, in fact, but Ilya wasn’t in the mindset to snark, blanketing Shane and licking him all over, eager and puppy-like again. He might as well have had a wagging tail behind him.

Flipping onto his stomach a moment later, Shane called over his shoulder, “Lube is in the bedside drawer on the left.”

Ilya inhaled sharply at the command and then nodded. This, he knew how to do.

“I want to ride you,” Shane murmured, sighing in delight when Ilya tossed the lube bottle aside and worked the first slick finger past his entrance. “But we can’t risk your back rubbing against anything just yet.”

“In my lap?” Ilya proposed, a second finger joining the first at Shane’s prompting.

Shane hummed. He was taking Ilya’s fingers like a champ, clearly experienced in the act, and the thought of others here before him made Ilya simmer with ridiculous jealousy. Forget them, he told himself, I’ll make Shane forget them too.

“Mm, or just like this. From behind.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, thinking that being inside Shane from any angle would be a miracle. 

He reached a touch deeper and curled up, smiling when Shane shuddered at the contact with his prostate. A series of perfect sounds, almost song-like, floated between them as Shane squirmed on his fingers.

“Stop,” Shane said abruptly, Ilya halting his hand in obedience.

After a moment, Shane exhaled sharply. “Please tell me you’ve been tested.”

Ilya sifted through recent memory, brain syrupy and slow, until, “Yes. End of season physical with team doctor. Blood work was okay.”

It was probably the wrong time to mention that the reason he hadn’t had sex in almost a month now (as was unlike him) was because he’d been so stressed about his future with the Bears that his libido had basically tanked, but luckily Shane didn’t ask any follow up questions. The world would know soon enough.

“Thank fuck,” he gasped out, clawing backward at Ilya’s thighs, “Get your dick in me right now.”

“No condom?” Ilya confirmed.

“I haven’t been fucked properly in six months,” Shane hissed, “Shitty breakup, shittier ex, don’t ask. If I don’t feel you come in me in the next twenty minutes, I’ll scream.”

Dom Ilya crept to the surface for a moment as he said, “You will scream either way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane dismissed, making Ilya laugh as he presented himself perfectly anyhow, showing off an arch with a deeper curve than Ilya had managed. 

Naturally. Show off.

He hooked an arm around Shane’s stomach, tugging him backward until he was near enough to where Ilya was kneeling on the mattress.

“In me,” Shane emphasized, a little brattier now than purely dominant, “All the way. And then don’t move until I tell you.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, his word of the evening, as he lined up and slid home, dick so achingly hard that the single stroke had him embarrassingly close. Especially as Shane keened, loud and shameless with it.

He froze as instructed, Shane’s pert buttocks pressed back against his thighs.

“Ugh, fuck,” Shane whimpered, “You’re so annoying.”

Ilya made a questioning sound.

“All the rumors about you being a sex god with a huge fucking dick,” Shane explained, collapsing onto his elbows with a groan.

“Ah,” Ilya said, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort at staying still, Shane so perfect and tight around him it was agony. He was ruined for anyone else and he hadn’t even fucked him properly yet. “Yes, the rumors are true.”

After another harrowing minute of cockwarming, Ilya shifted just slightly on accident, Shane yelping at the way he must have nudged against his prostate again.

“Out,” Shane commanded brutally.

“Wait, no, no, no,” Ilya begged, feeling tortured at the thought, “Shane, please, I did not mean—”

“Out, Ilya, or I’m finishing myself off.”

“Fuck,” he whimpered, pulling back until Shane’s puffy hole gaped around nothing. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, the cool air of the bedroom a shock against his lube-slicked skin.

“How?” Ilya whined, hands clenching at his sides, “How can you stand it?”

“Not… well,” Shane said, through what sounded like gritted teeth, “But I’ve never been given control like this. I’m going to use it. And you’re, fuck—“ he reached back, shoving two fingers inside himself as a placeholder, “you’re so hot when you’re listening.”

