Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Miles Canton, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

BDSM, Realistic Kink, Kink Negotiation, Humiliation Kink, Cock & Ball Torture, Hung like a fecking horse Ilya Rozanov, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Nobody can outfreak Shane Hollander, Idiots in Love, Edging, Mutual Pining, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, They're somehow both awesome at communicating but also terrible at it ygm, Subspace, subdrop :(, Dacryphilia, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Praise Kink, Bondage, Sadism, Degradation, actually I think Hudson Williams outfreaks him quite a bit, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, nah hudson williams cant outfreak MY shane hollander, not a fuckign chance, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-06 Updated: 2026-02-18 Words: 32,559 Chapters: 6/?

(help, i think i'm falling)

Summary

“You’re taking him to the Canteen?”

“Yeah- wait. You know it?” Shane turned to Rose with a surprised look on his face.

“He’ll like it!” Miles said, looking a bit shame-faced, like a child who hadn’t expected to be caught out.

“The Canteen, Miles.”

“He’ll have fun!” Miles insisted.

—-----------------------------

Going to a kink club with Miles may be one of the weirdest things Shane has ever done. But the evening gets even freakier when he bumps into Ilya Rozanov, his longtime rival and captain of the very team Shane was meant to be playing that night.

He's unfairly hot and incredibly irritating- but he gets under Shane's skin in a way no other dom can.

So hey, they might just find a way to make this work.

(Based on my own experiences as a domme in the London kink scene!)
Now with a playlist!

Chapter 1: it's unfortunate that when we feel a storm

Chapter Notes

Renovations all up and done! Apologies to anyone who had the misfortune to try and read this thing as I was editing.

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/bellonaxx

Playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1FHAP19t4Re30TFjuUdnGd?si=EUoaV4rgS8e77XtKFPQC2Q

He wanted to cry; couldn't stop the wetness building up in his eyes. Whether from the absurdity of the situation he’d found himself in, or the sheer, mind-melting pleasure he felt as Rozanov worked him bodily, he didn’t know. Just that in the middle of a crowded dancefloor, a throng of people. He didn’t want Rozanov to stop. 

—-----------------------------

Shane rechecked the address, glancing down at his phone and wiping off the settling snow from the screen with the back of his gloved hand. A questioning glance back at the building had confirmed it. He was unmistakably in the right place.

Part of him would have preferred to be lost; to save face when it came to confessing to Miles. “The train was cancelled and then I tried to call a cab but I couldn’t get someone to pick up, there was so much traffic, and then I finally got there but I was two hours late-”

He was not late. But he was quickly regretting that hushed conversation in the restaurant and then the subsequent drunken confession to Rose and Miles about what exactly he meant when he preferred ‘being the hole’.

Visiting a kink club was one of the weirder things Shane had ever done. Having his now-ex-girlfriend-turned-best-friend tell him he was gay had ranked pretty high for a while, but that had slowly dropped in ranking after a newfound appreciation for the Montreal party scene. A string of casual hookups ranging from mediocre to catastrophic had confirmed his interest in only men, but his fear of being caught prevented anything more than carefully anonymous (and somewhat unfulfilling) encounters.

Strangely enough Shane was much more comfortable with the notion that he was, in fact, very kinky, than he was with being gay. It seemed something that was tied intrinsically with what made him him, something that had needled its way into his conscience from before he could remember.

He couldn’t trace back his preferences to one particular traumatic event, thank you very much. If he really looked, maybe he did have some issues around being in control, but to be honest, the kink stuff seemed to have evolved by itself, independent of anything to do with the rest of Shane, or hockey.

So yeah, only Rose and Miles really knew. They were both open enough to get it and high profile enough to understand that if this ever got out, Shane would be royally and truly fucked.

It was Miles in the end who invited him on a night out on the town, whilst Shane was in New York for a match against the Boston Bears. Being able to visit him and Rose was unfortunately a rare occurrence, given the unpredictability of Rose’s schedule and Shane’s limitless dedication to practice.

But the game had been cancelled. His teammates had flown back to Montreal, and he’d been left alone, forced to stay for a commercial he’d been booked to film with Rozanov, opposing captain and bane of Shane’s fucking existence for the past nine years.

So yeah, he was stuck in New York with a few nights to kill.

Stuck with nothing better to do than this, apparently.

—-----------------------------

Shane wasn’t sure what he had expected. A dingy looking massage parlour or an abandoned-looking industrial estate would look out of place on this side of New York. (Not that he necessarily thought an event of this size and scale would be operating out of a massage parlour. He wasn’t that dense.)

He just hadn’t expected the gilded marble facade and rampant opulence of a building which emulated a wealth rivalling his own. In the daytime, he was sure there would be people in suits rushing about, invariably cursing at their phones.

Hell, was next door a church, for God’s sake?

—-----------------------------

“You’re taking him to the Canteen?” 

“Yeah- wait. You know it?” Shane turned to Rose with a surprised look on his face. 

“He’ll like it!” Miles protested, looking a bit shame-faced, like a child who hadn’t expected to be caught out.

“The Canteen, Miles.”

“He’ll have fun!” Miles insisted. 

Shane had looked back and forth between them. 

It was always fun to try outfreak each other sometimes, but he was shocked that Rose, of all people, knew more about this shit than he did. Not that he knew very much. Just that, hey- maybe he was into it. 

“It’s a member’s club? Isn’t it?”

“I’m Miles Canton. I’m in the fucking X Files.”

“Isn’t that more reason not to go?”

“Eh, it’s kinda on brand for me. It’ll be fun!”

“He’s Shane Hollander. People will recognise him.”

Rose gave Shane a kind of exasperated look, like what the fuck. 

Miles, already tipsy, leant forwards and waggled his eyebrows. He shook his finger at Rose.

“Aha! Now my genius. It is almost frightening.”

He whipped out a- he didn’t even know what it was. Just a tangle of leather and straps and harnesses, and was that makeup?

Shane felt this sinking feeling in his stomach. What the hell had he got himself into. He held the pieces of what he assumed were clothes in his hands, bemusedly. He had no idea what to do with them.

“Okay, so it’s a little complicated. But we’ll figure it out. I got you.”

Shane was not convinced at all.

(He ended up there anyway.)

—-----------------------------

He’d looked the club up on streetview in the few moments he’d dedicated to stressing out about the whole thing, in between hours of rigorous training at the rink.

What the internet hadn’t prepared him for was the massive queue of people, some already in their kink gear, the rest cozied up in jackets and carrying unassuming duffel bags.

It was a bit nippy, even for New York Winter, but Shane still felt himself break out into a nervous sweat, aware of his own body in a way that felt newly intense. He kept adjusting his posture, unsure whether to stand confidently or make himself smaller. Every movement felt noticeable, as if he were being observed even when no one was looking directly at him.

He was fidgeting, palms sweaty. He tried to surreptitiously wipe them on his thighs, then wedged them under his armpits, crossing his arms, feeling very conscious of where he was and why he was there. Even though everyone else was there for the same thing. 

God, he was lucky he’d had the time to shave.

He felt stupid enough as is in the mesh top and leather trousers he’d borrowed from Miles. They were slightly too tight for his broader frame. The soft fabric clung tightly to his skin, far more exposing than he was used to and provided no avenues for moisture to disperse to. He’d feel even stupider later when he’d have to don the leather mask he’d brought with him to protect his identity.

Shane knew that if it wasn’t the relative anonymity of the face mask obscuring him, he would be freaking the fuck out right now. Even more than he already was.

The queue shuffled forwards some more.

—-----------------------------

There were bodies moving, contorting amongst the fog and flashing lights. Shane could feel the thumping music in his chest, rising through him. The vague outline of a horned creature. The smell of sweat and leather and metal. Everything moving, coming in and out of view.

He’d briefly caught a glimpse of the designated darkroom, too intimidated to go inside. Shane hadn’t really cruised before, either, and had no idea how to start. The dungeon was on some other floor, and the place was a fucking maze. But he saw people milling about with coils of rope attached to their harnesses, men and women in cuffs and collars, the occasional crack of a whip cutting through the darkness.

The strobes pierced through the mist, and Shane spied the silhouette of a tall man, dancing with fluid movements, sensual for someone his size. Shane could just about trace the outline of a military cap and a tight v-taper, complemented by a seductive happy trail. A glimpse and he was gone.

He’d thought he hated clubbing, but weirdly, he was really enjoying this event, despite being mostly sober. There was a hypnotic tranquility to the pulsing beats, the lack of shoving, the intimacy of it all.

What he actually hated was the sloppiness of being drunk, the stench of puke and cheap perfume, the blaring of the same trashy 90s music in every club. Here, in this crowd, he could move freely, swaying back and forth to the music, no strangers standing too close and with the space to breathe without hyperventilating.

He’d always felt awkward on the dance floor, but here it was acceptable to just move and thrash with the beat. Nobody was looking, for once in his life. Nobody could see him dance.

Probably a good thing, too. He was a shit dancer.

—-----------------------------

“I’m heading with this guy!” Miles screamed into his ear, hanging off the arm of this huge, clean shaven, mountain of a man, with hair cropped close to his skull and muscles that rippled through his leather jacket. It had literally taken him 15 minutes on the dance floor before being hit on, a throwaway comment lost in the pounding music, Miles pulling the stranger in closer.

Which had left Shane dancing. Alone.

For a short moment anyways. He’d weaved through the throng of bodies to the bathroom, disappearing into a stall.

Shane removed his mask, and scrubbed at his face, trying to figure out how on earth he’d been manipulated into this situation.

He sat down heavily on the lid of the toilet seat, and made a noise of dissent as he tried to desperately calm down his heartbeat, feeling the rising sense of anxiety blooming in his chest.

He needed a drink.

With a quiet whew, he steeled his nerves, replaced his mask and got ready to get up and leave, flushing the toilet to not arouse suspicion.

And then promptly realised that was completely unnecessary- he was literally in a sex club.

And now, he realised, was facing a crudely cut out hole in the side of the stall, its rough edges covered in peeling tape (in a lackluster attempt to protect against splinters going into sensitive places).

Luckily the next stall was unoccupied, at least for the time being.

Shane made a beeline out of there before someone could come in and offer an appendage through the hole.

Or worse, catch him with his mask off and recognise him.

Shane wasn’t sure what the overlap would be between devoted fans of the NHL and people who frequented kink venues but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna test it.

—-----------------------------

Shane had explored what he thought had to be the entire club, but it seemed to him a maze of endless corridors and writhing bodies. He’d left one room to go up what seemed like way too many stairs to fit into the exterior shell of the building, just to end up in another massive room. 

He’d watched with wide eyes at the dungeon, but maybe it was slightly too heteronormative. There was the occasional gay guy getting spanked, but the majority of the benches and crosses were taken up by straight couples, male dominance and female submission. He didn’t really get it at all. Miles had told him, and warned him- a hetero club is probably safer, just in case, and I’ll take the fall if you get found out- just tell them I dragged you along, a dare or something- but it wasn’t really quite what he wanted, didn’t really do it for him to watch a woman being whipped.

Irritated, and feeling the familiar feeling of anxiety quickly growing inside him, Shane turned around another bend-

And promptly ran into a brick shithouse of a man.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry-” he scrambled to apologise, then stopped.

Shane was staring at the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his entire life. His fur trench fell heavy from his shoulders, dark and glossy, the kind of thing that should have looked excessive- anachronistic, even. But it didn't, not on him.

