Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Dom Ilya Rozanov, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Tattoo Artist Shane Hollander, Tattoos, Shane Hollander has tattoos, Shane Hollander Has a Pain Kink, Impact Play, Caning, Subspace, Shane Hollander in Subspace, Oral Sex, Come Marking, Face Slapping, Mentioned Sub Top Ilya Rozanov, Mentioned Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Two Crazy People In Love (Good Luck Everybody Else!)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of HB Ink

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-07 Words: 14,497 Chapters: 1/1

lick it from my wrist

Summary

Four months ago, when Shane Hollander agreed to tattoo a tramp stamp on Boston’s star center, Ilya Rozanov, he certainly wasn’t expecting to get an almost-boyfriend out of the ordeal.

Good thing Ottawa is just a short drive.

Notes

Welcome all to 'proof I can be effectively pressured into writing a follow-up to what was very much an isolated oneshot for a kink fest by adding even more crazy lovin and such' 🖤

There is vaguely plot here, if you squint, but mainly an excuse to write some vignettes across seven days of Tattoo Artist Shane and Tramp Stamp Ilya in Ottawa doing their thing. And each other. Which is the part you're back for, I think.

Speaking of Ottawa, I've mostly kept the player moves to the Centaurs in their canon timeline (though I have Ilya and Coach Wiebe arriving together for Reasons), so alas emo lover boy Troy and tiny queer child Luca are not yet around to witness the horrors of Loved Up Freak4Freak Hollanov. But trust that in the following season of this universe they very much do. Bless their hearts.

And finally, a huge neon finger pointing sign to this inspired-by-the-fic rendering of a Tattoo Artist Shane even cooler than mine (the septum ring is a sick touch). Which reminds me that you should very much read the first installment in this series for a clue at what goes on this time around.

Title is from 'Raw' by Chloe Moriondo.

Enjoy, baby!

wishbone, exposed
going where the tide goes

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 21st

There were flowers at the front door.

Two full pots of red garden mums framed the pillared entrance to the multi-story brick home, each accompanied by a Jack-o-Lantern at its base, one sporting the standard triangle eyes and toothy grin with the fabulous addition of a tiara perched on the lid, and the other carved with a jagged approximation of what Shane thought might be the Centaurs’ logo.

Shane smiled at the pumpkins as he locked his car in the driveway and approached the little porch, feeling his heart warm in his chest at the festive decor. A gift from Ilya’s hockey-obsessed neighbors, no doubt; their two daughters, ages 4 and 6, remained convinced that Ilya was long lost royalty after first watching Anastasia just in time for a princely Russian to move in next door. If Ilya’s texts were to be believed, his flamboyant ‘Bartok’ impression had been a smash hit ever since.

And speaking of texts, they’d been exchanging them sort of relentlessly since Ilya had left Shane’s studio in July an entire three days later than planned. Three impossible days of the filthiest marathon sex of Shane’s life, in fact, with a man who’d once been nothing more than a distant fantasy. The Boston Bears’ captain had entered his shop as the NHL’s most notorious philanderer and a hot-headed menace on the ice besides (though even his detractors could admit that Ilya Rozanov’s hockey never seemed to suffer in spite of the messy reputation he’d cultivated over the years). Shane had blurted out to Ilya back then — plagued with a compulsive degree of honesty from childhood — how surprised he was to find that the fearsome Rozanov was actually quite polite… almost sweet, even… especially in light of the whole ‘tramp stamp’ set up being the result of a bro-y bet of all things. Hand pressed to the small of Ilya’s back, he’d been shocked further by the quiet admission of bisexuality that followed, Shane’s neurons mapping a new pathway to the thought that there was a chance, infinitesimal but real, of attracting the man’s attention.

Crudely put, Shane had been a hungry bottom on a mission after that, thoughts stuck in a loop as he silently rehearsed the flirty lead up to an oh-so-casual request for Ilya’s Instagram that he would make at the end of their session. But then, ah… the session hadn’t gone exactly as planned anyhow, that whispered ‘feels so good’ cluing Shane into the fact that somehow he was the one with the upper hand. Half out of his mind, Ilya had squirmed under his pen, needing a forceful pressure to still him as he huffed out breathy moans, Shane’s body weight folded over the backs of those massive thighs and that glorious, completely unfair ass as he worked. It had been the most delicious sort of torture, making Shane fight through every moment to maintain the professionalism that he prided himself on, even as his hardening cock rubbed shamefully against the zipper of his jeans.

Still, the dizzying pleasure from that bundle of needles was not unfamiliar to him, and so Shane had hesitated, wondering if Ilya’s floatiness was a mere byproduct of sensation rather than anything to do with Shane himself. In the end, he’d been silly to worry about the lack of reciprocation, the simmering tension between them becoming by then too obvious to ignore. Shane touched his lips with the pads of two fingers, smiling giddily at the memory of a pain-drunk Ilya Rozanov kissing him quiet against the desk, and then all the way up the stairs, and then a whole lot more after that.

Having a big, beautiful man on his knees, crawling for the honor of fucking him, had been a glorious moment of reclamation for Shane, especially after— well, after the uncomfortable sex he’d been having with The Ex-Boyfriend Everyone Hated anyway. He’d badly needed to feel the freedom and joy and silliness in intimacy again and Ilya had given it to him in spades. With ease, with pleasure even.

Three days of pure orgasmic bliss and then… Shane, reawakened, was left starving.

Their constant sexting and horny video calls had barely scratched the itch after months apart (Rozanov’s Big Announcement and subsequent international move taking precedent), and Shane felt himself shiver at the thought of Ilya’s touch all over him again as he reached the front door, hand raised and poised to announce his arrival. His knuckles had barely tapped the glass before there was a resonant ‘Yip!’ and the furious click-clack scramble of nails against hardwood. Ilya’s voice echoed after (‘Anya, не надо. Guest!’) in a decidedly higher and sweeter timber than typical, making Shane smile.

There was the sound of heavier human footsteps and then the door swung open to reveal the man himself, clad in gray joggers and a baggy black Centaurs hoodie Shane immediately felt the urge to steal, those dirty blond curls a little longer than they’d last been in person, and a few days’ worth of stubble along his jawline and upper lip that would feel like a miracle between Shane’s thighs. Meeting warm hazel eyes, Shane felt every cell in his body sing with relief. Fuck, finally.

“Shane,” Ilya breathed out, “Hello.”

“Ilya,” he replied, a palpable hunger to the word.

As if powering on a super magnet, they crashed together with desperate violence, a clinging, all-consuming embrace that softened as their mouths found one another. Shane sank into the kiss with gratitude, tasting bitter black espresso and a hint of smoke that made him frown (‘Only when I am needing to calm down!’ Ilya had sworn to him back in July, distractingly naked as he’d dangled a lit cigarette from Shane’s open bedroom window). He made a mental note to nag about it later.

Ilya’s tongue was just beginning to trace the seam of Shane’s lips when another insistent ‘Yip!’ rang out through the foyer. A fluffy body wedged itself between their legs, forcing them apart with a gasp of laughter.

“Anya!” Ilya chastised, the medium-sized brown and white collie mix making a noise that could only be described as a huff in response. The attitude didn’t stop there, Anya turning her preternatural blue eyes on Shane to regard him with clear suspicion. He took a careful step forward and slipped off his shoes at the entrance, watching her gaze follow each movement intently.

“Hello, Anya,” Shane greeted, crouching down and thrusting out a hand for her sniffing approval, as was polite canine custom.

Granted, Anya did look toward his proffered fingers with at least some degree of consideration, before turning up her nose and winding herself in reverse between Ilya’s legs, almost cat-like in her disdain. Ilya reached down to scritch-scritch between her floppy triangle-shaped ears, mumbling something in Russian that sounded a lot like a plea to behave.

“She is just… shy,” Ilya explained, motioning their little group inside so he could tug the front door shut behind them, “And men make her nervous.”

Shane snorted. Well they both had that in common, at least.

“Anya, I brought you something,” he persisted, sliding his overnight duffle off his shoulder and unzipping a side pocket to reveal the bag of organic, allergen-free, raw protein treats. One of the few Ilya-approved brands for Anya’s diet, they had cost Shane a small fortune at his local pet store. But he was nothing if not committed to making a good first impression on everyone in Ilya’s life during this trip, spoiled rotten pets included.

Anya visibly perked up a bit at the sound of the crinkling bag, nose twitching when Shane tore it open to let the smell waft between them. His eyes found Ilya’s for a moment, a matching puppy-like eagerness there, clearly hoping for his dog and his… er, Shane… to get along.

“If I give the command to sit,” Shane teased, watching Anya tilt her head at the familiar word, “which one of you will listen first?”

Ilya visibly bit back a laugh, sticking out his tongue once he’d swallowed the amusement. “Ah, he is comedian,” he replied drolly, “So funny. And so brave, for someone who was in charge one time only.”

Sliding a treat in Anya’s direction across the hardwood floor — certain she wouldn’t yet be interested in taking one from his hand — Shane looked up and said, “I missed you.”

It was almost comical the way Ilya melted instantly at the words, tugging Shane back to standing, duffel bag forgotten, and spinning him up against the nearest wall to reattach their mouths. The crunching sound of Anya enjoying her treat while her owner ravished Shane in the entryway made him smile. Little snippets of a life he could have one day, maybe. A partner and a dog. Somewhere shared to come home to.