Something about Shane’s words pinged as wrong, and Ilya thought for a moment that maybe the shitty ex in question had not been treating Shane in bed with the fucking reverence he deserved, dominant or not.

“Shane,” Ilya replied softly, “you don’t have to fight so hard. I am giving you control. It is scary for me too. But something about us… it feels safe, yes? To try?” He shook his head, attempting to lighten the mood as he added, “Also this is like, maybe hottest day of my entire life. I will follow all of your rules until you tell me to break them.”

The silence lingered between them for a moment, Shane’s shoulders drooping on a shaky exhale.

“Fuck me,” Shane said, removing his fingers, “But don’t be nice to me right now. After, you can.”

“After, I will,” Ilya promised, filling Shane once more until he could lean forward to place a kiss on his shoulder blade.

He held still, whole body aching again with the effort, until Shane whispered a simple, “Move.”

Ilya started slow, with long rhythmic strokes that had him seeing stars, and which Shane appreciated too if his nonstop vocalizations were any indication. This whole day had been… overwhelming in the best way, the permanent memory of it burning low on his back. He hadn’t been lying, telling Shane that he felt safe here, the sex and the lead up to it so different than anything he’d known before. He was usually so focused on delivering the ideal 'Mean Dom Top' performance that sometimes his pleasure took a back seat, the fucking always fine in terms of sensation, of course, but deeply cerebral and aware. It could get exhausting to be so present all the time. To keep a willing sub safe while ignoring his own safety for most of it, the ache of dom drop always threatening. Sometimes he spent days after feeling sick with the neglect.

This, in comparison — the world narrowing to the place where his cock pistoned forward, Shane Hollander all around him — was a dream.

“Harder,” came the next instruction and Ilya was fucking thrilled to comply.

The haze at the edges of his vision crept back in, everything reduced to pure sensation alone. He didn’t need to speak: no commands to give, no degradation, not even sweet praises. Just the snap of his hips, solely focused on bringing pleasure to the man beneath him, without the theater of domming in the way.

It could have been hours or mere minutes, his orgasm building to a crescendo, just in time for:

“Stop,” Shane cried out again, the command making Ilya beg and beg in a cry of pathetic ‘please’s’, even as his stupid, obedient hips stuttered to stillness. “Ten slow strokes. Count them.”

Ilya was shaking now, his thoughts in a blender, as he slid forward and back, struggling to remember the numeric English basics in a way that embarrassed him further.

“Ten,” he whispered, his fingers trembling where they grasped weakly at Shane’s hips.

There was a long, purposeful silence during which Ilya could hear his racing heartbeat in his skull, the blood rush of lust enough to make him dizzy.

“S’mean,” he murmured, feeling desperate. Still, he did not move.

“Mean?” Shane questioned sharply, clenching down and making Ilya sob with it. “Am I not being so kind to you, baby? Letting you fuck me with this mediocre dick.” He slid back with a groan, hissing, “Do I have to do it myself, hmm? Make you wait there and take it?”

Ilya shook his head, arousal dulling any remaining sensibility or self respect. “No, it’s… it’s a good dick. Let me show you. Please, let me. Shane, I want you to feel so good.”

“Prove it,” Shane cut in, voice dripping with condescension, “Ten more.”

Ilya sobbed out a ‘thank you’ that was pitiful even to his own cotton-filled ears, vision blurring with relief as his aching cock slid home.

The drag of friction was a miracle. He counted ten of them, smiling down at the view, feeling insane with it. Shane made a little ‘uhh’ sound each time he was at his deepest, both hands clenched on the duvet, leaving himself untouched. His control was incredible, enviable even. Dom voice back in his head for a moment, Ilya thought, Breaking him will take ages.

“Faster again,” Shane instructed after Ilya’s next breathless ‘ten.’ His steady voice cracked on the words, betraying the fact that he was just as affected, thank god. “Perfect rhythm. Hard enough to hurt. I want to come now.”

His voice went icy as he added, “Do not come before me. Promise.”