Beneath it peeked the beginnings of a leather harness, furnished with steel D rings. The steep collar of his jacket framed his face, emphasizing his high cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the pale, assessing eyes beneath dark lashes, decorated with a smudge of eyeliner. A curl of hair peeked out from under his military cap.

"блядь! Ugh, my cigarette!”

Shane abruptly jolted, momentarily startled out of his reverie. A Russian accent. What the fuck, he recognised that Russian accent?

He’d heard it before, but this time it lacked its usual taunting.

It was the man from earlier, the one who’d disappeared into the strobing lights before he could make a move. 

(Actually, who was Shane kidding. He would never have got that far.)

Because it was also Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Bears and longtime rival of Shane. The only other person (apart from Scott Hunter on a very good day) capable of nipping past the Montreal defence and scoring an irritating amount of goals. Rozanov, with a famous penchant for chirping the opposing team into dropping gloves, and raising the average percentage of fights on the ice for the Bears singlehandedly.

Shane and the rest of the hockey world generally considered Shane to be a very even tempered player: smart and with the skill to back it up. Rozanov, somehow was the exception to that rule, playing hard and fast, occasionally rough and tumble, wearing Shane down to become the only person capable of provoking a rise out of him. Rozanov could get under his skin in a way nobody else could, with just a few scathing words.

Speaking of.

"You make me drop cigarette-” he said.

Without thinking, and with an atypical level of cockiness, Shane blurted out, “Smoking’s bad for you anyways.”

Rozanov stopped. He reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a packet of Sobranie cigarettes and a steel lighter. He elegantly placed one in his mouth and lit it, with a small inhale, before blowing out a cloud of smoke.

He looked at Shane. Properly, this time.

A single raised eyebrow, as if to say ‘what are you going to do about it’, and a long indulgent drag. Shane catalogued the movement with a dry mouth, noting the way smoke curled along the sharp line of his cheek as he held it, his eyes half-lidded. Fuck he looked hot.

And ah shit, maybe those shots were a bad idea.

“Wait, no I didn’t mean- sorry, It’s Shane, Shane Hollander.”

“ да, I know who you are.” His gaze had been completely inscrutable. "Very weak backhand. I know Shane Hollander."

If Rozanov had been surprised to see Shane, hockey’s poster child, golden boy, and all around polite and decidedly unkinky Wasian representation at a fetish club, he had been doing a very good job of hiding it.

Rozanov’s eyes had narrowed.

He’d flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“What the fuck are you doing here.”

—-----------------------------

Shane had no response to that. 

What was he doing here? And how, of all the people to run into in a kink event: childhood friends, parents, long lost family members. How had Ilya Rozanov beaten all the others on that list? 

Press conferences and tabloid headlines and Shane’s fruitless attempts at receiving media training had not prepared either of them for something like this.

Rozanov rolled his eyes at Shane’s lack of response and dragged him into a dark, secluded corner. He folded his arms. 

Shane ripped the mask off his face, and scrunched it up in his first, feeling the cool air rush over his face. He wiped off the condensation from his cheeks, feeling a little exposed and embarrassed. 

“Hello? I said, what the fuck are you doing here.”

Shane turned bright red, a trait he’d inherited from his dad. It was in addition to his Asian flush, a trait he’d unfortunately inherited from his mum.

“Uhhh. Browsing?”

It didn’t sound very convincing. And he knew it.

Shane tried furtively to avoid Rozanov’s gaze, even as the other man tried to look him in the eye. He settled on ogling that very nice chest. The corridor was spinning a little. 

“Right. Browsing.” Rozanov repeated, incredulously. “Hollander, we are in a sex club.”

Shane gave him an affronted look. 

“Yeah, I kinda figured. The latex kinda gave it away.”

“Okay, so what is Shane Hollander doing in -”

“Shut up!”

He clamped a hand over Rozanov’s mouth. He rechecked their surroundings. All clear.

He leaned in closer, speaking in a hushed but urgent tone, “Don’t say my name. And for the record, I’m allowed to go to these things if I want, okay?”

He cautiously withdrew his hand, trusting Rozanov not to broadcast his presence again. 

Rozanov slowly broke into a lopsided grin. His eyes were filled with mirth, and he looked Shane up and down with impressed, assessing eyes.

“Wow,” he said with a huff, in his annoying Russian drawl, “Canada’s golden boy, getting hands dirty in sex club. How will world react when they find out he’s human, just like the rest of us.”

“Don’t joke about that. Besides you’re here too,” Shane retorted.

“This place has dress code,” Rozanov continued weakly, slightly in disbelief, gesturing at the dark mesh and leather Shane was wearing. “I did not think you-”

“-would ever be caught dead somewhere like this?” Shane finished, “Yeah, but Miles is big into the scene and I figured I’ve heard enough about it I should check it out a little.”

“Ah so you are here with Miles. I did not know you went that way.”

Shane’s hackles immediately rose. 

“Rozanov, I swear to god if you tell anyone-”

“Relax. We have same secret, да? I will not say anything about your boyfriend-”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Shane butted in. 

He paused. Hell, Rozanov had already caught him here. And what did he mean, the same secret? A slight thrill ran through his spine. 

“I am… you know. That way.” He started, “But Miles is just a friend,” he added, begrudgingly. 

“Huh.” 

A beat. 

They watched a woman lead two men by leashes towards a back room. 

Shane’s eyes flicked back towards Rozanov.

“Did you… did you come with anyone?” Shane probed. Rozanov had a staunch reputation as a womaniser. But what did he mean by the same secret?

“No, I came alone.”

“Brave.”

 “Eh, is okay. Not first time. I met a guy here, but he was so, how you say, arrogant. Very annoying.” Rozanov shrugged. “Very hot though. Even more annoying.” 

“Oh, so you’re also…?”

“I like both.”

“I’m surprised Rozanov, you’ve got such a reputation.”

“Mixed crowd helps,” Rozanov said, “People see what they expect.”

Shane guessed that was true. Rozanov had taken the same liberties in concealing his identity that he had. And he was right, the mixed crowd helped. 

“I can’t believe out of everyone, I run into you here?” Although it made more sense, at least outwardly, for Rozanov to be there than Shane himself.

“I never expect you anywhere that doesn’t involve a rulebook. Although I am sure there are many rules for the dungeon.”

They shared a look.

“Well,” Rozanov said, stepping aside, offering a way out. “We can pretend we didn’t see each other.”

He hesitated. Scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Fuck me I need a drink.”

Shane glanced at Rozanov.

“A drink?” he said. “God, me too.”

“You want a round?”

Shane exhaled. He’d been kinda freaking out by himself. And hell, Rozanov seemed to know what he was doing. What was the fucking harm of it?

“Hell yeah,” he admitted.

Rozanov smiled slowly, a jagged smile that split across his face. 

“Sure. On me.”

—-----------------------------

Shane didn’t know how he’d ended up here.

Somewhere along the line, he’d challenged Rozanov to a shot race, heckled by Rozanov’s taunts of ‘stupid Canadian, can’t hold his drink, here’s how we Russians do it!’

He’d failed, obviously, and spectacularly. 

He stumbled, and Rozanov had caught him. 

“Don’t wanna muck up that pretty face of yours, Hollander.” 

He’d stumbled, and gained the confidence, spurred by Rozanov’s easy smiles and laughter to nose against the other’s neck as he held him steady. 

The dance floor was a wall of sound. Techno pounding through their chests, lights strobing white and blue, bodies packed so close it felt anonymous and exposed at the same time.

Something in him loosened. He laughed, loud and unguarded, and Rozanov leaned in to say something he never actually finished.

They were too close already.

It almost made sense then, to close what little distance there was left until they were moving together on the dancefloor, as one, writhing, twisting together in harmony with the beat of the music. Necking each other, open mouthed kisses, hands grasping, groping. Touch was bliss, an euphoria rising within him, cresting in waves. 

They ended up in the bloody gloryhole bathroom again. 

Fewer prying eyes.

No witnesses apart from each other, to Shane on his knees on the filthy floor, frantically trying to release Rozanov’s cock from the mess of harnesses he had on. His hands weren’t really working properly, and he settled at mouthing against the bulge, tasting leather and sweat and something uniquely Rozanov. He was mussed up and sweaty and his pupils were blown wide. He must have looked positively debauched.

He fumbled a little more with the buckles and then gave up with a huff. Rozanov reached down and then suddenly his cock was springing out, hard and hot.

In any other situation, Shane would be irritated to find out that Rozanov, on top of being awesome at hockey and gorgeous, was also hung. Shane himself was a perfectly respectable six (and a half, the half was very important), but Rozanov was easily eight or maybe nine inches, and thick enough that Shane’s fingers couldn't fully wrap around it. He vaguely remembered locker room banter about Ilya Rozanov’s dick, but it was one thing to hear about it, and another when it was right in front of your face.

Well, at least he was still better at hockey. Probably.

Shane mouthed a little at the underside, accidentally catching Rozanov’s eyes as he kissed and licked up his dick. 

He took the tip into his mouth, licking against the frenulum and hollowing out his cheeks. Rozanov gave a quiet gasp from where he was braced. Shane, happy to have wrangled a sound out of the guy, redoubled his efforts, trying to take as much of it into his mouth as possible.

Rozanov’s fingers curled into his hair, gentle and without putting pressure. Shane made an affirmative noise around his dick, which Rozanov thrust into, the hand in his hair tightening its grip. Rozan gripped him, holding his head into place as he started to facefuck him, rocking his hips gently at first, and then rougher as Shane responded with eager little moans. 

““Yes, дорогая, just like that.” 

Shane relaxed his mouth around the intrusion, focussing less on how he was using his tongue and more on just letting his throat go slack so Rozanov could use his mouth. His own dick was untouched, laying heavy between his thighs. He could taste the saltiness of Rozanov’s precum.

“That’s it. Good boy.” Rozanov breathed out.

Rozanov was holding a steady rhythm, occasionally pausing, but careful not to let Shane choke for too long, although every splutter of Shane’s throat as he tried and failed to adjust to the size made Rozanov’s dick jerk in response.

Shane’s eyes were tearing up, but he made another strangled moan against Rozanov’s cock. 

Rozanov responded by thrusting deep, Shane barely halfway down but already feeling the blunt head bump against the back of his throat. 

He pulled out all the way and slapped Shane’s face with his dick, smearing around the mess of saliva and precum. Shane mouthed at the tip, blissed out.

“You like this.” Rozanov stated. He sounded delighted. 

Shane moaned again, face firmly pressed against Rozanov’s crotch, and tried to buck his hips closer, against his calves, his ankles, seeking any kind of friction. He’d hump the floor if it meant he had any chance of getting off.

“You wanna be a good boy for me?”

Shane’s eyes slid closed and he nodded into Rozanov’s thigh, desperately trying to convey how much he liked that, how desperately he wanted to be good for Rozanov.

“You’re such a good slut, aren't you.”

The best slut. Rozanov’s. 

His brain was already turning off, to mush. 

Rozanov motioned for him to get up and brace himself against the bathroom wall. Shane eagerly stumbled up, fighting against a sudden wave of nausea. 

Rozanov reached around from behind him, undoing Shane’s fly with one hand and tugging at his hard dick. Precum was already beading at the tip, but he hadn’t made too much of a mess yet.