Tugging the buttoned collar of Shane’s henley open, Ilya’s lips dipped below the hollow of his throat to trace the inked ledge of his collarbone, as if following the waterfall design from its source. Shane purred, remembering how obsessed Ilya had been with the sleeve during his stay at the studio, long moments spent cuddled up as that familiar tongue laved each individual scale of the koi fish with an attentiveness that bordered on reverence.

“I missed you from the moment I left,” Ilya murmured.

“I know,” Shane teased back, moaning when Ilya’s teeth next grazed an ear lobe, biting carefully to avoid the silver hoops there, “It took you two tries to actually leave.”

Ilya laughed openly this time, a warm sort of chuckle that lit Shane up with pleasure head-to-toe.

He leaned back, meeting Shane’s eyes. “Your drive was okay?”

Shane smiled. “Yes, Ilya. I do it often, remember?”

A nod. “So you are not too tired? You can rest if you need. We have a few hours before dinner reservation we talked about.” He shifted his weight, looking nervous. “Which we do not have to do if—”

“Ilya,” Shane cut in, endeared by how those stiff broad shoulders relaxed immediately, Ilya leaning forward again until his forehead was pressed to Shane’s chest. “I still want to meet your teammates, I promise. It’s… a little intimidating. But this was a big change for you. I’m going to keep supporting that however I can.”

Ilya sighed out a breath, lifting his head. “Okay. But sorry if they seem too excited. They keep teasing that my boyfriend is much cooler than me. Out of my league.” He pecked Shane on the nose, grinning, a thumb swiping at Shane’s fading summer freckles. “I cannot argue with this.”

Shane rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting a very unseemly squeal. “Boyfriend, hmm?”

They hadn’t talked about it.

Ilya froze. Then cursed under his breath in Russian and English in turn. Taking a step back, both hands sliding into the pockets of his sweats, he shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “Ah, well. I was meaning to ask after dinner, with candles and champagne and little bow tie for Anya but…”

Anya stood at the sound of her name, treat finished, and padded over to stand on Ilya’s left, angled just slightly in front of him like an adorable four-legged bodyguard. Shane swallowed at the vision, thoughts circling back again to the idea of arriving home all the time to this very same sight. Barely fourth months in and boyfriend was maybe the gentlest term for how intensely he felt about this ridiculous man.

“Hmm, I don’t know. What does being the boyfriend of a big NHL star entail?” Shane ventured lightly, “Fancy cars? Luxury vacations? A designer WAG jacket?”

Taking a page from Shane’s book, Ilya appeared to interpret the question literally. “I will buy you cars, of course, or you can borrow one of mine? Though I have been under impression you favor a boring, safe vehicle.” He drifted closer once more, a hand sneaking around Shane’s waist. “Trips anywhere you like, but we will have to wait for summer break I think. And the jacket?” He hummed in consideration. “You might need to give me one more season, солнышко. You know the Centaurs are—”

“Terrible?” Shane interjected, making his boyfriend shove at him in half-hearted offense. He warmed at the word, knowing he would put Ilya out of his misery soon enough.

“Rebuilding,” Ilya corrected primly, reaching up to twirl one frayed hoodie string.

He looked a little worried still, which would not do, Shane grabbing that fiddly hand and tugging it down to his waist to join the other. After a moment, Ilya got the hint and pulled him forward until they were aligned almost head to toe.

Chin tilted up and eyes blown wide in the innocent, pleading way that was very good at getting him what he wanted, Shane simpered, “And do boyfriends get to share a bed when they visit each other?”

The lingering concern on Ilya’s face cleared like a passing storm, expression darkening with interest instead.

“I am a gentleman, Mr. Hollander,” he replied, adopting an almost lofty Victorian cadence, “I had prepared a separate room for my guest.”

Shane grinned.

(The role play thing had started as nothing more than a silly transition on their Zoom calls, neither of them wanting to jump straight into sex every time they logged on, prone to increasingly deeper conversations about their jobs and their families and everything in between. Still, Shane had the sense that they both liked the games anyway; last week’s scene featuring Ilya as his rival college hockey captain had felt particularly inspired. Or the recurrent setup where Shane was an art museum docent and Ilya the gallery’s wealthy benefactor, which mostly devolved into Shane yammering on about paintings while Ilya jerked off and called him a ‘hot nerd’ every time he said a word with more than three syllables.)

“A pity,” Shane murmured, waving a flippant hand, “I had hoped my new thigh tattoo would be enough to lead a gentleman like my boyfriend into premarital temptation.”

Ilya perked up at the surprise of new ink, dropping the act with a light growl as his hands slid from waist to ass, palming forcefully. “Is it bad manners to fuck you before the house tour?”

Shane shook his head quickly. “Much, much ruder to keep me waiting after all this time, I think.”

“Anya, bed!” Ilya instructed and Shane watched as the collie trotted obediently over to a circular dog bed near the boundary between foyer and living area, curling up with another light huff.

“She probably will not stay put forever,” Ilya explained, hands scooping under Shane’s thighs to lift him up, “But it will buy us some time.”

Doing a little jump to help, Shane felt his heart sing as the NHL’s Ilya Rozanov carried all six feet of him with ease, pressing kisses to the side of his face before plopping him down on the longer chaise side of the sprawling living room sectional. The journey had been relatively short, which made Shane giggle and accuse Ilya of just wanting to show off. His teasing backfired almost immediately, of course; removing his hoodie to reveal a basic tank top underneath, Ilya flexed his biceps in response in a way that was meant to be all goofy bravado but had Shane swallowing at the view instead. Pouncing, Shane had both of their remaining shirts off so quickly it might have qualified as sleight of hand.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Ilya asked after a long moment spent fondling Shane’s pecs, nipples now aching around the metal bars there.

The question made Shane chuckle given the way Ilya was already sliding to his knees on the carpet, clearly on a self-guided mission of his own. After months of awkward camera angles, the sight of Ilya Rozanov, his boyfriend, peering up at him in person was intoxicating.

“Your mouth,” Shane affirmed, legs parting.

He lifted his hips up as Ilya made quick work of his jeans, tugging them down past the swell of his ass and over his socked feet before tossing them aside. There was a sharp intake of breath and then a long pause, lengthy enough to make Shane wriggle with impatience.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispered eventually, fingers splayed over Shane’s knee. His eyes locked on the black serpent that started high on the hip bone and snaked its way down the side of Shane’s thigh, red blossoms in each of its many coils. “Can I…?”

Shane nodded, murmuring, “It’s fully healed as of a week ago. Was careful with my timing.”

Ilya’s hand rose up to palm at the design, a litany of compliments on his lips before he was pressing his mouth to the snake’s tail and tracing slowly upward. Shane moaned, fighting the urge to squeeze his thighs back together at the overwhelming sensation, Ilya’s tongue drawing ever closer to the elastic edge of his briefs. He was embarrassingly wet already, had been maybe since Ilya opened the door, though he felt better about a first round quickie knowing that they had a whole week together this time. A three-game stretch at home against Seattle, New York, and then Edmonton would keep Ilya blessedly rooted in one place — a rarity during the regular season — with Shane having boldly staked his claim on every free moment he was off the ice.

(“Of course all my time is yours, малыш,” Ilya had affirmed, voice syrupy with affection across the phone line as they’d finalized the logistics of his late-October visit. “Who else would I want to see more?”)

The curl of fingers tucking into his waistband brought Shane back to the present moment, another series of breathy moans leaving him at the first pass of Ilya’s mouth along his exposed shaft. The feeling was half pleasure and half pure fucking relief, Shane’s toes curling into the carpet as Ilya began sucking him off in earnest. He’d had his toys and that melodic Russian voice in his ear talking him through damn near every orgasm since July, and yet nothing could compare to this. No one could.

“You will not come from this,” Ilya instructed, pulling off just as Shane had started to squirm in earnest. He slapped each thigh once, twice in ‘punishment’ which only made Shane hiss out a desperate ‘Not. Helping.’ as his spit-slick, neglected cock twitched pathetically in the open air between them.

“It would be helpful,” Ilya echoed meanly, “if you got yourself ready for me.” He faked a yawn, sitting back on his heels. “I am tired of doing all the work.”

Shane was all too happy to oblige, fishing between the couch cushions for the mini bottle of lube he knew Ilya kept there for convenience, the living room a familiar backdrop for many of their long distance sessions. Ilya looked shocked by the motion at first, and Shane froze with an awkward wince, thinking maybe he’d done the Bad Thing again — being observant to the point that people were freaked out rather than flattered.

“Do not be surprised on your last day if I do not let you leave,” Ilya remarked instead, climbing onto the couch to kiss Shane silly again, that big body smothering him like a weighted blanket. Bliss.

Growing impatient after their extended make-out session, Shane shoved at Ilya until he had space to roll over onto his hands and knees, clicking open the lube bottle and immediately coating two fingers. If he was honest, he’d spent extra time this morning cleaning and teasing himself, tempted at one point to put a plug in too, though his survival instincts had thankfully won out in the end; Shane would’ve come the moment Ilya had touched him at the door otherwise, if he even made it through the full two-hour drive.