“I promise,” Ilya echoed aloud, and then transformed into a man on a mission, driving his hips to an invisible beat, eager beyond measure.

The world fell away again, thoughts reduced to his metronomic movements, chasing the prize of Shane’s release — his own orgasm a far off consideration. He was being so good. The best, he hoped. Shane’s best baby. Please, please, please.

“God, yes, Ilya! Fuck, that’s—”

He felt more than he heard the pulse of Shane around him, even as he came with a near scream. He still hadn’t put a hand on his cock, Ilya remembered deliriously. Fucking hell. 

Ilya slowed and moved back, only to be nearly jumpscared by Shane clenching down, as if trapping him inside.

Oh.

“Keep. Going.” Shane hissed, sobbing with overstimulation when Ilya got an arm around his trunk and tugged him fully upright, Shane’s back pressed to Ilya’s chest as he chased his own release. He pinched one pierced nub between his fingers experimentally, making Shane squeak.

“T-too sensitive,” Shane choked out. Ilya nodded, releasing the swollen nipple but filing that tidbit away for later. For next time, if he could ensure it.

Shane reached up, hand around Ilya’s neck to pull him even closer, until they were all but melded together. He was writhing, spent dick an angry red, trying valiantly to harden again in a way that had to hurt.

“If I tell you to stop again, will you?”

Ilya wanted to cry at the thought but he nodded. His mouth moved to say ‘anything for you’ though he wasn’t confident that a single sound came out. He hoped Shane understood anyway.

“Good boy,” Shane said approvingly. The phrase came out a little funny, a little rehearsed, as if Shane had been waiting for the perfect moment to wield it, but fuck if Ilya didn’t shiver at the honor anyway.

Tears looming at his lash line, Ilya waited for the hammer to drop, knowing that leaving Shane’s perfect heat again would be torturous but that, like a good boy, he would do it anyway. Again and again. He would depart Montreal tomorrow even without an orgasm of his own, the much-needed rest of the brainless tattoo session reward enough.

It was a miracle when Shane, in fact, didn’t tell him to stop at all. Instead, he wordlessly began to fuck himself back on Ilya’s cock in earnest, making Ilya the one now to babble out his gratitude. 

“And if I tell you to come for me?” Shane prompted, “In me?”

Correction, Ilya was going to cry no matter what.

“Please,” he begged, followed by a series of possibly the most desperate noises a human male had ever made.

Shane twisted his neck, a little awkwardly, until they could lick into each other’s mouths. Ilya wasn’t sure he was reciprocating as much as he was panting and drooling onto Shane’s tongue, all his coordination focused on the snap of his hips. Pressure mounting, he felt Shane flutter around him, impossibly nearing a third orgasm — though with the way he knocked Ilya’s wandering hand away from his cock, it would be dry at best.

It was grotesque almost, this primal need; the only thing on his mind was a hypnotic gratitude for the room Shane had made inside for him. A hole so perfect and primed for Ilya’s cock that he couldn’t possibly ever desire another.

“Come,” Shane whispered, “Take what you need. Let me feel it.”

Ilya’s body went rigid, his command of the English language disappearing entirely in favor of an endless string of Russian swears. He pushed Shane back onto his hands and knees, holding his head down as he fucked into him with abandon. Three or four more strokes was all it took before he was spilling inside, feeling as if his release might be endless after Shane’s devoted tongue had brought him to the edge once before.

“Holy shit,” Shane was gasping, idly sliding back on his cock even as the cum began to drip out, making Ilya fuck it back in. There were a few French words uttered breathlessly in between, but mostly English rambling, like, “Fucking Christ, oh my god. I love this dick.”

A little less hazy post-orgasm, the proclamation made Ilya laugh, and then Shane was laughing with him. The two of them, still connected in the most intimate of ways, chose to linger in the moment a bit longer until Ilya’s cock softened completely. He pulled out with a wince, sitting back on his knees to ‘admire his work’ just as Shane had done earlier.