“Are you clean?” He asked.

“Yesss,” Shane slurred. He had cleaned, but hours ago. And he wasn’t feeling very well. Nauseous. But he supposed he could find a water bottle if he got desperate. “You should fuck me already,” he whined.

Rozanov’s grip haltered and slowly pulled away. Shane missed the heat immediately. 

He studied Shane closely.

Shane’s eyes couldn't focus, slipping from one thing to the next. He stood up straight, on his best behaviour, trying to convey his best ‘I’m okay stop worrying let’s go fuck’ look.

“You are drunk.” Rozanov stated. He sounded a bit surprised. It was as if he was only just realising the situation they were both in. “You are very drunk. You were not this drunk before.”

Shane smiled dopily back up at him and leaned in for another kiss, chasing Rozanov’s mouth even as he pulled away. Maybe there was some alcohol in those overpriced shots after all.

Rozanov held him at arms length, “Hollander, no we cannot.”

Shane pouted. He tried to remember how his mouth worked. 

“Hollander, I’m being serious.”

He wanted to get off. He made a half-hearted attempt to bat vaguely in the direction of Rozanov’s crotch.

Rozanov easily deflected his hand, then firmly clasped Shane by his shoulders. 

“You don’t want me?”

“Of course I do.”

“So why don’t you want to fuck me?”

“Of course I do. I can fuck you when we are both sober. If you are good, okay?”

Shane nodded, disappointed.. 

He could be good. He could be very good, for Rozanov.

Rozanov rolled his eyes, “If you remember me, that is.”

“Of course I’ll remember you!” Shane replied, offended.

It wasn’t a lie. 

Shane rarely drank until he threw up and had never had memory loss before. The difference between drunk and sober was unfortunately a very fine line for him, easily crossed. But hey, he was a cheap night out! And he didn’t really get hangovers, just the crushing hangxiety that came with the burden of remembering every single embarrassing thing he got up to on a night out.

“Okay, okay. I give you my number,” Rozanov placed a chaste kiss against his forehead. “You have phone on you?”

Phones weren’t allowed out in the club, but Shane had tucked his into his pocket. Miles, wearing a lot less, hadn’t carried his. 

Rosanov fumbled with Shane’s iPhone 7, using his thumb to unlock it. Shane pressed his face against Rozanov’s chest, slowly sliding his way down, succumbing to a sudden feeling of vertigo and exhaustion.

They left the toilet, Shane braced against Rozanov.

Rozanov was trying to find the exit. They moved through the dance floors. 

Shane! Someone called from the crowd. Lost in the music at first, but then louder, more insistent.

Shane swayed drunkenly, peering through the crowd, trying to locate the source.

Shane! 

He pulled away from Rozanov, squinting against the strobe lights.

And all of a sudden Miles’ face bobbed up into his field of view, “Darling! Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Oh my god I have so much to tell you, I could've sworn I saw-”

A nudge goodbye on the shoulder.

“Wait, who was that! Oh my god Shane, baby, you dirty girl, don’t tell me you got laid! Oh my god you got laid!”

And Shane turned back to Rozanov. 

But he was already gone.

—-----------------------------

He sobered up a little on the taxi home.

Shane bid Miles a quick goodbye, then stumble-ran the last couple steps to the foot of his apartment building. He knew how dishevelled he must look, even with the tan trench coat covering the worst of his outfit. Luckily it was still early, and he’d mostly sobered up on the taxi home. The lobby manager seemed preoccupied with his phone, so he managed to sneak past and into the penthouse elevator without too much duress. 

He saw himself in the mirror of the lift, bracing on the supports. God, he looked absolutely wrecked, with hair plastered to his face and a sheen to his body visible through the mesh top. His eyes looked dark and frantic. He was also achingly hard, in a way that didn’t seem possible given how much he’d drunk that night. Ilya fucking Rozanov seemed to be the exception to all his rules.

Fuck it.

Shane dropped what little he was carrying on the floor. 

There was a camera in the elevator. But this lift only serviced his floor and Shane knew it wasn’t being continually monitored. 

And god forbid a man get off in his own elevator.

He palmed himself through the leather, then quickly unzipped his fly. He was already leaking precum all over the inside of Miles’ trousers. Shit, he’d have to get them dry cleaned. 

The first touch of his cool hand on his dick felt like heaven.

He jerked off frantically, already knowing he wasn’t going to last, the memory of Rozanov’s voice in his ear, Rozanov pressed close amongst the bodies around them.

“You like this.”

Yes, yes I do, please.

“You wanna be a good boy for me?”

So good, so good. I can be good for you. For only you. I’ll do whatever you want, just please let me come after and it’ll be okay.

“You’re such a good slut, aren't you.”

I am, I’m such a good slut. I’m your slut, please I’m yours. I can be your toy, you can use me. Use me whenever you want. You can keep me, I can be your kept boy. Please, Rozanov, please sir, please I want to be good for you and I want to be your slut, your baby, you can use my cunt whenever you want. I want you to fuck me, I want my orgasms to belong to you, like everything else belongs to you, but please, Rozanov, Ilya, sir, please let me come-

—-----------------------------

Shane slumped to the floor of the elevator, internally cringing at the mess he’d made of his trousers and the top and the fucking floor and had he got some on his shoes as well? The ping of the elevator announced their arrival at his floor. Shane numbly let the doors close. He could feel the come and sweat on his body cooling and coalescing and becoming more liquidy. 

He staggered to his feet, wincing as he felt it smear all over his stomach and abs. 

Ugh. 

The dry cleaners it was.

Chapter End Notes

Heya guys :) This kinda fic been an idea in my head for years. I've been a long term lurker, short term poster, and was finally feeling inspired enough by this FUCKING SHOW to write the fic I've been looking for.

Hoping to accurately convey realistic kink in this- you're up for a treat with all sorts of wonderful consensual negotiation and communication. In terms of kink that it. Who knows what they actually think about each other (not them, certainly).

I’m basing this particular event off the Box in Soho, which is frequented by celebs and suchlike, as well as my experiences at fetish nights in London. Be warned, my experience is pretty much within the femdom scene and the occasional Torture Garden/Klub Verboten, so I most definitely cannot speak for the experience of gay men on the scene. Which I imagine is very, very different.

I do have a best friend in fashion who's contracted chlamydia and gonorrhoea like 8 separate times in the past year so may discretely ask for his input on the gay scene. And also suggest he start using condoms.

I ALSO have experience pegging men so like hopefully my writing of sex scenes won't be too incredibly jarring.

Poor Shane having to douche whilst eating a pound of beef every day.

If you wanna imagine the scene, there’s a Black Mirror episode called San Junipero which does a fabulous job of conveying what it’s like. Fun fact! That episode is actually filmed at Electrowerkz in London, which is a real life club that hosts some of these alternative events.

As a London girl, I'm gonna sprinkle British-isms throughout this fic. See if you notice them. And no I refuse to bow to peer pressure. Fyi we call it ice hockey here, as opposed to 'field hockey', which is just hockey.

Will probably go back and forth and update and revise chapters, but am very much currently operating off the philosophy that it doesn't have to be good, it just has to be done. Need to get ideas out of head and into writing. Haven't quite figured out formatting yet. Expect a gratuitous use of italics in the future.

So yeah, that's very much the inspo for this first chapter at least.

Hope you all stay tuned! Muah.

Og second chap notes before I reformatted:

Posted this from the medical library b t dubbs. You're welcome.

Just reminded me of someone I know who works as a charge nurse specialising in pain management. She's also one of the worst sadists I know. Funny how the world works.

This chapter is very much inspired by a time I went out with a friend and he literally shagged someone on the dance floor within the first half hour.

Chapter 2: we roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable

Chapter Notes

“Fuel the best version of you!”

“Bring the energy!"

“For Hollander. For Champions. For you.”

Shane literally wanted to crawl in a hole and sit there in a pile of his own refuse and body fluids until he starved to death or died of dehydration. While he appreciated the gung ho attitude to life demonstrated by the advertising campaign, there was literally not a single place in the world he’d rather not be than right there, on the ice, decidedly hungover and face to face with the same Ilya Rozanov who’d reduced him to a begging mess and then promptly fucked off. 

Apparently regular fistfights on the ice were A-okay but banging your slightly (quite) inebriated long term sports rival who was decidedly into you was not.

Okay, yeah. Shane was grateful Rozanov hadn’t let him go any further, but now his mind couldn’t stop playing back the night in an inescapable humiliation ritual. He scrunched his eyes and shook his head in an effort to recalibrate. 

Get your head in the game, Hollander. 

They’d been filming for the past two hours, and the bright lights of the rink made him feel a throb in his head that wasn’t helped by the sharp, barking orders of the guy directing the bloody thing. 

‘Just one more time, people!’

Never mind. He was actually going to lose it.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself, under his breath, before skating off to reposition himself. 

They were doing a couple action shots first, the team keen to capture this famous rivalry by forcing them to skate towards each other before simulating a clash of their sticks, an abrupt, skidding stop, and panting in each other’s faces. 

Shane wasn’t excited for later, the ‘post match’ part of the shoot, where he’d have to wipe the sweat off his face and pose shirtless with Rozanov, standing there like a numpty, forcing a cheerful smile and proclaiming this energy drink: the best choice for your body and your mind! Sponsored by Shane Hollander! And Ilya Rozanov! Whose opinion apparently means something to the countless masses! And who definitely didn’t almost shag the other night! 

Fuck that.

Shane would rather eat Hayden Pike’s 8 year old ‘lucky’ jockstrap whole than be plastered on a 20m billboard in that compromising of a position.

He’d never hear the end of it from his teammates.

He skated into position. 

—-----------------------------

Three hours in and Shane was starting to doubt himself a little bit. Surely he hadn’t imagined what had happened the night before? Misread the whole situation? He guessed it had happened before, he wasn’t always the best at reading people. But they had literally frotted on the dancefloor, and disappeared to a bathroom to have sex. 

Yet Rozanov had been nothing but cool and professional the entire shoot. 

During a lull, Shane skated over to Rozanov. The director was huddled over with the production team behind some cameras. They were rechecking footage. 

There was no way they’d be overheard, but Shane dropped his voice even so.

He’d rehearsed this conversation in his head, trying to find a way to naturally spur some conversation into motion.

“I want to say thanks. For. You know.”

“What?” Rozanov asked, distractedly. He fixed his hair, frowning to himself in the reflective glass, “Ugh, they make me look stupid.”

Shane didn’t think Rozanov could ever look anything other than unbelievably hot, especially not right now with his jersey off, exposing his tight abs, and his trousers sitting low on his waist. 

But he wasn’t going to tell Rozanov that. 

“Like, I was drunk. I appreciate it. That you didn’t take advantage.” He said instead.

Shane squirted some water in his mouth, and offhandedly squirted some onto the ice as well. 

“What?” Rozanov repeated, looking slightly bemused as he turned to peer at Shane through a mop of hair that had been professionally spritzed and styled by the same makeup team that had the brilliant foresight to lather the rest of him in oil.

“Oh, is nothing. It would not be right.”

“Yeah, but still. I was prettyyy out of it.”

Rozanov gave him a crooked, sleazy smile. 

“Don’t worry Hollander, you are not that hard to resist.”

“Shut up-” Shane replied, beet red. 

“Besides we always have next time.” Rozanov cut in, casually.