Reaching back, he traced lightly around his rim before sinking one finger in, the second following right after so that the stretch made him groan in delight. Preferring the burn and sort of naturally suited to taking cock like a champ, Shane might have begged him to stick all nine inches right in, no prep, if he thought that Ilya — secretly the softest dom he’d ever had — would have allowed it. Even so, he could sense Ilya’s eyes on him from behind as that rich, deep voice admired his ‘gorgeous little hole’ aloud, making Shane’s cheeks flush at the praise.

“Come here, please,” he requested, not quite subby enough to beg but needing his mouth full all the same, “I want to taste you, just a little.”

Ilya was clearly not in peak dom form either, both of them just a bit too soft for each other after months spent yearning for this, and there was a rustle as he shucked off his bottoms before sliding onto the cushion in front of Shane without protest. Taking himself in hand, Ilya angled the tip toward Shane’s panting mouth, hissing when Shane ducked forward onto one elbow to suckle at the sensitive head. Shane’s shoulder was already burning in an effort to keep balancing upright, two fingers of the opposite hand still shoved into his hole with the challenge of avoiding the lure of his prostate before the main event.

“That’s it, pretty boy,” Ilya murmured, carding a gentle hand through Shane’s hair with an expression so fond that Shane found himself briefly mortified by the attention. “So good for me, hmm? So patient for this cock in person? No one else’s, yes?”

“Mmph,” Shane hummed around him, never happier than to be occupied on both ends as he swallowed Ilya down to the root with ease. He held there for as long as the sharp breaths through his nose would allow, before sliding off with a ‘pop’ and an answer, “Only yours. Only this one.” A teasing lick at the head. “Need it.”

Ilya looked pleased by the response, hand falling from Shane’s hair to cup at his cheek instead, thumb pressing into the hollowed space there to feel as Shane sucked him back in with fervor. The world blurred in his periphery, less so in actual subspace than in a ‘don’t wake me up from this dream’ state of genuine awe. He was in Ilya’s home, on Ilya’s couch, with the man himself cooing Russian endearments at him as Shane choked on his perfect cock. It was such a lucky fucking break after the bullshit relationship he’d wasted the best of his twenties on that Shane almost wanted to cry.

He had cried, barely a week ago in fact, when Captain Ilya Rozanov in all his Centaurs’ [2-1 in OT against the actual worst team in the league] glory had used his media availability to make a bunch of vaguely inflammatory remarks about the embattled Commissioner (the ‘alleged homophobia’ most hockey fans could excuse, but the whole ‘nearly ousting a star player from the league with no legal basis to do so and leaked examples of prior instances of the NHL front office’s political meddling’ was a harder scandal to ignore). The tears had come when Ilya had waved off the protests of his handlers, choosing to answer a ridiculous, invasive question about his love life with: ‘Yes, I am seeing someone. I like him a lot. Maybe you can meet him one day.’ The acknowledgment was eons beyond what Shane thought he might get and so very soon, not wanting to make Ilya’s already rocky coming out about him at all. Shane wasn’t naive enough to think a public relationship reveal would be smooth sailing, and he had his own career to consider as well, but the way Ilya had hinted at his existence so easily was—

“Where did you go, sweetheart?” the Ilya in front of him questioned, hips stilling from where they’d been rocking steadily forward, cock nudging at the back of Shane’s throat.

Shane blinked up at him, mouth full, and slowly retreated. His voice cracked a bit on the words as he said, “Just… happy to be here. To be yours.”

Ilya sat back, early afternoon sunlight bathing him beautifully as his expression transformed into something incredulous, hazel eyes gone shinier than ever.

“Mine,” he whispered, standing and circling behind until he could tug Shane’s hips toward him.

“Please,” Shane gasped, fingers slipping out from where he’d kept himself loose and waiting.

“Say it.” The snap of the lube bottle’s lid echoed over his shoulder. “You know what I want to hear when I put this hole to use, hmm?”

There was a blunt pressure and then Shane couldn’t help but tip forward completely as Ilya slid home, the words muffled by the cushions when he moaned, “Fuck me, baby.”

Ilya, his baby, groaned once he was fully seated, hardly pausing before drawing back to begin fucking Shane in earnest. Shane keened, thoughts drifting to their first hookup, when he’d wondered if ‘baby’ was too emasculating for a massive, manly hockey player (no more so than a tramp stamp, he supposed). Though Ilya had admitted it was new to him, he’d clung to the pet name with near feral intensity, asking Shane to use it in the bedroom and everywhere beyond. Sending over a screenshot of the ‘Baby ☀️’ in his phone had earned Shane a whole hour of edging ASMR, the new contact name glowing brightly on his screen as Ilya talked him up and down and up again with his voice alone.

“Your boyfriend,” Ilya said, the rhythm of his thrusts punctuating each word, “Your baby.”

“Yes,” Shane whined, the pace already brutal with barely any time to adjust; exactly how he liked it. “Yes, baby. That’s it. Fuck.”

He was nearly vibrating with pleasure, grateful for the pulsing heat of a real cock inside of him and Ilya’s attentive focus on Shane’s reactions, every movement thoughtfully adjusted in its angle and speed. His dildo collection had done the job, sure, with Ilya coaching him through it, but the drag of slick purple silicone was a poor imitation of the real thing — even the silly-if-you-thought-about-it sensation of sweaty balls slapping against his taint felt sort of miraculous right now.

Or maybe Shane was just a little bit in love with this man.

“Ilya, oh god, please,” he babbled nonsensically, time warping between them into an endless push and pull of body-on-body, “Not long. I’m— I missed this too much.”

“I know, I know,” Ilya said, hips stuttering a little as Shane clenched, approaching his own release, “Me too.”

It wasn’t simultaneous but it was a near thing, Ilya tilting forward to get a hand on Shane’s cock, just two rough strokes enough to push Shane over the edge with a loud cry. With another groan, Ilya quickly pulled out and rolled Shane onto his back, mumbling a sweet excuse about wanting to look at him, before using the splash of Shane’s own cum cupped in his hand to jerk himself to completion. Still seeing stars, Shane gazed up at him and pointedly licked his lips, loving the view of a perfect specimen of a man all but losing his mind with lust. He grabbed a knee in each hand and pulled his legs up, presenting himself obscenely, fucked out smile growing at the way Ilya’s concentrated face shattered in response.

“Come on, baby,” Shane coaxed, heart still racing in his chest, “Let go. Need you marking me up again.”

It took only a few tugs before Ilya was cursing in a long, creative string of Russian desperation, painting Shane’s hole and the underside of his spent cock in haphazard white stripes. Shane had a hand between his legs before Ilya could admire for long, making a scooping motion and bringing two wet fingers to his mouth to taste. He smiled, moaning happily at the bitterness on his tongue, needing each one of his five senses engaged with the Ilya of it all.

“You are so…” Ilya started, looking shell shocked, then shook his head in lieu of completing the sentence. The fondness was obvious even so.

“You liiike me,” Shane teased back weakly, dropping his legs and pushing himself up to sitting, arms shaking a bit from the come down. He winced as he felt a trickle of cum trace the back of his thigh, spotting the mess they’d made of Ilya’s couch cushion beneath him.

Ilya followed his gaze, commenting mildly, “Anya used to eat very fast as a puppy and throw up kibble on the next cushion over. Stain will come out, do not worry.”

Shane sagged in relief, wanting to be a perfect house guest this week, and felt his cheeks warm at the way Ilya had read him so easily for that. “Still, I’m sorry for the mess. I’ll help clean.” He bit his lip. “It was really hot though. Barely made it through the door.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, plopping down next to him on the chaise and tangling their naked limbs together. Sufficiently intertwined, he captured Shane’s chin and leaned in for a lingering kiss, adding softly, “Feels like a dream, to have you with me like this. Whole time we were talking these past months… I was not sure if…” He frowned, scrubbing at his face. “Never mind. I don’t know.”

“You can tell me,” Shane prompted, nudging gently, “I always want to know how you feel.”

Ilya sighed, taking a moment to chew on the words. “I… worried, maybe, that it wouldn’t be the same. Since the first time, in person, we were so… intense. Some people thought I was a little crazy after, you know? Cliff called you a kidnapper. And Sveta thinks you might be a witch, but from her is probably compliment.” He pressed a kiss to Shane’s left eyebrow, and then his nose, clarifying, “So I worried, yes, but then I saw you again at my door and I thought ‘oh, this is it for me.’ It’s scary. But very real, I think. Boyfriend might not sound so serious but… I am. Serious.”

I love you, Shane thought, and just barely bit back the words. He turned over, rearranging them until he was sat firmly in his boyfriend’s lap, both of them shuddering as their oversensitive dicks made brief contact in the shuffle.

Grasping Ilya’s face between two hands, he forced their eye contact and said, “I was worried for the same reasons. Sometimes I thought I made you up, not being able to feel you with me for real. But I’m serious too, Ilya. The distance was awful, and it still will be during the hockey season, but I’m ready to work for this, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya echoed back, pursing his lips for another kiss.

Shane indulged him, before glancing at the fitness watch still on his wrist and cringing at the time. “Alright, up, up,” he encouraged, “Need to shower and get ready now, baby. I want to make a good impression and apparently Cliff might think I’ve staged another hostage situation if we show up late to dinner.”

Ilya groaned but accepted Shane’s help up, strong fingers clasping his own until they were standing chest to chest again. He quirked an eyebrow. “Shower together?”

Shane rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide his delighted smile. “Gross. Lead the way.”