“Ugh,” Shane complained at the emptiness, rolling onto his back to gaze up at him. 

Ilya knew he must look stupid from Shane’s point of view, grinning like a doofus and completely entranced by the man spread eagle across the duvet, leaking his cum, chest still heaving with breaths of exertion. A man for whom he’d literally crawled on his knees for the honor of fucking. And god, had it been worth it.

“Clean us up, please,” Shane murmured, unmoving, with a fucked out smile on his face, “Washcloths are in the bathroom.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, ignoring the request in favor of falling forward to collapse on top of Shane with his full body weight. “I am not a full time sub, you brat. This was a special occasion.”

Shane wriggled, looking thrilled by the shift in Ilya’s demeanor even as he said, “In bed, maybe. But I think you like the soft stuff after. Taking care of people.”

Ilya wrinkled his nose, breaking their eye contact to hide his surprise at being read so easily. In truth, yes, he did like the aftercare, in more than just a responsible Dom way; with his rushed DL hookups, there often wasn’t time (or desire from his partner) to do it right.

Grumbling, he slithered down the duvet and padded over to the en-suite bathroom, waiting for the faucet’s water to warm before he dipped a towel under the spray. Returning to the bed, he settled between Shane’s legs, bending both at the knee until Shane’s abused hole was back in view.

“Took me so well,” he murmured, wiping gently at the sensitive area, and then up and around Shane’s soft cock and stomach too.

“Fucked me perfectly,” Shane replied dreamily, letting out sweet huffs as Ilya cared for him.

Cleaning himself and then tossing the cloth in the direction of Shane’s laundry basket to deal with later, Ilya climbed back into the bed, avoiding the wet spot with a wrinkle of his nose. Looking over at Shane, he was suddenly hit with a paralyzing uncertainty. He wanted to cuddle up, to stay longer, and yet, what if Shane didn’t—

“Come here, please,” Shane whispered, before Ilya could even begin to overthink it, “Today is an exception to our usual hookups, right?”

Ilya preened at the phrasing, even though he knew that by ‘our’ Shane meant the sex they were having with other people, with their conventional dynamics intact. Which, ugh, for Ilya at least would feel bland in comparison to the gorgeous, insatiable tattoo artist he’d spent the afternoon with.

“You can be my little spoon,” Shane announced, slipping under the covers and spreading his arms magnanimously, "Something tells me you need it. But when we wake up in the morning, I want those big hands wrapped around me, around my throat maybe, and I want you fucking me mean, okay?”

“In the morning?” Ilya questioned, heart singing.

It was Shane’s turn to look unsure of himself and Ilya hated it immediately, hated himself too for making Shane doubt the request at all. 

“Um, well. I thought you might… want to stay?” Shane murmured, “But actually I never asked how long you’re in Montreal. Or if like, staying is a thing you even do, after a hookup or whatever. I know you prefer... casual.”

Ilya frowned, scooting forward to tuck himself into Shane’s arms. It was, as Shane had predicted, distressingly wonderful to be held. To feel sort of small for once.

“I will stay, of course,” he said, rotating to press his face into Shane’s tattooed pec. The desire to tongue at the metal bar through his nipple, to suckle at it in perverse comfort even, was overwhelming. He fought the urge, knowing they both needed a break. “But. My flight is tomorrow morning.”

Shane sniffed, pulling him in tighter. “I only just found you.”

It was raw and honest and squeezed at Ilya’s heart in the worst way. He hadn’t wanted to leave earlier when they’d finished the tattoo, already so spacey and in need of Shane’s attention, and he certainly didn’t want to leave now, after all they’d shared. Or tomorrow morning. Or ever.

“I am in Montreal, sometimes, for games,” he said gingerly, not wanting to come across as too intense with how not-casual he felt about whatever this could turn into between them.

“Just a few,” Shane replied sadly, Ilya remembering that of course he would know the general NHL schedule, “but I’ll take it.”

“Maybe I will book more tattoos for in between,” Ilya offered, “A whole suit.”