At Shane’s inquiring look, he clarified, “I give you my number, yes? You have it? I did not see text from you.”

So Shane’s memory wasn’t infallible after all. 

He dug his phone out of his bag and checked it. 

“I am Lily,” Rozanov said.

“Huh.”

Sure enough, a new contact had been added. 

lily xoxoxoxo

Shane pressed edit, capitalising the L and deleting the xos, to match the rest of the contacts in his phone. 

He didn’t quite recollect when Rozanov had added his number. Although that was probably because he had still been recovering from the whiplash of him pulling away at the club.

“Send me message. I will add you back.”

“And what will I be?” Shane asked.

“You can be Jane.”

“But you’ve been so… normal all day?” Shane said, “I thought, maybe…”

“You freak out yesterday when I say your name. I thought you would not want to discuss this here.”

“Okay, yeah no I get it, fair enough. I appreciate it.”

Shane bit his lip and looked down at his jersey. He brushed some snow off his trousers. It had probably sprayed there when they’d been skidding around. Save some poor intern having to photoshop off the damp marks when it melted.

“I hate these things.” Shane admitted. 

“You do so many of them,” Rozanov replied. “Mr. Businessman.”

“Yeah, I mean my mum- I mean, my manager books them,” Shane said, 

“Yes. I like the one with the yoga. In the woods.”

Shane blanched, “Wait, you saw that?”

Rozanov pulled a mock guilty face, eyes flicking sideways with humour. 

The director waved his arms, and called out. 

Shane and Rozanov shared an exasperated look, and then tiredly skated back into position.

—-----------------------------

Shane was by no means a blushing virgin. He took dick like a champ, he was proud to admit, but Rozanov threw him off balance. Shane had never really had anything more than a one night stand, and the idea of sharing something intimate with another player, let alone Ilya Rozanov, made him feel squirmy and a bit sick inside. He’d never really had a regular fuck buddy. He’d always hated playing with danger. He steered clear from anything close to drama, he hated the spotlight. He had no socials other than the one account solely managed by his mother, to which he didn’t even have the password to.

He made a point to never check his own socials, or anything related to him. It was a surefire way to make him feel anxious for the rest of the day. Shane nitpicked his own skating enough, let alone the thousands of people who were suddenly hockey professionals online.

If he really thought about it, he didn’t have a clue what his own Instagram looked like. 

Rozanov, on the other hand, posted frequently, after Instagram became more mainstream and popular. He was quick to update with stories of his wild nights out, his frivolous spends, his collection of cars. 

He was loud and irritating and had slammed Shane into the boards more times than he could count. 

It didn’t stop him wondering what Rozanov meant by next time.

—-----------------------------

The shower room was empty. Nobody else was in New York, they’d all already flown home.

Shane stood under the spray, letting the water hit him. It splayed and divided into rivulets and tiny streams down his muscles back. While he was less sweaty and gross than after practice or a normal game, he’d just been lathered with oil and was having a hard time getting it off.

The spray stopped. He hit the button again. 

A man padded into the room, another shower starting. 

The squirt of shower gel and agitated scrubbing. 

A muffled swear.

More scrubbing.

Rozanov and Shane made eye contact across the room, equally exasperated. They burst out into laughter. 

“It’s not fucking coming off.” Rozanov said. He’d lathered himself up with a crappy looking shower gel. He had soap suds all over his very naked body, Shane noted with a dry mouth. 

“I know,” Shane replied, “I feel like a baby seal.”

“Ughhh,” Roxanov moaned. 

Shane tried very hard not to focus on the dark happy trail and v taper of Rozanov’s abdomen as it flexed. His dick was perking up a little.

He turned, flustered, back to the shower to hide his growing interest. 

“You look less shiny than me,” Rozanov stated, “Can I borrow your body wash. Mine is like dish soap.”

“Yeah, sure,” Shane said. He bent over to retrieve it. It was a Japanese brand his mum had bought for him. Meant for his face. Probably hideously expensive. 

Shane squirted an obnoxious amount of it onto his hand for himself, then handed it to Rozanov, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Ah, much better.”

Rozanov twisted to get into his crevices. He frowned.

“Can you get my back?”

“Get your own fucking back, Rozanov.” 

“I was just asking.”

Shane nervously glanced around. But nobody was here. They wouldn’t be walked in on. And the cleaning staff weren’t due for at least another couple more hours. 

“Please,” said Rozanov.

And how was Shane meant to resist that.

“Turn around,” he said, lightly, faking a casualness that wasn’t really there.

He did, facing the wall, shoulders still tight from the shoot and previous training. There was a faint red mark where the pads had rubbed too long. 

Shane moved over, getting more of the soap on his hands, lathering it up a little bit, before working it into Rozanov’s back. He felt a light shudder run through Rozanov’s body, and the muscles flex and relax. Shane, without prying eyes, admired the way the water trickled down his 

“Is this okay?” Shane asked. 

“Mhmm.” Rozanov made a noise of contentment, “Can you give me massage? Hurts a little.”

And hell, Shane already had his hands on the guy’s back.

Warm water ran between them. The soap lathered easily, clean and sweet-smelling. He started at the shoulders, broad and knotted, working slow circles down Rozanov’s back.

“Still sore?” he asked.

“Yeah,” came the answer, quiet. “Shoulder. Took a hit last game.”

Shane remembered watching it over a week ago. It had looked nasty, a collision between Rozanov and Henderson that ended up in the former being slammed into the boards. “It’s still bothering you? I assume you’ve seen a physio about it?”

“Yes, yes. But physio is back in Boston already with team.”

Shane’s hands moved lower, careful, professional- at least at first. The muscles there were tight as wire, and when he pressed just a little harder, he felt the sharp inhale before it was smoothed away.

“That okay?”

A nod. 

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

The water beat steadily against the tile. He adjusted his stance, closer now, forearm brushing a bare side by accident. 

He worked the knot loose with his thumbs, slow and deliberate. The tension eased, little by little, and with it came something else.

For a moment, the only sounds were breath and water.

“Thanks,” Rozanov said finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

“Anytime,” he replied, just as quietly.

They both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

Shane stepped back, rinsed his hands, gave the shoulder a final, grounding squeeze- something that could still pass as ordinary if anyone walked in. Then he reached for his towel, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

“We should talk, by the way,” Rozanov said, casually, “My hotel is close by. Private.”

“What about?” Shane asked, although he already knew the answer.

Rozanov turned. His dick was jutting out, hard, flushed a light pink.  

He gestured, towards Shane’s own obvious hard on, embarrassingly visible through the cotton towel slung at his waist.

 “What do you think.”

“It’s not my fault, okay. And I can’t believe you just, left like that, yesterday.”

“I told you-”

“Yeah I get it, but you could’ve said bye or something!”

“Your friend showed up. I think he recognised me. I was going to call you a cab home, but…” Rozanov’s voice trailed off. He glanced down. “Unless you are mad for another reason?”

Shane took a step back, futilely trying to cover his growing interest with his hands.

“What? No. No.”

“If you wanted to get off, you should've just said,” Rozanov replied. 

Before Shane could answer, Rozanov had already sunk to his knees.

“Is okay?” he peered up at Shane through long eyelashes. Water was beading off his brow. 

Shane hesitated. They wouldn’t be walked in on. He shakily nodded and inhaled sharply when Rozanov went to undo the towel wrapped around his waist. It fell with a slap onto the wet floor. 

Rozanov pressed a gentle kiss against Shane’s inner thigh, creeping up towards his dick. 

He paused as Shane shuddered, noting the sensitive spot, lips curling into the imprint of a smile against Shane’s crotch. 

Shane motioned to cup the back of Rozanov’s head, wondering briefly how it would feel to touch his golden curls. They’d be soft and silky, he thought. 

Rozanov stopped the hand before it could touch him, kissing it softly. 

“Hands behind your back,” he said, “No touching.”

He pressed Shane closer to the wall, so his back was lightly grazing it. It felt cool against his flushed skin. 

Shane dutifully assumed the position, clasping his hands together behind his back. He shuffled his feet a little wider. 

Rozanov glanced up.

“Good boy. Stay like that.” He said. 

His own cock was hard and heavy between his muscled thighs. He ignored it.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

As soon as they made eye contact, Rozanov took the tip into his mouth, cataloguing the way Shane sighed and bucked into the movement. He licked from the base to the tip, controlled and precise, taking pleasure in the ways Shane reacted. 

He took a steady rhythm, using his hands to cradle Shane’s balls, and then in conjunction with his mouth, jerking and licking him simultaneously.

Shane was getting closer and closer, little mewls escaping from his mouth unbidden. As soon as Rozanov sensed he may actually come, he pulled off suddenly with a pop, wiping away the string of saliva connecting him to Shane’s tip with the back of his hand. 

Shane tried to chase Rozanov’s mouth with his hips, desperately thrusting into the air. 

Rozanov tutted slightly. 

“No moving, okay? I will not tell you again.”

“Sorry,” Shane gasped, “I’m trying.”

Rozanov’s hands moved up to clasp at Shane’s hips. Hard enough it only slightly hurt, but if Shane tried to thrust his hips, he was sure Rozanov would leave bruises. One hand ran itself soothingly up and down his thigh. 

“Try harder.”

“Yes sir,” Shane said, then as he caught his mistake, “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Rozanov’s eyes darkened, his pupils expanding until only a sliver of blue was left. 

“I like that,” he stated. He pressed a hard kiss into Shane’s pelvis, then nipped a little at his skin with his teeth. “Fuck, I like that.”

Shane’s head fell back with a low thunk against hte tiled wall. He wanted to sink to his knees, to beg, just so Rozanov would just put his mouth back on his dick. Yet Rozanov was already on his knees. And Shane could do nothing about it. 

“Please sir,” he tried, “Please may I come.”

“Hmm,” Rozanov started, “You are very needy.”

“Please-”

Shane was cut off as Rozanov slicked up his hand and started to stroke his dick.

“But you have been very good,” he said.

Shane felt the wet heat of Rozanov’s mouth on his dick, and he let his eyes flutter closed. It was tantalisingly good, and Shane wanted so desperately to thrust into Rozanov’s mouth, to get himself off, to come down his throat with his nose buried in Shane’s crotch. But instead, he clenched his hands behind his back, his knuckles going white with the force to restrain himself from moving, unable to move and reduced to begging, to pleading, please sir I need to come.

“Fuck I’m going to come-”

Rozanov abruptly withdrew himself.

Shane whined, the cool air on his dick a searing change from the warmth of Rozanov’s mouth. He glanced down only to see Rozanov with a smug smile. 

He shot him a frustrated look, which melted into a gasp as Rozanov started jerking him again, slowly. 

He was brought to the edge, over and over, a babbling, incoherent mess. He surely couldn’t handle any more, his dick was the hardest it had ever been, flushed an angry red. 

His knees buckled with the strain, another taunting smile directed his way, and a light slap to his thigh directing him to hold still, stay up, arms behind his back, no touching, and definitely no coming without permission-

“I’m gonna come, please sir can I come?”

Rozanov didn’t respond, he just inhaled through his nose, and took Shane as deep as he could go, until Shane could feel the flex of his throat convulsing around his dick. It sent him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back then, and let go, dick jerking in time with Rozanov’s heartbeat, pulsing down the back of his throat. Rozanov coaxed him through it, wringing him completely out. 