𓆟

According to Ilya, the upscale sushi restaurant was a favored Centaurs date spot, featuring private booths, a no photography policy, and an omakase menu with a price tag sure to impress even the pickiest model or social media baddie.

(‘And how many dates have you brought to this place since you moved?’ Shane had asked a little testily from the passenger seat on the drive over. He’d found himself unable to suppress a smug grin at Ilya’s response, colored with amusement, one finger reaching across the console to poke Shane in the cheek: ‘None, you jealous brat. My rookies told me this. I was already distracted by sexy tattooed man of my dreams back in Montreal.’)

So yes, Shane was certainly no conventional busty blonde hockey WAG but he felt chosen just the same, Ilya’s hand pressed possessively against his lower back as he guided them through the restaurant to their reserved party room. More than several heads turned at the sight of Ottawa’s new captain, some smiling gratefully at their best shot for a Stanley Cup in over a decade — and, if they were looking in the way that mattered, noting the way he was accompanied by his rumored male paramour too. Shane met as many pairs of lingering eyes as he could and preened.

Yes, this is my man, thank you.

They arrived in the cordoned off back room to the image of three hulking professional hockey players sat on one side of the long center table, arranged like a Wise Council in a fantasy novel tasked with determining Shane’s fate.

Hockey brain kicking in, he noted long-time franchise forward Zane Boodram and goaltender Wyatt Hayes, a last season acquisition from Toronto, both flanking d-man Evan Dykstra in the middle seat. A final fourth chair in their row sat menacingly empty, awaiting the arrival of now-captain of the Boston Bears Cliff Marlow, already in Montreal for a late game against the Voyageurs the next day and all too happy to make the sneaky drive west to presumably deliver a best friend ‘shovel talk’ on Ilya’s behalf.

“Cap, you made it!” Zane cheered as the three men rose to their feet, gaze turning toward Shane as he teased, “And you brought your hotter, better half.” Thrusting a hand across the table, he said, “I’m Zane, but you can call me Bood. You’re one of the boys now.”

Shane laughed at the chirp at Ilya’s expense, feeling some of his nervous tension dissipate as he accepted Bood’s handshake before clasping the waiting hands of Evan and Wyatt too.

“Hi, nice to meet you all,” he said, murmuring ‘thank you, baby’ when Ilya pulled out his chair for him, “I’m Shane.”

“Oh, believe us, we know,” Wyatt remarked, not unkindly, back to seated as he replaced the napkin on his lap.

“You might as well be a permanent fixture in the Cens’ locker room,” Evan chimed in, gaze cutting over to Ilya who appeared to be going redder by the second, “Roz here has been loudly miserable without you since, like, training camp days. All ‘Shane would’ve said this, Shane would’ve liked that.’ I almost feel like I’ve met you already.”

Shane smiled and playfully nudged the now turtle-like Ilya at his side, hunched in on himself in embarrassment. “You were talking about me even back then?”

“They asked,” Ilya muttered, though his hand found Shane’s thigh beneath the table. Smile widening, Shane reached down and threaded their fingers together, pulsing back his affection.

“We were briefed as a team that he was planning on coming out before he got to Ottawa,” Wyatt explained, “though unfortunately not every guy on the Centaurs was… enthusiastic about the idea.” He shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “On the flip side, I’m personally, um, passionate about allyship in the league, so I might have come on a bit strong. Just wanted Roz to know he could talk about a partner as freely as any of us.” Wyatt smiled in Shane’s direction. “The wives are chomping at the bit to adopt you too, Shane, but they also understand if you’re not like… comfortable being lumped in with them.”

Shane’s heart warmed at the easy, informed way that Wyatt spoke about inclusion, a rarity as most of the league were only just now reckoning with the idea of an openly queer player in their midst and one of the winningest players of all time at that.

“I’d love to connect with the Cens’ WAGs,” he replied, “It’d be nice to be in a group that kind of gets it, even if there’s, uh, not much precedent for the Husband and Boyfriend version yet.”

Following Ilya’s basically forced outing (Shane’s blood boiled each time he considered the circumstances), just one other prominent voice had joined him for the 2019-20 season, making the NHL’s ‘Out Player’ count a grand total of two; Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals, had quietly announced his sexuality (and his boyfriend) via Instagram post a week after Ilya’s own statement, with a caption expressing solidarity and emphasizing that Admirals leadership had long been aware and supportive, even as the Commissioner had similarly threatened him into silence a year earlier. Shane had received a phone call about the news almost immediately, a grumbling Ilya complaining that ‘Gay since the Dawn of Time’ Hunter had stolen his thunder, though Shane could tell that he was secretly grateful to share the heat of the spotlight.

(If, after that conversation, Shane had also quietly decided to file away a particular tidbit of information regarding the one non-Voyageur poster in his room at UNB, well… it was with Ilya’s sanity in mind. So he had a thing for beefy blonds, okay? Sue him.)

“And I do appreciate your effort in the locker room,” Ilya was saying, nodding Wyatt’s way, “though you did not have to make me your captain to feel included.”

It appeared to be a running joke, the way all three hockey players booed good-naturedly in response.

“How was the captaincy decided?” Shane ventured, cringing when he realized there might be more drama there than he was privy to. “Sorry, if that’s not like… something you can discuss. I used to captain back in the CHL and then in university, and we did a basic team vote, so I just, um… get curious about these things.”

“Don’t worry, man, Roz warned us that you really know puck,” Bood said kindly, reaching across the table to bump their knuckles, “We’ve gotta get you out to family free skate one day, scrimmage a little maybe. But to answer your question, it’s mostly—”

“Politics,” Ilya interjected darkly, which did not earn him any boos that time around; just three sober nods.

“As captain, I was briefed early on about the real reason for the trade,” Bood explained for Shane’s benefit, “Which, fuck Crowell and the Boston front office, by the way, holy shit.” He gestured at himself, continuing, “I’m maybe more cynical than most about diversity efforts, but our GM wanted a facelift for the franchise and they liked the optics, ticking the boxes for an LGBT player and bringing on the league’s youngest head coach in Brandon Wiebe in the same season. Roz is right in the sense that they want him to captain now for the same reason they gave it to me six seasons ago: we’re fucking great at it and that pisses the bigots off. Any attention is good attention, or whatever they say.”

Shane nodded, offering, “I get it. UNB still has me on the cover of all of their Athletics brochures. Not many non-white hockey captains to show off before or after. None, actually.”

Bood winced. “Right, I’ve done my time as the Blasian leader and role model, made some decent playoff runs too. The A feels great, like a well-deserved vacation. And who are we kidding? Roz was a no brainer regardless of the ‘optics’ behind it. A star center with a multi-Cup-winning captaincy already under his belt? I would’ve held him down to sew the C on myself if he’d declined it.”

“He probably would’ve liked that,” Shane said on autopilot, then immediately turned scarlet at the implication.

For a moment the room went pin-drop silent.

And then there was a bursting chorus of laughter, Evan proclaiming, “Fuck yeah, you’ll fit in just fine.”

As the laughter faded, a pink-cheeked Ilya sniffed, hand squeezing Shane’s under the table. “Thank you, boys, for real. Means a lot that you are welcoming my boyfriend in.” He paused to level Shane with a brutal side-eye. “Even with his big mouth.”

Shane bravely bit back the natural ‘you love my mouth’ retort, the briefest flash of a smirk on Ilya’s lips and a dramatic eye roll suggesting he too had recognized the softball setup.

Wyatt shrugged, looking at Ilya. “You could be dating one of those anime body pillows and we’d have her at Bood’s barbecues if it meant you’d keep playing like you have been. Happy is good for your hockey, Roz.”

Those sharp goalie eyes turned on him instead, Wyatt continuing pleasantly, “And Shane? We’ve had our captain here about as long as you have, but you know how team loyalties go. He’s ours now. And we’ll protect that. You be sure to treat him very nicely.”

Shane gulped, though he nodded in acquiescence. It was mild as far as threats went and yet the reality of this relationship was really starting to set in. He was dating a professional athlete, with a team of guys (and a whole host of Canadian and international fans) relying on that athlete’s skill and leadership to keep their franchise alive. If Ilya Rozanov had been a star in Boston, in Ottawa he was the solution to an existential crisis.

“Shane knows the hockey is important,” Ilya said, “but he also reminds me it is not forever.”

The sentiment made Shane wince just a little, having spent most of his young life thinking the rest of it would be defined by hockey over everything. But still, he knew what Ilya meant: he’d play into his late thirties at best with the Centaurs or elsewhere, and then there was a whole nebulous After of time to fill. Shane understood that After better than most, though the eager smiles of the young girls he coached each summer did well to soothe the ache.

“It’s early days for us,” Shane added gently, “and we both have successful careers to protect. But I like to think we’re mature enough now to make the choices that matter for our shared happiness. I’ll support Ottawa for Ilya as long as it’s right for him.”

He turned slightly to his left only to realize that Ilya was already looking back at him with unmasked fondness. “You see,” Ilya said, pride evident in his voice, “My man is not just sexy. He is loyal and very, very smart too.”

“Well one of you has to be,” Bood chirped, laughing brightly as Ilya untangled his hand from Shane’s own and tossed a napkin in his A’s direction.