“Not that,” Shane teased, shoving at him, “you’re way too squirmy for my chair. Terrible client.”

“Favorite client,” Ilya corrected automatically, then cringed, wondering if that was too presumptuous.

Shane kissed his hair, grinning when Ilya tilted his head up and prompted a peck on the lips too. “At least top three.”

Ilya scoffed, primed for a snarky retort, when his stomach grumbled loudly between them. They both giggled, Shane already reaching for his phone on the nightstand to pull up a delivery app. As they bickered good-naturedly over cuisine options, settling on a hole-in-the-wall Korean fried chicken spot that Shane swore by, Ilya could sense his classic doubts beginning to creep in.

This felt like a good thing, he thought, fingers finding the gold crucifix where it sat as always in the hollow of his throat. A sign, maybe, given the way he was about to blow up his hockey career for a chance at truer happiness in the sport. Showing up as himself completely, on the ice and off, for the first time.

But good things didn’t really happen to Ilya. Outside of hockey stuff, maybe. And Shane didn’t know him well enough to know that he was a good fuck but — as far as past reviewers were concerned — a terrible boyfriend.

Speaking of.

“Your ex.”

It was Shane’s turn to burrow against him, nosing into his neck with a groan. “Ugh, sorry. I know it’s cringe to bring up someone else during sex.”

Ilya hummed. “No, it’s okay, I was just… surprised. You said he was shitty. And it kind of seemed like… I don’t know.”

Shane nosed at him again. “No, what? You can say it.”

Ilya shifted, searching for the right words to express his concern. “You seemed worried, maybe. That I wouldn’t listen to you, when you wanted me to… stop.”

Shane froze for a moment and then inhaled shakily, going boneless against Ilya with a long, drawn out sigh. “I love subspace. Enough so that I would ask to be soft-dommed even in non-sexual contexts. But I get so… out of it, when it’s good. Like can’t speak, dissociated, fully gone. And… I don’t know… I felt like he liked me best like that sometimes. As a plaything. And that maybe… he took advantage.”

Ilya felt his blood begin to boil, barely biting back a furious interjection as Shane continued, “We talked a lot beforehand. About consent. And the things I would be willing to do even if I couldn’t verbally agree to them. But I don’t think I ever really trusted him enough to not feel a little… unsafe at times. And I think he liked me more as a sub than, um, as Shane anyway.”

He sniffled, voice cracking a little. “I… after we broke up about a year ago, I kind of went full slutty revenge tour. Tried to dom a bunch of Grindr twinks as some kind of reclamation of identity I guess. Topped sometimes even, which… ugh, I just… wasn’t into it at all. Made me feel worse. And then, half the time he had me crawling back to him for one night to clear my head. Six months ago I finally snapped and just blocked him on everything. But by then I was too freaked out to have sex in general. I’ve kind of been… in a dry spell, since then.”

“Full name and address,” Ilya threatened, only half-jokingly, “I will make some calls.”

“Ilya, no,” Shane said, though he drew him into a pleased kiss just the same, their mouths moving gently together with no promise of restarting more.

As they parted, Shane remarked, voice lighter, “Despite the celibacy, I think I was going to try to fuck you no matter what, if you showed interest. Like the Ilya Rozanov, my dream guy, in my tattoo shop? I was ready to make a fool of myself shooting my shot.”

“Were you disappointed?” Ilya wondered aloud, “When I got… floaty? I am not like that usually, I promise. Pain is just… a trigger for me.”

Shane shook his head aggressively at that. “No, oh my god, you were perfect. I… if you had tried to dom me, even if I asked for it at first, I probably would have freaked out in the end. With the brief hints of your dominance during, um... all that, I can already tell you’ll give me exactly what I crave in submission, for next time. But it was nice to feel balanced, to ask you for things and get exactly what I wanted in return. I needed that. To ease back in.”

Next time, Ilya thought, fighting an ecstatic wriggle.