The showers had stopped running ages ago.

It was quiet except for Shane’s panting breaths and the faint dripping of a leaking showerhead. 

Shane felt lightheaded, like he was about to pass out. 

His vision was going a little bit, blurry around the edges.

Death by Ilya Rozanov’s mouth.

What a way to go. 

Rozanov stood up gingerly. His eyes were dark and he pressed Shane against the wall, kissing him intensely. Shane could feel the press of Rozanov’s cock against his thigh, as he rutted up against him, Shane’s own dick slowly softening. Rozanov had swallowed him whole, but he could taste the faint bitterness of his cum on Rozanov’s tongue, mixed with the soap. 

“Can I-” Shane began.

“On your knees,” Rozanov said, “Open your mouth.”

Shane assumed the position, mouth compliantly falling open. Rozanov cupped his face with his hand, his thumb tracing Shane’s lower lip, then nosing into his mouth. Shane sucked on it a little, still on cloud nine. 

“Stay.” 

Rozanov started jerking himself off in languid strokes, eyes fixed on Shane’s pretty face. His breaths came shallow and fast, groaning softly as he got closer to completion. 

“Stick out your tongue for me, малыш,” he said, tutting quietly, “There we go. Close your eyes.”

He couldn’t last that much longer after that, the picture of the player beneath him too perfect to resist. Shane was slightly tense in expectation, so dutiful, so obedient, so good.

He came with a low grunt, jerking himself through it, stripe after stripe covering Shane’s face. Shane flinched slightly at first, but leaned into it.

He looked beautiful, streaked in come, thoroughly claimed. Hair mussed up, breathing slowly and evenly. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, or moved. Rozanov hadn’t told him to, yet. 

Rozanov took some of the come near Shane’s mouth onto his thumb and Shane sucked on it greedily. 

“You did so well, pet,” Rozanov said, “Let me clean you up now.”

Shane just leaned into his thighs, blissful.

—-----------------------------

“I can’t stay for long,” Shane said, “My flight leaves tomorrow at 10, and I still have to go home and pack.” 

“I bet you arrive three hours before plane leaves,” Rozanov replied, snarky. He was pouring himself a glass of white wine. “Very organised. Never late.”

He did, actually.

“Are you really drinking from the hotel mini fridge?” Shane asked, ignoring Rozanov’s comments. “That stuff is awful. And it’s probably so overpriced.”

“I need drink,” Rozanov said, simply. 

He took a sip. 

“Fuck me, this is disgusting,” he spluttered, “Did someone piss in this?”

“And now you’ve got to pay for it,” Shane huffed out a laugh, satisfied, “Told you.”

“You should’ve said before I opened it, asshole,” he gave it an assessing swirl, and sniff, “Hmmm. Notes of…” 

Another sniff.

“Vinegar,” he decided, “You want?”

Shane politely declined.

Rozanov upended the glass into his mouth, throat flexing as he gulped it down, before pulling a face as if he’d taken a shot. 

“Blah. Your loss.”

Shane wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in Rozanov’s fancy hotel room. He was currently sat in the corner of the room, on a plush armchair. 

“Yours is so much nicer than mine,” he complained, making shapes in the smooth velvet, “Are your rooms always this nice?”

The room was softly lit, with tasteful decor and felt more like a studio apartment than a hotel room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan in glass and light, the skyline stacked in precise geometry beyond sheer curtains that softened everything just enough. Dark wood paneling and pale stone, a vase with a single sculptural stem, a lamp that cast a warm, flattering glow no matter where you stood.

Beyond a sliding glass panel, the bathroom gleamed; polished marble, a brass tub positioned to catch the light, thick towels folded with ceremonial precision. 

“You don’t do this?” Rozanov asked.

“Do what?”

“Book yourself a room.”

“No,” Shane said, “I usually get put up in a double room with Hayden. In a Holiday Inn, or something.” 

Rozanov looked genuinely confused, and slightly concerned. 

“So how do you bring people back?”

“Jesus, Rozanov. I don’t. Really. God!”

“Oh, phew.” Rozanov said. He wheezed out a laugh. “That is good. Relief. You do not force Pike to watch. He is not attractive.”

Shane looked repulsed and offended. 

“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talking about. And the fact you think how hot he is bears any relevance to whether or not I cuck him is appalling.”

“I did not want to assume,” Rozanov replied, mollified, “That is me. Very open minded.”

He waggled his eyebrows in a way that was definitely not meant to be seductive.

Shane rolled his eyes and pretended he didn’t find it sexy.

“Anyways, you wanted to talk, right?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, “You want anything?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Shane replied. He eyed the mini fridge distrustfully.

Rozanov settled down in the opposing armchair. He looked very domestic, hair mussed up and unruly. He was holding a cup of black tea. Hang on-

“Is that jam in your tea?” Shane asked, vaguely horrified. 

Rozanov looked down. He gave the tea a swirl with his spoon, then took it out and licked the rest of the undissolved jam off. 

“Is Russian thing. Reminds me of home,” He frowned, then accusatory, “Racist.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“But yes, I wanted to talk. You are new to scene, yes?”

“I guess, yeah. I haven’t really done anything. Just… you know. Thought about it.”

“You went to club, no? That is not nothing.”

To be honest, Shane had spent the majority of the night either pissed out of his mind or gaping, in awe of the chains and whips and people around him, wishing he was them.

“Like I said, I went with Miles. I don’t usually go out, at all.”

“So, you are… tourist?”

“No, I mean, yeah, kinda. But I’m into that stuff. I just haven’t, I don't know. Found the right person.”

“Is hard to tell, sometimes. Some people go if their friends bring them. But they aren’t actually into it.”

“Really?” Shane asked. Everyone had looked so confident, so dressed up and sure of themselves. 

“More so at general fetish events. The more niche, the fewer tourists.”

And yeah, he guessed that made sense.

“I’m definitely into it,” Shane confirmed. 

Rozanov seemed to relax a little. He blew onto his tea, a puff of steam rising up from the cup.

“Okay. I think we should negotiate. If we are to, I don’t know. Do this again.”

“What do you mean?”

Rozanov took a sip of his tea, contemplatively. 

“Maybe we should start at beginning. I will tell you about me, first.”

Shane nodded. He didn’t really know what to expect.

Rozanov’s voice took on a slight considering tone, “I like being dominant.”

He stated it as a fact, without any of his usual boasting or superiority. 

“For me, I like control. I like pain. Lots of different kinds. And humiliation, restraints… This is just what it looks like for me. No expectations.” 

Shane wished he had something to fiddle with. Maybe he should’ve accepted the tea after all. 

“Am I scaring you?”

Rozanov looked a bit unnerved for the first time, like maybe he’d been the one to misjudge the situation.

“No, not at all,” Shane clarified. He’d just been thinking. “I just don’t really know where to start.”

It wasn’t even a sex thing to begin with.

He’d always had fantasies. Since he was really young, just… as far back as he could remember, they were always there.

There was a scene in a book he’d read, when he was maybe seven years old: ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’, where Edmund had been tied to a tree and he could hear the schlick, schlick of the knife being sharpened on a whetstone. It had made his stomach feel light and tingly then, and his head floaty, in a way he couldn’t place at the time.

And then when he grew up, he started to realise that maybe it wasn’t completely normal to be thinking about things in a certain way… Like sure, he always knew it was something people didn’t necessarily talk about out loud, but in a way you don’t talk about income, or broadcast your latest dick appointment to your extended family.

But he’d always assumed everyone experienced the same thrill, that it was innate and intrinsic. A part of being human.

And then he’d watched Pirates of the Caribbean 2 with his hockey friends when he was 15 and made an offhand comment about that scene where that guy gets whipped, just to be confronted by, ‘what is wrong with you man, that’s basically a torture scene’. He’d managed to play it off as being a little young and awkward. So yeah maybe his brain was wired a little wrong, like the wires were crossed or something. 

He’d found S&M stuff later. Masturbated to it. A lot. Then thought he might want to try it for real. Asked hook-ups to get rough. If they wanted.

But it was hard to do that while firmly in the closet.

And nobody had really known what they were doing. He’d tried it with women first, but yeah that didn’t work out for obvious reasons. And the men weren't great either. He wanted it to hurt in a way most people literally didn’t have the strength to achieve.

Like come on, he was a professional hockey player. He took slams to the body all the time, he could handle a little roughing up.

But yeah, whether it was due to lack of strength or lack of will, nobody had managed to scratch that itch he so desperately wanted scratched.

Shane mostly didn’t talk about this kinda stuff with just anybody though.

It was a topic reserved only for those he trusted most in his life; being outed as gay was one thing. Being outed as gay and kinky and a sub was another.

But he didn’t really want to go on a long spiel about how he’d discovered this through a fairy tale. Or reference Pirates of the Caribbean to an Ilya Rozanov who didn’t really seem he’d poke fun at him tonight, but nonetheless. 

“I assume you have not really properly scened before.”

“No, I don’t think so. Um, unless what we did was a scene?” 

Shane didn’t really know what a scene was. Rozanov seemed to pick up on it.

“Kind of. I would say that was more light power play. For me, that is more sex than kink” he started, “A scene would be planned. We talk first, what we want, don’t want, what is off limits, and how to stop.”

“So, we’re talking about… what we want?”

“Yes. From each other.”

“I guess… I like BDSM?” Shane started, hesitantly, “But, I haven’t really done it properly before.”

“BDSM. What does it mean to you?”

“Uhhh…” Shane wasn’t really sure, now that he thought about it.

“We start here:” Rozanov said, grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling some words on it.

B D S M

“You know what this means?”

“LIke, bondage, domination, and… sadomasochism?"

Rozanov hummed a little, “Something like that.”

Roanov added some letters and started drawing dashes, grouping them together.

B-D   

D-S   

S-M

“Is three in one. Bondage and discipline,” he pointed towards the first group with his pen, “Discipline. Very important. Then domination and submission. Sadism and masochism.”

Shane eyed the acronym. Discipline. He felt a slight shudder run through his body. Yep, he could definitely get on board with that. Sadism. Submission. To be restrained, to be hurt. To be controlled. Maybe to even just get out of his usual perfectionist headspace. To not have to think every once in a while. 

“Yeah,” he said, hoarsely. 

“I think I like, um,” Shane cleared his throat, “Being a sub, maybe?”

“There is also consent,” Rozanov continued, “You have maybe heard of SSC?”

Shane nodded, “Safe, sane and consensual.”

“Right. There is also RACK,” Rozanov wrote down both the acronyms.

“I don’t know that one.”

“RACK is risk aware consensual kink. I think is better to way to see things. A lot of this stuff, is not always 100% safe. Not always sane. So we discuss risks. We accept, individually, that things can go wrong. Yes?”

Shane understood.

He was a bit surprised by this kind of approach. He guessed he'd been imagining more of the same- quick flashes of conversation and sharp teeth, Rozanov clad in leather, telling him how pretty he was. Negotiation like this felt like the exact opposite end of the hedonistic spectrum, in a clean, elegant room. It felt a bit ridiculous. Maybe more so than donning a gimp mask and being paraded on a leash in a dark room.

“How do you know all this stuff, anyways? Like I know you’re pretty experienced, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so… technical.”

Rozanov cleared his throat.

“My friend, Sveta. Svetlana,” he clarified, “The one who is often with me at events. She is a pro domme.”