From there, the group settled into more casual chatter about the Centaurs’ upcoming games and then polite inquiries into Shane’s tattoo business and his own ink, the guys letting out a silly shared ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ when Shane rolled up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal the dark swathe of scales there. The server came back around a moment later, taking their orders, a specific request for appetizers and a round of drinks ‘on me!’ sent ahead via text from Cliff Marlow who had relayed to Ilya that he was in the area but in search of parking.

Sipping at his ginger ale, Shane felt the insecurity begin to creep back in; he’d been worried, of course, about impressing Ilya’s new teammates, but he also knew the culture that Ottawa was trying to build and that these were men who were representative of it. ‘Marly’ on the other hand was Ilya’s closest friend of over a decade, the incoming captain of the team that had ousted Ilya for the same reasons Ottawa had welcomed him, and — maybe most nerve-racking of all — the instigator of the bet that had brought Ilya to Shane in the first place. What if he met Shane and then regretted the ‘tramp stamp’ quest entirely? He allegedly thought that Shane had kidnapped Ilya in July, so they probably weren’t starting on ideal footing anyway.

Shane worried his teeth around an edamame shell and waited.

They were mostly through their appetizers — the fancier omakase option off the table for a group of huge, hungry hockey players and Shane, who was no slouch in the gym himself — when Cliff Marlow entered the room with a flourish, dark hair and dark eyes and a classic, rugged manliness to him that Shane, in spite of his nerves, appreciated in an objectively gay manner. Despite his born and bred hatred for the Bears, he had always found that both Ilya and his winger made a beautiful pair.

“Bood, Hazy, D-slice,” Cliff greeted, dabbing up each man with a confident, jock-like ease that left Shane envious.

Cliff turned toward Shane and Ilya’s side of the table, holding a hand out to greet Shane with polite neutrality before scooping Ilya up into a massive bear hug. The embrace carried a degree of intimacy that was usually only permitted on the ice following a goal, rare as genuine affection was in sports governed by strict, unspoken rules of masculinity.

As someone who struggled with social cues and expectations of any sort in any context, hockey and its bizarre ‘no homo’ physicality had kept Shane perpetually on edge throughout his athletic career; he’d been fastidious when it came to his tattoo apprenticeship as a result, opting for a Korean lesbian mentor at a queer-friendly studio in Toronto rather than subjecting himself to the ‘locker room’-like vibes of a dude-bro trad shop, even if they carried more industry prestige or whatever. In the end, Shane’s own quality of work had built him a worthy reputation anyway; his talent spoke for itself, the same way he felt that Ilya’s should too. Who they chose to sleep with, to love, had nothing to do with it.

“So this is the famous Shane Hollander,” Cliff said loftily, sliding into his seat and immediately directing his chopsticks toward a plate of fried tofu with a surprising degree of dexterity. He raised an eyebrow as he chewed and then swallowed, adding, “You sure work quick.”

Beside him, Ilya tensed. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Cliff shrugged, looking unbothered by the way his shit-stirring had quieted the room. “Just… this all happened so fast, you know. I go from having no clue that my captain, my friend of a decade is into dudes to suddenly being informed that he’s leaving the team because of it. And oh, he’s all in with some Canadian guy he just met too.”

Bood’s fork clattered against his plate. “You really think Boston could’ve kept your boy around? Your leadership and your head coach both openly labeled Rozanov as a liability.”

Cliff sighed, rubbing at a spot on his chest as if the idea physically pained him. “I think we could’ve tried, yeah, me and the guys at least.” His gaze cut sharply over to Ilya. “If we knew.”

Shane watched as Ilya’s expression went through several emotions all at once, frustration the most prominent in the mix. “They were going to trade me no matter what, Marly, we have been over this,” he argued, resignation clear in his tone, “I am lucky I had veteran trade protections to at least influence where that trade would be. I didn’t—” he hesitated, “I didn’t want you to worry about something you could not control.”

Cliff’s eyes found the ceiling in a dramatic ‘heaven, help me’ sort of response. “I couldn’t give a fuck where you play hockey, Rozy. Selfishly, I always want you on my line, of course, but—” he gestured to the Ottawa players, “the Cens are good guys. I know that. I just… worried about you, after learning that this was all a result of a piece of shit’s blackmailing scheme, that maybe you would’ve retired in Boston like we’d always planned together otherwise. It’s why your whole insta-love thing with this tattoo guy scared me.” His eyes found Shane’s own, a deep skepticism there. “How can I trust that all this change in your life won’t hurt you again? I’ve seen how bad it can get for you, bro.”

The allusion to Ilya’s depression was not lost on Shane, who knew more about his boyfriend’s darker years after hours of near-daily conversation than Cliff seemed prepared to give him credit for.

“Shane is not like that,” Ilya replied, confident and decisive, “and I met him at the perfect time actually. Yes, it was intense and fast, maybe. But he has been through his own challenges too. We are good for each other, Marly. And I am keeping him whether you think so or not.”

Ilya’s hand reached for Shane’s again, fingers intertwined on top of the table this time. The boldness made Shane grin, preening in the same way he’d done when they’d entered the restaurant. My man. Mine.

“We were just talking about how happy Roz has been despite all the bullshit of the last few months,” Bood chimed in, sending another reassuring smile in Shane’s direction, “And yeah, we’ve got work to do as a team, but he has us on the right track. He’s a beauty out there, Marlow — lotta guys are feeling inspired for the first time in a long time to play some good fucking hockey. Isn’t that what this whole silly song and dance we do is about?”

Wary, Shane watched as Cliff seemed to assess the united front he was up against, features softening into something like uneasy acceptance. He poured some chilled sake into a ceramic glass, downed it, and then simply nodded as if to say ‘Fine, you win.’

“And don’t worry,” Wyatt added with a wink, slinging an arm around Cliff’s shoulder, “we already threatened Shane on behalf of our dear captain’s virtue before you arrived. If we need an enforcer, we’ll call you in.”

“Am I dead to you?” Evan argued, puffing up like a frilled lizard as if to emphasize his mass, “I’ve got Manitoban redneck blood crazier than any of you soft city boys.”

“Jesus, D,” Bood said with a chuckle, “Put the sawed-off shotgun away for now. We like Shane. Right, Marly?”

“Ilya likes Shane,” Cliff said petulantly, though his tone was notably lighter than it had been, “I’m still on the fence.”

“Well climb down then,” Ilya argued back, blowing a kiss across the table, “It’s your fault we met in the first place.”

Cliff grumbled at that, conceding with a barely audible, “It is a good tattoo.”

There was a collective murmur of agreement and a ‘super hot’ from Wyatt that made Shane raise a brow.

Pursing his lips, he blew Cliff a kiss of his own and grinned brightly at the way it made Ilya knock their shoulders together with a boyish giggle. “I’ll do a matching tramp stamp on you, Marly, free of charge. You’re in Montreal a few times a year, right?”

The guys all hooted and hollered at that one and Shane felt the warmth of their acceptance down to his toes. He may have engineered himself a tougher exterior in his twenties, masked by ink and surgical steel, but at the heart of it he was still that shy, neurotic little boy on the ice — both too artsy and too cerebral for his own good — just hoping for a laugh in the locker room and a summer invite to the Cool Kid’s pool.

Now, seated at a table surrounded by NHL players who knew he was gay and strange and enamored with the best player in the league, Shane experienced the bittersweet realization that he wouldn’t have been brave enough to choose this life if he’d gone pro. That his bad back and seven concussions and an adolescence among MFAs had saved him from the heartache of the closet, spared from the pressures of maintaining an image in a way that the Ilya Rozanov had not been. In that moment, it meant even more that Ilya didn’t want to hide him away, that he liked Shane enough to be so loud about it, in spite of the vitriol being out had garnered him thus far.

Overcome with affection, Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya’s cheek and watched him turn a pretty pink shade under the low light.

“What do you say, Marly?” Ilya teased once he’d recovered a bit, “Boys’ trip to the casino after this? I have a bet I’d like to place.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 22nd

“I got you something,” Ilya murmured into his neck, hips shifting just enough to make Shane clench around him with a soft groan.

They’d been in bed most of the day, following breakfast and a brisk early morning walk with a slightly friendlier Anya, who had seemed to warm to Shane when he’d shared a twin look of disbelief with her at the set of matching ‘owner and pupper’ sweaters that Ilya had produced with a maniacal grin. The fancy diet plan and designer pet furniture maybe should’ve clued him in to the type of dog owner that he’d committed to dating, but Shane was unfortunately only further endeared by The Crazy. And Anya did look cute and very Slavic in her black and gold Versace turtleneck, once Ilya had tugged the collar over her ears.

Anyway, their sex had been indulgent and unhurried since their first frenzied couch fuck, more of an excuse to be as close together as possible than a frantic chase for pleasure (the angry red scratches from Shane’s fingernails raking across Ilya’s tramp stamp notwithstanding). Though they were running out of time now, with Ilya due at the arena in an hour or so, and Shane planning to meet his mother out for dinner in the interim. Moaning softly again, Shane slid a hand back to palm at Ilya’s perfect ass, forcing him deeper in a way that made them both shiver, the renewed contact with his prostate gently building toward one last climax.

“Please tell me it’s not a third matching sweater,” Shane teased, “Anya will be mortified.”

“Well,” Ilya said between little puffs of air against Shane’s neck, “not exactly. It is for the game tonight though.”

“But you already got me suite tickets?” Shane protested, murmuring a ‘fuck, baby, right there’ as Ilya picked up the pace.