“Just like I needed to give up control for once, to get out of my head,” he agreed, voice softening, “I, um, also had not good experience, just once. With being in subspace when I did not expect. It made me feel vulnerable in a bad way. After that, I avoided the risk of it again, even if I was… curious.”

Shane kissed his forehead, whispering, “Sounds like we came across one another at the perfect moment then. I don’t really believe in like, destiny, or whatever, but… this was some incredible luck. And crisse, some incredible sex too.”

Ilya’s gaze went gooey, knowing the way he stared back up at Shane with open adoration was probably betraying more than he meant to. He bit his lip, deciding not to let Shane know just yet how much he did believe in fate and soulmates and all those other silly clichés — his superstitious hockey player side making him somewhat of a secretly hopeless romantic too.

“Food will be here soon,” Shane said, glancing at his phone before kissing Ilya again deeply. “Should we get dressed?”

Ilya snuggled further into him, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Shane murmured, sounding fond.

They luxuriated in the companionable silence for a while until, feeling vulnerable and a little shaky still, Ilya whispered, “It was good, right? I was good?”

Shane froze.

“Baby,” he whispered after a moment, “You were amazing. Best ever, actually. And I haven’t even submitted for you yet.”

Ilya shivered at the thought, knowing that a subby Shane would ruin him in even more ways than he had tonight.

But there was another pressing matter to address: “I like ‘baby.’ No one has ever called me this.”

“A shame,” Shane replied, cooing, “My big, handsome baby.”

It should have embarrassed him or made him cringe, but instead, he felt warmed from head to toe. Held tightly in Shane’s arms, for the first time in a long time, Ilya let himself smile.

“What do you like to be called?”

Shane hummed. “Something in Russian, please.”

Ilya complied, throwing out a whole string of endearments, Shane kissing him between each one.

God, they were disgusting.

“But in the morning, like I said,” Shane whispered, eyes darkening as they met Ilya’s own, “I want you to call me some not very nice things instead.”

“Eager slut,” Ilya tried, shaking off the last vestiges of his earlier submission, “So demanding.”

Shane wriggled against him happily. “Yeah,” he sighed out, “Just like that.”

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Ilya didn’t want to leave.

Sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, he hovered in Shane’s hallway as they said their awkward goodbyes.

He felt… heartbroken. Which was stupid.

Less than twenty-four hours of Shane Hollander was not enough time to fall in love with the man, not long enough to form any sort of attachment at all. And yet.

Shane, for his part, didn’t look much better, frowning as he twisted his hands into Ilya’s shirt to tug him in for another kiss. They’d spent a solid ten minutes lingering like this, a goodbye and then another desperate touch. Rinse and repeat.

Ilya glanced at his watch and knew he couldn’t put this off any longer, needing to get back to his hotel to grab his things before his upcoming flight. Already he was cutting it close, with the way Shane had convinced him to stay for breakfast, followed by morning sex so simultaneously vicious and tender it had scared him a bit.

‘I can’t wait to mark this up for real,’ Shane had whispered from his place on his knees, placing kisses around the edges of the Saniderm bandage as he cleaned the area and applied a fresh patch for Ilya to wear over the next few days.

Ilya had turned around, blindingly hard from the brief touches alone, and let Shane tear his world apart once more with the most eager, technically perfect blowjob he’d ever received. True to his word, Shane was a brilliant sub, begging Ilya to alternate fucking his throat with sharp slaps across the face. And then, well, with the way he’d asked to be fucked afterward… the bruising would be hard to hide. On both of them.

Either way you sliced their dynamic, the pure chemistry between them was magic, and Ilya felt sick at the prospect of leaving this doorway and losing it forever somehow. Of course, they had promised to see each other the next time Ilya was in Montreal, and he had both Shane’s phone number and a mutual follow from his personal Instagram (full of shirtless gym progress photos Ilya was going to moon over later), and yet…

“Leave a nice review, please,” Shane joked, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. “And send me some healed pictures of your tattoo in a few weeks. I want them for my portfolio on the website.”