“Like, an actual dominatrix?” Shane asked, thinking back to a vague memory of a gorgeous, slender Russian woman, with brown eyes and tightly coiled hair. She was beautiful, poised and seemed a bit dangerous, obviously protective of Rozanov in the way she had endlessly dragged him behind her, away from the prying Russian officials. 

He guessed, out of anyone he knew, she most seemed the type.

“Mhmm. We are childhood friends,” Rozanov continued, “We found out about most this stuff together. Experimented. Of course.”

“So, you two are…?” Shane hesitantly asked, not sure what he wanted to imply. There was a weird, squirmy feeling in his stomach that he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge yet. Or ever.

“Eh, we fuck. But we are not very compatible."

Shane was scared to ask what not very compatible meant in the face of Rozanov and this woman, Svetlana. He imagined a sort of scrappy fight between a bear and a tiger, something that would send fur and blood flying in all directions, the yowls and roars carrying across the SIberian wilderness.

“Nothing like that. I sub for her, occasionally,” and at Shane’s disbelieving look, “Very bratty sub, of course.”

“Of course,” Shane replied.

“But we do not match up. I like sex. I like rough, more… how you say? Emotional?” he looked thoughtful, “That’s not quite right. But Sveta, she is much more protocol oriented. More fetish. Less sex.”

Shane thought that sounded about right. He couldn’t really imagine Rozanov fiddling about with ballet shoes or sleek rubber catsuits. 

“Like, discipline, training. That sort of thing. And she doesn’t switch.” 

“I think I get it.”

“If you ever meet her, you can ask. She is pervert. You are lucky I do not have a form for you. She has a form.” 

Shane let out a helpless little snort at the idea of Rozanov poised above him, whip in hand, as Shane squinted through his reading glasses at a form printed in a too small typeface, trying to decipher what the hell it meant by… what the fuck was vore anyways?

“Like, a written one?”

“Yes,” Rozanov confirmed, “It is colour coded.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Seriously. So… sex?”

“Uh, yes?” Shane was back to being confusedly turned on. He looked at Rozanov for clarification, “Are you offering?”

“Are you offering?” Rozanov replied. He licked his spoon and then got another thing of jam. Double dipping. Shane cringed a little.

“Yeah, I mean I’ve not really done sex without sex?”

Shane was lost.

“For a lot of people, sex and kink are separate. For me, maybe less so.”

Shane thought back to Svetlana, wondering how she could top from the bottom. He guessed, Rozanov had managed to suck the life out of him earlier, but he could see how that could get tricky.

“Huh, I think yes for sex.” he said, “Always with a condom though.”

“Of course,” replied Rozanov, “I get tested though. Monthly.”

“Of course you do.”

Rozanov looked kinda offended.

“Is safe practice!”

“Nothing to do with the fact that you’re a slut?”

“Hey, I call you that.” Rozanov countered.

Shane blushed a little bit. He guessed Rozanov was right.

“So… pain?” Rozanov continued.

“Yes,” said Shane, emphatically. This one he had tried before, “I liked being spanked. And there was this guy, he used his hand at first but he had like a metal ruler?”

He winced a little at the memory. It had stung like a bitch.

“But I haven’t tried, like, whips and stuff.”

“They’re less common than you think,” Rozanov said, “There’s different kinds. Bull whips are probably the ones you’re thinking of. But there are lots of different single tail whips. Snake whips, dragon whips. Tricky for beginners.”

Shane suddenly felt very glad he’d met this side of Rozanov. He was so helplessly turned on. And a little scared. But mostly turned on. He was in safe hands.

“So, yes for pain?”

“Yes.”

Rozanov grinned at him, that stupid, crooked, cocky smile. It brought about another epiphany. This asshole was a bona fida sadist. He wouldn't just indulge Shane; he would actively enjoy hurting him. He was wired that way. The same way Shane was wired a little wrong.

“Restraints?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed. 

The idea of being trussed up, only able to wriggle, bound tight and with a gag shoved in his mouth. His body posed, open to the elements, perfectly presented for someone to do whatever they wanted to him. It was very, very appealing. Christ, was he filling up?

“I don’t like rope, though. Too fiddly,” Rozanov interjected.

Shane imagined Rozanov swearing in Russian, expletives leaving his lips as he tried, fruitlessly to untangle the knots he’d found himself in, getting more irritated and exasperated with every failed tug of the rope. Wouldn’t be very sceney. He’d probably just give up and have to cut the whole thing off with kitchen scissors. Hack away at it for a while. 

Shane had met up with Miles, a day after a very fun session, he’d said. He’d shown Shane the rope marks and red indentations, on his phone, with the same kind of excited glee a child may have about receiving a new lego set. 

“I like cuffs, much more practical. Rope is hard.”

“Marks?” Rozanov asked, going down his mental list.

“Nothing permanent. Definitely. Um… nothing that looks too weird in the showers. Like I get bruised up a fair amount but nothing obviously kinky. And no hickeys.”

“That’s fine. Limit for me too.”

“You have limits?”

“Yes, of course,” Rozanov said, “I don’t do roleplay. I am shit actor. I don’t like piss, shit. Blood is eh. Needles are eh. Breathplay is a tricky one.”

“It’s hot,” Shane said.

“Yes, it’s hot. But hard to do right. Choking is already risky. Anything more extreme is lots of negotiation.”

Shane hadn’t really pictured anything much more extreme than choking. But now he was interested. And he’d been concussed a couple times before, what was a little more brain damage?

“So… Humiliation?”

“I think that’s okay. Like I said, I’ve not really done anything crazy before. But I think I’d be into it?” 

He thought about it a bit more. Considered.

“But also, I think I definitely like praise. Like… Uh. What we did before.”

“Yes,” Rozanov started. He looked a little cheeky. “You like that.”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me, Rozanov.”

“Would never,” Rozanov said, “Only on ice.”

“I’m being serious, Rozanov, no bringing this up in public,” Shane warned. 

He could just about tolerate the constant ribbing Rozanov already put his team under, let alone if he started talking smack about Shane’s sex life. Not that he really thought he would. He was coming to the worrying realisation that he trusted Rozanov an awful lot.

Shane glanced at the clock. They’d talked til almost midnight. Shit, he’d have to leave for LaGuardia by 7am. And he hadn’t even packed yet. 

“I’ve got to go,” he said, suddenly, “Thanks for having me. Genuinely. It’s been… nice.”

“Shocker. I am always nice.”

“Not sure about that. I think most of my team are scared of you a little.”

“Good. I have earned it. I try very hard.”

“So… I guess I’ll see you sometime?”

“Probably soon,” Rozanov said, consideringly, “Our game will be rescheduled. Either Montreal or Boston.”

“The Montreal arena is still outta commission for the next week. They’ve got us training on the uni rink.”

“Is that why we play in New York?”

“Yeah, the cooling system is all fucked up. Insider information, though.”

They looked at each other slightly awkwardly. Shane wasn’t really sure what to do. He’d gathered his stuff as they’d been talking. 

“So probably Boston, then.”

“Yeah.”

Was he meant to kiss him goodbye? They’d done plenty more intimate stuff over the past couple days. And talked about stuff Shane hadn’t even touched upon with anyone apart from his closest friends. And Rozanov was basically still a stranger. But surely he couldn’t just hug him goodbye? Or a handshake would feel really out of place. 

Why was he so freaking awkward?

He’d literally let this man take him apart, eat him whole, and sift out the broken pieces. 

He lingered at the door, probably a second too long, suddenly aware of his hands, the floor, not really sure what the script was meant to be now. He’d been brave earlier, the intimacy and endorphins powering him through a rush of confidence. He didn’t really know what to do now.

Thankfully, the silence was broken by Rozanov.

“There’s still some more we should talk about. But we can do that later.”

Shane thought they’d already talked about plenty. He felt slightly overwhelmed, in a good way. 

He really wanted to hug him goodbye. 

Or kiss him. 

But Rozanov was still leaning against the kitchen island. He seemed at ease, comfortable. 

And Shane just stepped back and gave an awkward little wave. “So… bye, Rozanov.”

“Goodnight Hollander.”

The door closed softly between them.

 —-----------------------------

Shane sat in the taxi, New York passing around him in a bright, gleaming blur. He pulled out his phone, finger hovering over the new contact. It was proof that the previous couple days had just happened. That he and Rozanov were somehow… something. Now. 

He wasn’t really sure what.

He pressed on it, pulling up a new chat. He cradled his phone like it was something precious.

And before he could overthink, sent a dumb little emoticon.

{               :-)                }

He promptly turned his phone face down.

And flipped it back over again.

Three jumping little dots had appeared almost immediately.

They stayed for a second, then disappeared. 

His phone pinged. New message. His chest made a weird swoopy feeling.

[               haha. see you soon jane x              ]

He hearted it, unable to stop a small, goofy smile breaking out on his face in the back of the cab. 

{                  See you soon, Lily!                    }

Chapter End Notes

Not sure why my chapter 1 notes formatted into my chapter 2 file??? Ao3 is confusing.

Sorry for the wait y'all, it's my exam week (am writing instead of studying but look it's gonna be common sense anyways so I'll be fine. Also got diagnosed with PCOS and was spiked. Have spent the past hour wrestling with a blood prick test, trying to literally milk the blood from my finger. Hopefully don't have HIV but we shall see!!!!)

Blowjob scenes are hard to write. Fun fact! I'm actually allergic to semen. It causes me to go into anaphylaxis.

Anyways I sucked this guy's dick and deeped that I've only ever given blowjobs to two people ever. This chap was a bit inspired by that, a tiny bit of cheeky role reversal. We shall hear them talk about things in the next chapter!!! I love negotiations. They haven't got too freaky yet since they're both kinda sussing each other out. Rest assured, we shall get there.

Have been saving the knowledge that was forced upon me that Russians put jam in tea for the past couple years. It is appalling.

Basing what's coming soon on my own personal hell of catching feelings for a sub. Feelings suck.

Lots of love,
Me!

Chapter 3: oh well, the devil makes us sin

Chapter Notes

Warnings:
- gratuitous smut
- light feminisation used as degradation
- cbt but not the behavourial therapy kind, and mostly focussed on the b part

“Geez Shane, who put red bull in your cocoa pops?” Hayden said, stripping out of his hockey skins. Shane tried not to think back to the last time he’d been cornered in the changing room showers. “You get laid or something?”

Shane gave him a disparaging look.

“Was just enjoying my time away from you asses.”

They’d just had a rough and tumble session, Shane skating through drills with a ferocious sort of intensity, smiles coming easy, and gleeful hockey violence coming easier. He’d just taken the team through a shooting drill, the movements coming together fluidly, rounding the practice off with a ‘great work guys!’. He guessed he’d been slightly more chatty than his usual self.

“Seriously, Hollywood. Whatever hooker made sweet, sweet love to you last night. They need a raise. Look at you!”

Shane huffed a little, pulling his shirt over his head as he changed out of his kit, in an attempt to hide the little half-smile threatening to invade his face.

“Oh my god you did get laid!” Hayden spluttered. He fumbled around for his phone, “Must. Record. For. Blackmail.”

Shane snatched it out of his hand, and held it above his head, waving it around. Hayden grabbed it easily, taller than him.

“No phones out in the changing rooms,” he warned, “Captain’s orders.”

“Everyone, Shane got laid!” Harden shouted, gleefully instead.