“Never too many gifts,” Ilya argued back, breath quickening as he too approached his release.

Shane groaned again, hand finding his cock and stroking until he was leaking messily all over his fingers. “You spoil me.”

“I intend to, yes.”

And, as if perfectly timed, Shane’s third (fourth?) orgasm of the day washed over him, simple in the way it was barely a spurt and a shiver yet toe-curling all the same. Ilya spilled into him a moment later, myriad kisses pressed to the space behind his ear, though he was quick to tug Shane up and over to his spacious shower with a clear eagerness to share his gift.

Once they were cleaned and dried, Ilya rooted around in his walk-in closet, emerging to present Shane with a familiar black and red jersey, a ‘C’ patch embroidered on the chest.

“Surprise,” he said, looking distinctly proud.

Laughing, Shane darted over to his bag in the corner, pulling out the Rozanov jersey he’d purchased online prior to the trip. “Guess we had the same idea.”

Ilya pursed his lips, pretending to pout though it was clear that he was fighting a smile. “Well, this one is signed. Authentic.” He turned it over to show that the black ‘8’ in ‘81’ did in fact bear his neat signature in striking gold sharpie.

Shane crossed the room again, hands coming up to Ilya’s towel-wrapped waist, and kissed him deeply. “Thank you,” he whispered, “I can’t say I’m a real fan of your team just yet, but I am excited to wear your name across my back.”

“Maybe your mom can wear the other,” Ilya suggested, eyes going wide at the way Shane snorted loudly in response.

“No shot she’ll put this on,” he joked, “Yuna Hollander is an even bigger Voyageurs fan than I am. But if you play well enough tonight, it will go a long way toward getting her approval. She finds good puck hard to ignore.”

“Hat trick it is,” Ilya said, cocky as ever, and Shane loved him for it.

𓆟

The arena was humming with life as they looked out over the ice, ticket sales up 215 percent with the blessing (or controversy, either way you sliced it) of Ilya Rozanov at center.

“Honey, these are really nice seats,” Yuna remarked, a beer in one hand and a basket of chicken wings in the other from their suite’s unlimited buffet. He’d presented the tickets to her post-dinner, with the excuse that they were comped and that they’d planned on watching the game at home on TV anyway.

Sipping her beer, Yuna asked, gaze heavy, “What does your boyfriend do again?”

Shane gnawed at his lip and took a gulp of his own drink, the whiskey ginger he’d ordered for courage a sharp bite on his tongue. “He works for the franchise, mom, I told you.”

Yuna narrowed her eyes at him, visibly suspicious from the moment he’d tugged on his red and black Rozanov jersey in the arena’s parking lot. “In what capacity?”

“Um,” Shane said, heart pounding. It was silly to be so nervous, probably, when he’d come out to his parents at twenty-two with very little fanfare and a deadpan, if slightly offensive ‘yes, sweetie, we assumed’ from his mother specifically. On the other hand, he’d witnessed said mother cursing Ilya Rozanov’s entire bloodline just two seasons ago when Boston had eked out the Eastern Conference quarter-finals win over the Voyageurs in six. With a winning goal in OT from Ilya himself, of course.

His phone buzzed, a message from ‘Baby ☀️’ onscreen that read: see u after ❤️ tell ur mom this hat trick i am dedicating to her ok?

Shane sighed, not meeting his mother’s eyes as he said, “Fine. He plays for the team. At center. It’s true what I told you about meeting in Montreal at the studio, just… he wasn’t, uh, permanently in Canada at the time.”

“Rozanov,” Yuna hissed, piecing it all together with ease. She tore into a chicken wing with predatory ferocity, making Shane wince at the carnage.

“Yeah,” he said, “I, um, really like him. He’s different than the media makes you think. Sweeter. Really good to me.”

“Did you tell him I know puck?” his mom replied, eyes down on the ice now where Ilya was warming up his hands. It took Shane only a moment to realize that he was writing out ‘S H A N E’ with the quick turn movements of his blade. What a ham.

“Yes, mom,” he answered, swallowing, “He said he’s scoring a hat trick tonight just for you.”

Yuna turned up her nose, black shoulder length hair swishing sharply at her chin. “Well, he should. The Centaurs suck but Seattle is even worse.”

Fifty-three minutes later, hats raining down onto the ice, Shane caught his mom smiling.

𓆟

The team crowded into Monk’s, buoyant with their 4-0 victory. A mass of players swept ‘Hazy’ right over to the bar, Bood declaring that a round of shots for his shutout was in order.

Ilya waved them off when they returned and begged the same for his hat trick, his arm slung over the back of the booth that he shared with Shane, their thighs pressed together beneath the table in a way that made Shane hungrier than he preferred with his mom sat right across from them.

Face glowing red with her third beer of the evening, Yuna was watching Ilya with hawk-like eyes, having spent a solid ten minutes already interrogating his trade from Boston and his coming out statement (‘very brave, sweetie, my husband cried’) and his wicked designs upon her innocent, Voyageurs-onesie-at-birth son. Shane had groaned his way through the entire parental inquisition, interjecting where he could, though Ilya looked oddly pleased by the third degree and the endless chirping.

“I was worried he would tattoo something terrible on me, when he admitted he was a Voyageurs fan,” Ilya told her, recounting a snippet of their first meeting. One of the only safe-for-work parts of the story, Shane thought, cringing a little.

“Shane is a professional,” Yuna replied evenly, though her lips curved into a terrible grin over the edge of her pint glass, “I would’ve done it though.”

“Mom!” Shane protested, aghast, as Ilya’s hand flew to his chest in mock offense.

“No, no,” Ilya said, waving him off, “I respect this.” His eyes glanced down at Shane’s Centaurs jersey with clear judgment, as he added, “Your mother is loyal to her team. That is admirable.”

Shane gaped. “You bought me this!” he protested, “I’m trying to be loyal to you, not Ottawa!”

It was all very much too late, however; he watched in dismay as Yuna Hollander and Ilya Rozanov clinked their glasses across the table in a mutual anti-Shane cheers. God, he’d created a two-headed hockey monster, hadn’t he?

“Pasta night next week,” Yuna instructed later, the three of them huddled outside the bar, puffs of breath visible in the late October chill, “David will be back from his work trip and he’d like to meet Shane’s boyfriend too, I’m sure.”

Shane frowned. “Mom, I leave before then.”

Reaching up to pinch at a beaming Ilya’s left cheek, she cast Shane a long look. “So?”

“I love pasta,” Ilya added unhelpfully, looking delighted by the offer.

Shane rolled his eyes, though his traitorous heart was full-to-spilling at the sight of his hockey player boyfriend and his hockey crazed mother getting along so well, so soon. His mom had loathed his ex-boyfriend, in the unspoken but palpable disdain that Asian parents seemed to wield to perfection. Without a sport in common — the ex was a fan of the Jays and nothing else — or anything in common, really, their interactions had been largely characterized by passive aggressive comments about ‘what’s best for Shane’ that toed the line of open hostility.

‘I don’t like how he treats you,’ even his dad had weighed in, a shock at the time given his comparatively light touch on Shane’s personal life, ‘He makes you small.’

This, on the other hand—

“Do you have pictures of Shane when he was little?” Ilya was asking, “He won’t show me.”

Yuna was already pulling out her phone to scroll through her collection, exclaiming, “He was so adorable in his tiny skates. Look! And when you come over next week, we can go through the scrapbook albums too.”

Abandoned for a while in favor of his baby pics, Shane eventually felt Ilya’s hand snake around his waist, pulling him closer until his head could rest lightly on Ilya’s shoulder. “Leave the jersey on tonight,” Ilya leaned in to whisper.

“You’re not my captain,” Shane whispered back, bratty smile pasted on his face even as he tilted his head up to accept Ilya’s waiting kiss. A chaste peck, nothing more, with Yuna still hovering nearby, but so drenched in affection that it made Shane shiver all the same.

“Home, now, I think,” Ilya said, voice pitched low, and only later did Shane realize he’d thought of ‘home’ as Ilya’s place too.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 23rd

It made for a pretty picture, at least, the two of them outside Monk’s, Shane mouth-to-mouth with Ottawa’s infamously bisexual captain, Ilya Rozanov, unmistakable in his black Centaurs puffer jacket and those signature blond curls peaking out from beneath a red toque.

“Who is Shane Hollander? 10 Things to Know About Ilya Rozanov’s Rumored Artist Boo” proclaimed the gossip rag headlines within hours of the curious fan’s photo appearing on Twitter. Ilya’s PR team had worked fast overnight to quell the photo’s spread, poor things, but as usual, the internet worked faster.

“Easier than making a new statement, maybe,” Ilya said with a shrug after they’d awoken to the news, remarkably calm in a way that immediately eased Shane’s worries as well, “I am sorry if your privacy is affected though. We could have been more, ah, discreet for longer.”

“It was only a matter of time, I think. They knew you were seeing someone and we weren’t exactly hiding it,” Shane replied, knocking hips with Ilya at the kitchen counter as they made their breakfast. It was nice to stay in their blissfully domestic bubble despite the media chaos. “And I’m sort of a public figure already. My tattoo account on IG just hit 1 million, you know. If anything, you’re good for business.”

And wasn’t that the truth.