“You want them for your spank bank,” Ilya teased back.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed, grinning smugly, “but you can make the ones just for me a lot less discreet.”

Phone pinging with the notification that his driver had arrived, Ilya felt another wave of nausea crash through him. “Shane, I…”

“I know,” Shane whispered back. It was maybe a trick of the light, the way his eyes were glistening. “Me too.” He leaned in to kiss Ilya one last time, adding, “Have a safe flight home.”

Home. Boston. Ilya wanted to laugh.

“Bye,” he murmured, and then turned to leave, fighting the urge to look back to see if Shane was still looking. Halfway down the stairs, he heard the door click shut behind him, and felt his heart splinter.

This is insane. You don’t even know him.

He pressed a hand to the burn at his lower back. But you carry him with you forever now.

Pushing open the front door, Ilya froze on the step, his grip still on the handle. He knew it would likely lock automatically if he let go. And what that might mean if it did.

He could see his Uber idling at the curb. The car that would take him back to his real life. Lonelier now with the way Boston had abandoned him, with the way his teammates — his friends — would soon know that their captain had abandoned them in return.

Like his bear tattoo, Ilya’s ink always meant a little more than he was willing to admit out loud. The stupid tramp stamp was for the memory of Cliff and his best Boston boys too. The casino night had felt like a last hurrah, even as Ilya’s future in the sport had been painfully uncertain at the time; a celebration of all their brilliant years together the night after his inner world had come crashing down in a single blackmailed threat. Neither his team leadership nor the NHL's top brass had considered him a victim, painting the existence of a 'gay' sex tape as carelessness on his part, unconcerned for the role his jilted former hookup had played in bringing the recording to the league's attention. He just… he couldn’t put hockey over everything anymore. Not when hockey didn't care about him.

The driver honked, startling Ilya, and he felt his grip on the handle begin to slip.

Ilya was going to come out. Publicly. Two days from now. In a desperate attempt at getting ahead of the fallout that the video somehow still leaking might cause (the leaker cowed into suitable terror by the combined squadron of Ilya's personal attorneys and the NHL's vicious PR team). Coming out anyway was the part that the NHL disagreed with, to put it mildly, with the Bears unable to guarantee their support either. Anyway, the press release was already drafted, the plans for after all set in motion… The Canadian visa approved.

Yet here was, walking away from the sort of hope he’d been torturing himself over for the better part of a decade. Between Russia and his late father and the league itself, a future with a man was impossible, and so Ilya had been very, very careful not to fall in love with one.

There was another honk.

Ilya let go. Door swinging shut as if in poetic slow motion and then—

“Fuck me,” he hissed, shoving a foot back against the frame to block it closing. He whipped his phone out of his pocket, wincing at the last minute ride cancellation fee.

And then, like a total idiot, Ilya ran back up the stairs.

Chest heaving, he banged on the door, knocking as if his life depended on it.

“I’m getting traded,” he blurted, the moment Shane opened the door again, confusion visible all over his perfect, freckled face.

“Ilya? What?”

“To the Centaurs,” he explained, breathless with it, “I’m— it hasn’t been announced yet, so please don’t say anything.”

Shane’s brows were still furrowed. “I— Why are you telling me this?”

Ilya opened his mouth, words flying out in desperation, “I’d like to see you again. For a date, maybe. And that would sound a little crazy if I were staying in Boston. This is still crazy, I am realizing, by look on your face but um, Ottawa is… closer. And I'm going to come out there. They know.”

Shane’s eyebrows smoothed over but still, his expression betrayed nothing, suddenly unreadable.

“Come here and sit down,” Shane said, walking over to the living room couch and patting the cushion next to him.

Ilya followed.

Ilya sat.

Arms folded in his lap and gaze at his knees. Obedient as he’d been last night.

When he dared to raise his head, Shane was smiling.

“Baby,” Shane instructed, voice warm and indulgent, “Cancel your flight.”

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