There was a scattered round of half hearted applause.

“Shhhh!” Shane hushed, in a way that was definitely not inconspicuous at all.

“No way I’m actually right about this? We leave you alone for one weekend and you find yourself a cougar?”

“No! And for your information, they’re my age.”

“So what was it?” Hayden continued, undeterred, “Hookup? Girlfriend? Hooker?”

Shane paused. He didn’t really know either. Definitely not a girlfriend. Or a hooker, for that matter. Just the Boston Bears captain. Who he famously hated.

He shrugged, helplessly.

Hyaden gave him a proud look anyways, “Well shit, man. I knew you had it in you.”

—-----------------------------

“Okay, so first of all, you’re gonna need a safeword.”

They were on Rozanov’s home turf in Boston. The game was over, the Voyagers had won by 2 points. The deciding points had been scored by Shane, who’d won each draw by a fraction, illicit satisfaction flooding through him when he clashed sticks with Rozanov, every slam, every shove into the boards carefully noted and catalogued.

They’d riled each other up, Shane’s own teammates wondering what the hell had got into him.

They’d left bruises, Shane had cut his lip a little from a stray puck.

It had been a fight, a ruthless clash from start to finish.

But now they were in bed, cozied up, and holding mugs of steaming tea.

He’d stripped down to just his boxers, at Rozanov’s request.

“A safeword?” Shane repeated.

“Yes,” Rozanov said. The dim lights highlighted his cheekbones, the bulge of his jaw as he pursed his lips.

“Like what? Is regular old English not enough?”

“You get a bit, ah, nonverbal.”

And yeah, that was fair enough. Shane had sunk so deep, so quick with Rozanov the first couple times and they hadn’t even done anything yet. Not really. But he’d gone mushy and pliant anyways and okay, he could kinda get why Rozanov would want to be doubly safe.

He looked down at his cup of tea.

“So… I just choose a random word?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“What’s like, an example,” Shane asked. He didn’t want to sound stupid. Or too ridiculous.

“Hmmm,” Rozanov considered, “Someone I know, they use ‘lawsuit’.”

“Okay, well if I ever scream lawsuit in a scene, something’s gone really, really wrong.”

“That is the idea.”

Shane glanced around the room. Nothing really was coming to mind.

“Lampshade? Is that really dumb?”

“No...”

Rozanov was suppressing a little grin.

“You think it’s really dumb, don’t you.”

“No, just God, Hollander. You are so boring.”

Shane blushed, “Hey, you asked.”

Rozanov gave him a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“No, it works. It’s just a word.”

Lampshade it fucking was, then. Funny how such a small word could carry such big meaning.

“And I like to use a scale, for impact.”

“Like traffic lights?”

“Eh,” Rozanov said. He shrugged, “It works for some people. But red is stop. Same as safeword. And yellow is too vague.”

“So what do you use, then?”

“Numbers. 1-10, with ten being your limit.”

Shane turned to look at him. Rozanov gave him an innocent look.

“You’re so good at this,” he said, genuinely.

It was true.

And it was kinda turning him on. Just a little. He wriggled closer into Rozanov’s shoulder. He smelled really, really nice.

“So where’s the sex dungeon?” he asked.

Rozanov gave him a shrewd look, “No dungeon. I can show you some stuff, though.”

At Shane’s affirmative noise, he was reaching over the side of his bed, pulling out a drawer and various duffel bags of-

And yeah, holy shit his dick was definitely perking up a little. He tried to readjust inconspicuously, but he was already stripped down to his boxer briefs. And Rozanov definitely noticed.

But he carried on pulling out various bits of gear and metal things, and now there was kink shit all over his carpet, and was that an anal hook? And okay, he definitely wanted to feel the sting of a silicone whip on his skin. And there was a metal cane. Shane shuddered. It looked plain mean.

“Holy shit.”

“I collect. Is like a hobby.”

Shane pulled out a bag and peered inside. Clothes pins.

“There’s so much stuff.”

He was getting excited now, a weird feeling circling in his gut. He could feel himself slipping into a different, lighter headspace.

“You want to try some out?”

Yes, he very much did. But he wasn’t going to say that.

“You say that to everyone you bring back here?” he said instead.

“Why,” Rozanov asked, “Is it not working on you?”

Yes it really was.

Shane made an embarrassed noise. He really wanted to be fucked. And torn apart. He wanted Ilya Rozanov to take him and pull him into pieces.

“One last thing,” he said, “Aftercare.”

“I know what that is,” Shane said, “Like cuddling after?”

“Yes,” he seemed to consider his words, “So neither of us drop after.”

“Neither of us?”

“Doms drop too,” Rozanov said.

“Huh,” Shane said.

“I like to debrief,” Rozanov continued, “That is okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“You said pain is good, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed.

Rozanov put his mug away with a soft clink.

“Okay. Strip.”

Shane paused.

“I won’t ask again.”

Shane hurriedly complied.

Rozanov stood up. He evaluated Shane, then a hand reached out to ghost at a stray hair, pushing it back into place. His hands cupped the back of his head, fingers gently running through the strands. Shane leaned into the touch, letting out a quiet moan, his eyes slipping shut. Fingers trailed down his head, to his neck, leaving the imprint of a gentle touch down his throat, his spine, his arms. Shane’s hands were guided behind him, and he clasped them firmly, his breath already shuddering.

He opened his eyes. Suddenly he felt a surge of self consciousness. Rozanov was in front of him, his shirt halfway undone, a slight smile on his face. He felt naked, in more ways than literally. Rozanov was still wearing a shirt and his trousers.

“Very pretty,” he said, “You shaved for me.”

Shane had, and he’d felt pretty good about it earlier, all smooth and bare. But now he just felt exposed, maybe like he’d been trying too hard.

Rozanov leaned in, softly kissing him, and Shane moaned into it, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face. Gradually, he began to pull away from his face, leaving little kisses and bites down Shane’s neck. He was sensitive there, and Rozanov took full advantage, leaving little sucking marks wherever he went. They’d fade by daytime.

Shane couldn’t help the shudder of pleasure that rolled through him at the sensation. Everything felt new to him, every successive feeling even better than the last.

He squirmed a little, getting impatient and Rozanov let out a little laugh.

“You’re gonna hate me more later.”

Later couldn’t come soon enough.

“Kneel.” Rozanov ordered.

And he did, his knees giving out on him with a soft little thump. His hands stayed clasped, firmly behind him.

He turned his gaze upwards.

Rozanov started to unbuckle his belt. Shane wanted to lean into it, unzip the fly with his teeth, buck into that heady smell. He wanted to rub, dirty, sully himself. Give himself away completely.

Rozanov extricated his dick from his trousers. He hadn’t been wearing underwear. He was already hard as well, leaking a little bit. Shane felt a brief sense of relief that he hadn’t been the only one affected by their conversation.

Shane let his mouth fall open. Use me. Rozanov took advantage, pressing the blunt head of his tip and groaning softly at the warm velvet of Shane’s mouth. He rocked into the motion for a couple strokes.

“Okay. Some ground rules.”

Shane straightened his back, at attention. Rozanov’s dick was still in his mouth.

“No coming unless I let you. That includes ruining. You get close, you tell me.”

Rozanov’s dick popped out, slapping his face. A trail of precum and saliva followed it. He smeared it across Shane’s face. He stuck a thumb into Shane’s mouth, and he sucked on it eagerly, his cheeks hollowing out.

Rozanov replaced his finger with his dick again, facefucking Shane gently.

“If you come without permission, at all. You will regret it.”

Shane hums his assent. It reverberates around Rozanov’s cock. His eyes close again, letting Rozanov set the pace, use his mouth as he wishes.

“Mmmm,” Rozanov groans, “So good. Getting my dick all wet for me.”

Shane hums his approval again, moaning around the dick stretching out his mouth. He’s already floating and he hasn’t even touched himself yet. He reveres the feeling of Rozanov’s fingers petting his hair.

“You have been fucked before, yes?”

Shane wants to say that he has a dildo, that he fucks himself with it, stretching himself out slow and easy, that it’s big but not as big as Rozanov and he hasn’t taken anything in a while, real or silicone, and yeah he’s a little scared. He wants to say that his only recent sexual experience, or lack thereof, amounts to impaling himself on a silicone dick that he wishes belonged to a certain Russian hockey player. But he can’t manage that. Can’t admit that.

So he just moans again, louder this time.

Rozanov fucks himself through it.

“You want to respond?”

And Shane regretfully pulls off Rozanov’s dick and nods and murmurs a soft mhmm into his thigh, yes he’d been fucked before, yes he’d prepped earlier. Just in case.

And Rozanov pulls him up by his hair and Shane staggers to his feet, already a little unsteady.

“I liked when you called me sir,” Rozanov said, gaze unfaltering.

“Yes sir,” Shane got the gist.

Rozanov pressed a short kiss into Shane’s temple.

“Sweet boy,” he said, “Now get on all fours.”

Shane bent over on the bed, legs slightly splayed. His face was buried in the soft duvet, and he turned his head a little to breathe.

Rozanov nudged in between his legs, forcing them wider. He rocked against Shane’s ass, still mostly fully dressed, and Shane leant into the sensation.

He wasn’t even in a rush. He was taking his sweet time, uncapping the lube, spreading it all over his hole. It was cold, and wet, and felt distinctly alien. Shane felt exposed, bent over, completely at the whim of Rozanov.

Rozanov’s hand reached under, still slicked up with lube and he grasped Shane’s dick, jerking it off roughly, spreading it all over. Shane took a sharp intake of breath at the cold lube, and then keened, relaxing into the feeling.

“Thank you sir.”

Rozanov leant down and pressed a kiss onto Shane’s ass.

“Arch your back for me.”

Shane easily complied.

“So pretty.”

Shane wiggled his bum in a way he hoped looked inticing, hoping for Rozanov to just hurry the fuck up and touch him already. He gave him a light slap on the ass, which barely stung and Shane quietly wished for Rozanov to hit him harder, hurt him, he could take it-

He heard the squeeze of a bottle of lube, felt the heady gaze of Rozanov’s eyes.

Rozanov made circular motions over Shane’s hole and gradually sunk a finger in, curling it down, trying to find his sweet spot. Shane gasped at the feeling of a finger inside of him, squirming a little on the sheets as he adjusted to the sensation. He was so gentle, opening him up, giving him time to get used to it, stroking his cock in a way that felt so good it was almost overwhelming. After a couple seconds, he began moving, and the slight burn faded, replaced by the slick sensations of silicone lube making it easy.

Shane felt like he was melting into the bedsheets, presenting, euphoric.

When he was sure Shane was ready, and Shane was eagerly thrusting back onto his hand trying to chase the feeling, he added another. Shane whined, eagerly, grinding down on the fingers, trying desperately to chase the sensation. He’d done this to himself, yes, and others had tried on him, but they didn’t have the practised motion Rozanov seemed to have mastered.

It was like Rozanov was hitting this space in him, like he was charging it up and then all at once he would hit a spot, and he’d feel this electricity shoot through his body, like he’d flicked his whole existence on and off again.

All he could do was shudder, and whimper, and take it, and muffle his moans into the pillow, face pressed into the fabric as his arms were held firmly behind him, leaning into the onslaught of sensations.

“I’m gonna come, fuck I’m gonna-”

It had almost taken him by surprise.