Holy shit, Hollzy, JJ had texted that morning, We’ve got enough booking requests through the studio form to last us for years. And Shane’s agent had reached out too, noting that his handful of active gallery listings had sold out entirely and that there were several high-paying clients clamoring for commissions too.

“So what do we do now?” Shane asked, biting into one half of a Montreal-style bagel slice.

Ilya fished his car keys from the pocket of his sweats, jingling them with a smile. “We skate.”

𓆟

The pristine ice of the practice rink was thoroughly scarred by the time they pushed through the gate and back toward the locker room to end their session.

Shane’s chest heaved beneath Ilya’s borrowed pads, and he knew he was smiling like a fool at the combination of exertion and the just-right feeling of a stick in hand.

“You can really play,” Ilya had gasped out not long after they’d started, sounding accusatory and a little betrayed as he watched Shane handle the puck with ease.

“Told you,” Shane had replied with a terrible smirk, and then proceeded to challenge Ilya to a lapped race that he won handily. What Ilya had on him in physicality on the ice, he topped easily in precision and speed.

And yes, his traumatically-injured brain might be at risk of permanent scrambling in a checking league (and the chance of slipping a disk, again, was never zero besides), but Shane privately kept his skills extra sharp, not feeling qualified to coach without being in peak shape himself.

Back in the dressing room, Ilya had him stripped down to his compression shorts and pressed against a locker in an instant, fusing their mouths together in a heated kiss.

“You,” he said, pecking Shane’s lips as punctuation, “Are. Good. At. Everything.”

“I’m not,” Shane argued, cheeks flushing as he squirmed under the intensity of Ilya’s gaze.

Ilya mouthed at his jaw, almost gnawing at the skin there with a feral aggression. “You are. And it is so fucking hot.”

One long make-out session later and they’d barely retained their propriety in an official NHL facility, departing the Censplex only for Shane to lean over and blow Ilya in the parking lot before he could even start the car. He came wetly, a hand down his own pants, to the sensation of Ilya’s cock at the back of his throat. Aching from the long skate, Ilya’s cum in his mouth, Shane swallowed and smiled.

𓆟

“It is a nice photo,” Ilya remarked later, apropos of nothing, as they shared the sofa and shoved at each other over a game of Super Smash Bros. Hitting pause, Ilya turned to meet Shane’s eyes, and offered, “But I think we could give them a better one.”

Ten minutes later, a jointly tagged Instagram post from @ilyarozanov81 and @shanehollandertattooartist had hockey socials in a total spiral: one frame of their smiling faces smushed together and the next with Shane’s eyes squeezed cutely shut, Ilya’s lips pressed to his cheek, a tiny bit of blur betraying it as the candid moment it was.

Boyfriends, the caption read. Plain and undeniable.

Below it, a comment with thousands of likes already:

@shanehollandertattooartist: Mine 🖤

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 24th

“I want something,” Shane asked, meeting Ilya at the door in good spirits, just home from another win (2-1) against New York and their ‘scheduled his gay hookups in hieroglyphics, Shane, he is so old’ captain, Scott Hunter.

“Anything, малыш.”

Shane nosed into the hollow of Ilya’s throat before murmuring, “A harsher scene. A mean one. Something from what you showed me in your closet, your pick.”

He felt Ilya swallow, silence lengthening between them until he replied, “Shane, are you sure?” At the resultant nod, he added, “We need a safe word. Or colors, at least.”

Shane balked at the request. “I… I don’t want to be able to say one. It’s been so long since I’ve let go. I want… I need to be gone, Ilya.”

Ilya took a step back, holding Shane at arm’s length as he nodded slowly. “Hit me.”

“What?”

“Hit me,” he repeated, “Push me. Do something physical so I know to stop. I am giving you permission. I want it to be clear.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, shivering at the thought.

“If we do this, I do not,” Ilya emphasized, grabbing Shane’s chin roughly in one hand, “Look at me, Shane. I do not want him in your head.”

Shane felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes unbidden, realizing the depth to which Ilya cared for him, that he didn’t want to give into pleasure if it meant echoing the past. If it meant a fear from Shane, however false, that Ilya wouldn’t stop.

“He might be there anyway,” Shane whispered, too honest for his own good.

Ilya took a quiet step back, eyes searching, and then promptly slapped Shane across the face.

“Fuck!” Shane yelped, falling to his knees automatically, a hand coming up to cradle against the sting.

Ilya’s fingers were tangled in his hair in an instant, yanking at the root until their eyes met once more. “You submit to me, understand? Only me.”

Shane nodded furiously, despite the way it pulled at his scalp. Already he could feel the haze of submission clouding his vision, heart pounding in his chest. “Only you.”

For a moment, those hazel eyes above him looked unspeakably adoring. But only for a moment. Shane watched, eager, as they shuttered with a single blink and turned vicious instead.

“Little slut wants it harsher,” Ilya quoted, sounding snide, “You have no fucking idea what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” Shane gasped, properly teary-eyed now, “I want it to hurt. And I want to be good. To float. To wake up bruised and remember.”

“Pain as a reward, he says,” Ilya mocked, talking over Shane’s head again in a way that made his heart race. To be a thing for pleasure, not even a person, was euphoric. “Greedy whore can’t even face a real punishment, he fucking loves it all.”

From his knees, Shane was nodding again, almost chanting, “I do. I do.”

“Shut up.” Another cracking slap connected with the other side of Shane’s face. Left and right. Always balanced. He wanted to cry again, touched by how much Ilya paid attention to his idiosyncrasies. Sharp sting radiating across both cheeks now, Shane found himself moaning in gratitude instead.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ilya murmured, seemingly awestruck by Shane’s blatant enjoyment, the ease with which submission found him. They’d done this before, the slapping part at least, with Shane choking down his cock back at the Montreal apartment, but that had been a Big Finale of sorts. This was them just getting started.

“More,” Shane moaned, eyes fluttering shut as he anticipated the next blow.

“No,” Ilya said plainly, the refusal so unexpected it had Shane biting back a pitiful whine of protest. “Here is how this will go.” He gripped Shane’s chin again, forcing his mouth open until he could lean over and spit, saliva running down Shane’s forehead and nose and trickling between his parted lips. Humiliating. Perfect. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Shane whispered, feeling nothing short of hero worship for the big, beautiful man above him, who was shaped like his Ilya, his baby, but gradually blurring into something hazier. A voice to be followed, from which to earn approval. Skin that needed to be touched.

“You will go upstairs to the bedroom,” the voice said, so firm and so clear, “Undress and then stand at edge of bed, folded forward, arms behind your back. Do not move. Do not touch yourself.” A pair of lips were at his ear, making Shane jump. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes again. “Just. Wait.”

A hand on his tattoo-free shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise each fingertip into the skin there. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

A push, and then the voice again, almost disinterested, “Fine. Then go.”

Shane scrambled to stand, nearly tumbling upward as he raced up the stairs and into the bedroom. He undressed with shaky hands, assuming the position requested of him, weight on his front, hands laced behind, and knees bent slightly so that they pressed into the end of the mattress. He shivered at the cool air swirling over his exposed skin, the tip of his already dripping cock smearing wetly against the dark blue duvet.

And then he waited. And waited.

Long enough that time lost all meaning, the bedroom quiet and bathed in darkness.

Deep in subspace now, he distantly registered the sound of the front door opening and closing, the soft jingle of Anya’s leash as she trotted down the steps. Oh. Ilya was walking the dog. Leaving Shane here, just as obedient. He felt sick with the way, for the briefest of moments, his mind coveted a collar.

More time passed. Shane was almost sleepy now, dissociated beyond the point of real awareness. Still, he stood, bent over and vulnerable. And he waited.

And waited.

It was an almost painful whiplash, the sound of approaching footsteps waking him from his delirious half-asleep state.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice asked, so terribly soft. A hand caressed his lower back, gentle enough that it made Shane’s skin crawl.

No. Not now. Not yet.

“No,” Shane repeated aloud, “I’m… ’m good. Want it.”

There was a loaded silence and then the rustle of clothing behind him. Shane exhaled in relief. He would get what he wanted. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He might have said that part aloud too. He wasn’t sure of much anymore.

The footsteps drifted away and then back, Shane straining to make out Ilya’s movements. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“I have the cane,” Ilya’s voice came again, “Do you understand what that is?”

Shane nodded, forehead brushing the bed. His words came out eager, stuttered almost, “Bamboo wood. To hit me.”

“Good,” Ilya cooed, “It will hurt more than just my hand. You know this, yes?”

Shane moaned, bending forward even more, arch deepening in a way he knew must be enticing. A hand grasped at the flesh of his cheek, thumb pressing mean and dry against his hole for just long enough to make him squirm.

“Words, Shane.”

“Yes,” he coughed out, voice cracking.

“This is new for us, yes?” Ilya continued, all his stupid questions driving Shane nearly mad with desperation, “So we will do ten. You like ten, don’t you? Remember when you made me count my strokes?” His voice drifted closer. “That was very mean, baby. But don’t worry. You are a little dumb right now, hmm? So I will count again for you.”

There was a whooshing sound. Wood slicing through the air. An explosion of pain that burst like stars behind Shane’s eyes. Tears and snot mixing pathetically as he cried out. Heavy cock between his legs nearly coming on impact.

“One,” Ilya said dispassionately.

Shane held his breath, waited for two, and disappeared.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 25th

He awoke to the sound of snoring, positioned on his stomach with a heavy, rumbling body laid across his legs.

Blinking into sharper awareness, he winced at the ache of his buttocks, remembering in a series of brief flashes that Ilya had brought out the cane Shane had admired on their second day together, smooth bamboo wood with a carved handle at the end. He had long denied his interest in impact play, wary of previous partners and their ability to inflict harm in a good way, but the bright red and black ink that brutally saturated a good portion of his skin had always betrayed his quiet chase for pleasure in the pain.

More memories flooded in. Ten hits. Shane coming untouched on number six and begging for forgiveness, begging for ten more. Ilya’s cum burning hot against his back, a voice sickly in its appraisal, ‘Your own tramp stamp, hmm? Like I am the artist. All marked up for me now.’

Holy shit, Ilya hadn’t even fucked him before he’d passed out completely.

There was another grumbling sound and Shane rolled over, lifting his head just to see a very affronted-looking Anya hop off the bed and go trotting down the stairs. Sliding gingerly off the edge a moment later, he landed on unsteady legs, padding over to Ilya’s en-suite bathroom to examine the damage.

Twisting to peer into the full length mirror on the door, Shane sucked in a breath, startled and hot all over again at the image of his upper cheeks mottled red and purple, nearly black in the middle where the cane had connected most frequently. It was a vicious wound, bruising already as bad as the worst of his hockey injuries and only a few hours old. Touching two fingers to the swollen area, Shane felt crazed with the desire for a permanent mark.

Spinning away from the mirror, he decided to clean up a bit, showering and brushing his teeth and doing the basic skincare routine that had Ilya cringing on day one and proclaiming that Shane had too much money (and a rich boyfriend besides) to be using drugstore cleanser. Shane smiled as he dried his face, recalling how he’d called Ilya a snob in response, and then been kissed very thoroughly at the sink despite his bratty attitude. Pressing into his bruises again with a wicked grin, he considered the fact that they really were meant for each other, in the freakiest, most cosmic of ways.

Stealing the biggest t-shirt in Ilya’s wardrobe and a pair of loose boxers, Shane padded down the stairs, immediately greeted by the smell of breakfast. And coffee. Sweet, sweet coffee.

“Christ, you scared me,” Ilya cursed when Shane snuck two arms around his waist at the stove top, “I am so glad you are awake, солнышко. You worried me a little, sleeping so long.”

Shane burrowed into Ilya’s back, mumbling, “When I get really spacey like that, I can sleep the whole night sometimes. Sorry. I should’ve warned you.”

“No, no,” Ilya chastised sweetly, “No apologizing. You were perfect.”

The praise had Shane wriggling happily, plastered to his boyfriend like a particularly greedy limpet. “Have you ever done that before?”

“The cane?” Ilya asked, feeling Shane’s nod against his back, “Yes, sweetheart. Many times. I would not have brought it out for you in that state if I wasn’t sure.”

Shane frowned. “But I was the best at it, right?”

Reaching out to switch off the burner, Ilya spun to face Shane, guiding them away from the stove and against the kitchen island — a location rapidly becoming one of Shane’s favorite places to be kissed. Like a veritable mind reader, Ilya kissed him right at the moment the thought blossomed, just a hint of tongue slipping in before he pulled back, leaving Shane panting and dizzy with love, love, love.

“Everything with you is the best,” Ilya stated simply and Shane smiled so hard he thought his face might split at the seams.

“I noticed Anya slept with me a bit,” Shane observed, once they were sat at the dining table again, a sky high pile of bacon and eggs plated between them.

“Yes,” Ilya said, glancing over to where the collie was curled up in her bed, “I tried to keep her out, but she would not stop scratching at door all night. She heard you crying a bit during the scene, I think, and wanted to comfort you. This morning I could not get her to leave.”

Shane exhaled sharply, heart aching in his chest at the simple act of canine companionship.

“Thank you, Anya, sweet girl,” he murmured in Anya’s direction, one triangle ear perking up at the sound of her name.

“She likes you,” Ilya said, expression illuminated with such fondness it was like staring into the sun. He bit his lip, features greying like a cloud passing over when he added, “She will miss you when you are gone.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 27th

The game against Edmonton went poorly.

An ugly loss, without a scoring contribution from Ilya, who had been shutout all night by one of the league’s most brutal defensive pairs and a goaltender who might as well have been wearing a puck magnet in his glove. Edmonton were on a winning streak, so the 3-0 finish wasn’t a surprise exactly, but Shane knew how personally Ilya bore the weight of every game. He had been the same once, playing at the altar of elite hockey, with a victim-savior complex that was biblical in scale. Even now, the ‘my fault’ mantra could be hard to shake.

Ilya returned home much later, after texting Shane that he was meeting with the coaching staff to triage their pitiful offense, and stumbled into the living room looking so exhausted that Shane was leaping to his feet to support him.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, trying to wave Shane off, “You did not have to stay up for me.”

“Of course I did,” Shane argued back, Ilya letting out a sigh of resignation and leaning into him fully.

Shane guided them gently back toward the sofa, onto the long part of the sectional where they’d fucked the first day. It was hard to believe that almost a week had passed, Shane set to drive home in the morning, and he found himself sick at the thought — the same nausea that had come in a sudden, crashing wave as he’d watched Ilya Rozanov walk out of his Montreal apartment for what could have been the first and last time.

“What do you need?” he murmured, Ilya curled up in his arms, smelling like the lemony shampoo from the Centaurs’ locker room that had become devastatingly familiar.

“To forget, for a while,” Ilya whispered back, a hand sneaking down between Shane’s legs to palm at his cock, finding him soft there for now, of course, with the ache of his concern, “Please, Shane.”

“Baby,” Shane breathed out, understanding what he was meant to do.

The mask fit a little better this time, his mind reshaping around the act of dominance with smoother contours. The script appeared before him, miraculous and simple.

Two fingers reaching out, Shane whispered, “Suck.”

And Ilya did.

𓆟

I love you, Ilya had choked out, eyes far, far away as Shane finally let him come.

After, Shane had vowed not to push him on it.

That was until he said the words again, bright-eyed and confident at the yawn of sunrise, and Shane let himself believe them.

“I love you too,” he whispered back, “From the first day, maybe. Crazy for you.”

“My handsome kidnapper,” Ilya joked, “This is, what? Stockholm Syndrome, they call it?”

“You’re terrible,” Shane argued, shoving at him beneath the sheets, and then: “I love you.”

Ilya’s smile was radiant, the Russian syrupy as he echoed the phrase in translation, once and then twice when Shane requested it.

“We can have this forever, right?” Shane asked, giggling helplessly under the barrage of Ilya’s kisses, endless ‘I love you’s’ mouthed into his skin.

“Yes,” Ilya said, breathing the word so close between them that Shane imagined he could swallow it down — an oath eating monster, greedy for the promise. He connected their lips in another hungry kiss and considered the idea of leaving, of reverting back to starvation… a horrible, inevitable fate.

They fell back asleep just as the sun crested the horizon, bathing the room in warm light, an alarm set for hours later still.

At their feet, Anya was snoring.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

October 28th

Shane hated doorways, he decided. In the most cliched, metaphorical of ways.

Like when they meant goodbye.

“This is not fair, you know,” Ilya remarked, lingering in said doorway, “I cannot be so romantic as you and beg you to stay. You don’t even have a flight to cancel.”

Shane bit his lip, fond as ever. “You could cancel yours?”

Ilya smiled back at him and gently shook his head, knowing that Shane wasn’t really asking. The game against Vegas was a crucial first stop on the road and they both knew that Ilya was very much needed. It was only that Shane sort of needed him just as much.

Shuffling his feet, duffel bag starting to weigh heavy on his shoulder, Shane made his decision. “I, um… I might have made some plans.”

Ilya perked up, Anya’s ears doing a matching movement where she was tucked between his legs. “What plans?”

Shane swallowed, suddenly nervous with the gravity of what he was about to disclose. “Well, I drove up to Ottawa a little earlier than I might have led you to believe. And I used those extra hours to tour this renovated warehouse space downtown. Perfect size for a gallery. With an apartment right above it too.”

Ilya’s face had gone slack, surprise laid bare. “Shane…”

“I just thought,” Shane barrelled on, “that it might be a nice place to set up a new home base. Closer to my parents, you know. And I could open up the gallery space to local artists, students even. With Montreal not far, it’s an easy commute to the studio for tattoo clients anyway.” He sucked in a breath. “And JJ is thrilled. He’s sort of been threatening to murder me for the Montreal apartment for years now so… um, yeah. Might give Ottawa a try, or whatever. Thoughts?”

Ilya, still frozen, took a moment to blink back into action. Stepping onto the patio, he had his arms around Shane in an instant, hugging him close.

“I think,” he breathed out, voice warm against the shell of Shane’s ear, “that you should not get too attached to this Ottawa apartment. In a few months, some crazy person might ask you to move in with them.”

Shane sniffled at the response, burrowing into Ilya’s shoulder like he’d done one too many times over the course of this trip. Enough to feel terrible in the absence of that touch for weeks to come. He sucked in a breath, knowing now at least that there was an end goal in sight.

“That’s funny,” he said, a giggle escaping him as Anya shoved her snout between their legs, yipping in complaint at being ignored, “because I, an even crazier person, might say yes.”