Rozanov laughed a little, giddy. He withdrew his fingers, smearing the lube over Shane’s ass and whacked him a little. The pain blossomed, sharp and unexpected, and Shane let out a little choked out moan. It wouldn't leave a mark, but Shane suddenly wished it would, that he’d have Ilya Rozanov’s red handprint to look at tomorrow.

“You are so sensitive, милый.”

Shane panted a little, “Sorry.”

Rozanov smacked his ass harder, and Shane let out a sharp yelp, eyes fluttering closed into the feeling.

“Sorry what?” he asked.

“Sorry, sorry sir.”

“That’s better.”

Shane felt Rozanov’s eyes on his backside, assessing. He wanted him to fuck him so badly, he needed to feel Rozanov stretching him open. Even if it hurt. He wanted to feel him the next day, empty and claimed, and satiated.

Rozanov tapped him on the hip, and motioned for him to roll over. He grabbed a pillow, and then picked up Shane by his hips, and propped him up, so his ass was level with Rozanov’s crotch.

Objectively, Shane knew he must have looked a complete mess. Hell, he’d played a game against Rozanov earlier on in the day. Covered in sweat, and bruises, hair dishevelled, and he’d probably been drooling a little into the pillow. Slightly out of breath, completely debauched.

Rozanov was still dressed in his trousers, and shirt, albeit unbuttoned. His fly was undone and he was stroking himself casually, looking down at Shane, pupils completely blown wide, with an emotion Shane couldn’t fully process. He stopped to shrug off his shirt, and then his trousers quickly followed. He looked so good in the soft lighting, his abs and happy trail looking really fucking enticing.

He grabbed a condom out the drawer, ripping it open and discarding the wrapper. He put it on, rolling it down his hard length, then grabbed some more lube, slicking his dick, before chucking the bottle on the bed, on the floor.

“Please fuck me sir,” Shane said. It had slipped out, unbidden.

Rozanov was lazily stroking him.

“Hmmmm,” he said, “And what have you done to deserve that.”

“Please,” Shane replied. He didn’t know what else to say, “Please fuck me.”

Rozanov was teasing him so cruelly now. He was jerking Shane off, stopping every time he got close, eyes trained on Shane’s face, looking at his every reaction.

“Please,” he begged, “Please sir. Please fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck your pussy?”

Shane was slightly taken aback by that, but his dick disagreed, and it jumped a bit between them. Rozanov felt it, and grinned.

“Aww, милый, you do, don’t you?” he began, mockingly, “You want sir to fuck your little pussy?”

Shane was so close, Rozanov touching him, edging him, bringing him to the edge and then letting go. And suddenly Shane knew that he would do anything, say anything, to get Rozanov to fuck him.

He broke.

“Yes,” he almost sobbed, being taken to the brink once again, “Please fuck my pussy.”

His face went hot at the humiliation, and he tried to turn it to the side as he begged. But Rozanov grabbed him by the chin, turned his face to look at him.

Shane threw an arm over his face. He was embarrassed, and felt so, so vulnerable.

Part of him was still screaming that this was the most idiotic, reckless thing he’d ever done, that they should stop now, because even though they’d already gotten this far, he could always change his mind and pull away. But that part of him was getting quieter and quieter with every touch, every brush of sensation on his body, as Rozanov was taking him apart, piece by piece.

“Please fuck me,” he repeated, quieter.

He peeked out from under his arm, and accidentally locked eyes with Rozanov, and maybe there was something so desperate in his expression he took pity on him, because Rozanov lined himself up, and slowly pushed in.

They gasped in unison, something hard and much bigger than the fingers that had stretched him open, pressing against his hole, the red hot heat of Rozanov’s dick spearing into him. He stopped, giving Shane time to adjust to the burning stretch,but Rozanov was still only about ⅔ of the way into him, and Shane was impatient, pushing down against him with the limited leverage he had.

Encouraged by Shane’s enthusiasm, he began to move as well torturously slowly, making his whole body shudder with the intensity of the sensation.

“Can I hurt you here?”

Rozanov’s hands had trailed down to cup his balls.

It took him kinda by surprise. Shane had never really done anything like that before. He was a bit scared. But he knew Rozanov knew what he was doing. And he was too far gone to say he didn’t want it, only that he wanted whatever Rozanov did, he could take whatever Rozanov could give him. And if he didn’t like it, they’d stop, right?

He nodded into his arm, too turned on to be embarrassed.

“Say it.”

“Please hurt me sir,” he said.

“Good boy.”

He wrapped his fingers around Shane’s balls and started to lightly squeeze. Shane took a sharp intake of breath. It hurt, but in a kind of good way and Shane was appalled to feel himself react so viscerally to it, moaning helplessly. He looked down, and was surprised to see his dick still flushed an angry red, pointed determinately towards his belly button.

“You like that?”

“Yes sir,” he confessed. Fuck.

“I want you to say harder every ten seconds,” Rozanov said, still squeezing, “Until you can’t say it any more.”

“Yes sir,” he just about managed.

“What’s your safeword?” Rozanov asked.

“Lampshade, sir.”

He had to scramble through his mind to find the word, already losing his grip on reality a little.

The pain was tolerable, and Shane was horrified at how much he liked it.

“Harder,” he said.

Rozanov started fucking into him as he fisted Shane’s balls with a hand, the other holding himself up against him. He started slow, at first, gradually gaining speed, and depth, and Shane’s hands scrambled away from his face, and clenched at the sheets. If he could reach Rozanov, he was sure he would be leaving marks. And he held his hands above his head, so submissive and eager, and willing to take it, be used.

“Harder,” he said.

His eyes were starting to water, and he made broken, feeble noises in time to Rozanov pounding into him, relentless and-

And he let Rozanov use him like a toy, like a pussy to be fucked.

And it hurt, hurt, hurt, and he bore down on Rozanov’s dick, trying to make it feel good for him, trying to get him close, as close as Rozanov was making him. And Rozanov moaned, low and throaty, fuck Hollander. At any other time, he would've relished drawing such a noise out of Rozanov, but right now, all he could focus on was ten, nine, eight, seven, six…

“Harder,” he choked out.

He was trembling now, shaking properly, his breath coming uneven, his hands clenched white into fists above his head, and he took a sharp intake of breath, panting. His hair was slicked back with sweat, his body covered with a fine sheen of it. He turned his head to one side, then the next, unable to control what noises were escaping his mouth.

Rozanov leaned over for a kiss, and that made it bearable. It was soft, but Rozanov quickly took control, licking into Shane’s mouth, biting his lips so hard he was sure he was gonna draw blood. Rozanov let his own needy sound spill into Shane’s mouth, and Shane, spurred at that, let out another-

“Harder,” he said, desperate now.

And then he had to pull away from Rozanov, eyes rolling back from the pain, fuck that hurt. Until he couldn’t say it anymore, Rozanov had said.

“Does it hurt?” Rozanov said, and Shane almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Like a whole lot?”

“Yes sir.”

“What do you say?”

“Thank you sir.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes sir.”

He wanted to please Rozanov, to make him feel good. But Shane wasn’t really sure if he wanted more. He wasn’t sure if he could take it.

“You liar,” Rozanov said.

“Do you want more,” He said it like a statement this time, announcing every one of the words.

And Shane understood, and he gasped out a, “No sir.”

And Rozanov let go and smacked him a little on the balls and laughed, pressing a hard kiss into Shane’s mouth and Shane was still hard and now he was desperately, achingly close.

And Rozanov was still fucking him, but now he had a kind of delighted grin on his face, and he was pressing sweet little kisses to the sides of Shane’s mouth, as he moaned, gutterally.

“Please may I come,” Shane tried, “Please.”

“Come for me,” Rozanov replied, fucking into him with intensity now.

The heat that had been building in Shane since the start was reaching its peak, and he knew he couldn’t stop it now if he tried, and Rozanov reached a hand under and let Shane fuck into it, the sensations alost overwhelming him

“I’m gonna come,” he said, barely able to recognise his own voice, “Fuck I’m gonna come-”

“Hollander,” Rozanov breathed out, half a gasp, and half a moan. “Hollander…”

He buried himself to the hilt in Shane, and came apart, pulsing into his spasming hole, fucking them both through it, Shane painting stripes across his abs, smearing between their sandwiched forms. He felt his vision go a little bit, whiting out, pleasure exploding through his body as he was finally allowed to come. He could feel Rozanov come apart above him, gasping with his head pressed into Shane’s shoulder, biting down, Shane with his head thrown back, eyes rolling back, as he rode the high of his own release.

Rozanov collapsed onto him, then moved his hand out from between them, away from Shane’s spent cock.

He felt simultaneously euphoric and exhausted, could feel the racing of his heart, paired with the frantic thumpings of Rozanov’s own on top of him.

And then they locked eyes and simultaneously burst into laughter, so strong it almost hurt Shane to breathe, the situation suddenly so ridiculous and hilarious he couldn’t hold it back.

“Get off of me you lump,” Shane said, laughing. He tried to push at Rozanov, without really meaning it.

Rozanov was a dead weight on top of him. He didn't move.

“I am dead, Hollander,” he muttered into Shane's shoulder, “You have killed me.”

“I will kill you,” Shane replied, “And these are your bedsheets you’re ruining.”

Rozanov just replied, “Blah.”

He made a muffled groan into Shane’s pec.

“No more thinking,” he said, “Cuddle now.”

And he rolled off of him, to the side, and they pressed close against each other, sticky and messy, and completely wrung out.

And Shane knew he was so, so fucked.

Chapter End Notes

GUESS WHO ATE UP THEIR EXAM

Ok I forgot whether or not I capitalise these notes or not. This chapter lowk eats. I live for your comments so please lmk how I did!! Been so, so busy this week.

Ilya chapter coming up next!!! It may be devastating. Peep the new tags and warnings.

There is a rave in the hairdressers under where I live. Popped my head in and had a little boogie earlier.

Oh also, lampshade was a real life safe word I used with a long term sub for about three years. Kinda crazy how such a little word can mean so much. And yes, we were unimaginative as fuck.

My current main sub uses lawsuit. He's at a trading company. Don't know what the fuck he does all day apart from clock in and do the beep boop beep boop but yeah it is a sure sign of distress when a lawsuit is mentioned.

I have a playlist for this fic b t dubs. Love you all!

Chapter 4: the way you speak, it makes me want to cry

Chapter Summary

Warnings:
- depresshun
- reference to sh and suicide
- cbt but this time both the c and the b get attention!

Song:
Paradise Circus- Massive Attack and Hope Sando

Chapter Notes

Ilya didn’t really know why he was the way he was.

He didn’t know when it started.

It made him feel something, those fleeting moments after a scene, or the few times he managed to get himself into the right headspace to focus completely on his partner. He felt something. And he treasured that feeling, that kinship, that laughter. He missed feeling as complete as he did after a scene. And he wished he could feel that way all the time. 

It was euphoria.

And between hockey, and his brother, and his father, and his life that should’ve, on paper, been so perfect, but really fucking wasn’t… He liked being able to feel something good, and pure, once in a while. 

Ok. Maybe not pure. 

But it was the closest feeling to complete freedom he had. 

Between Alexei demanding money, and his father  deteriorating and him flip-flopping between Boston and Moscow, always on the road, always travelling, with his awful English that made him feel slow and stupid. So out of his control. Because where was home, really? Sometimes he swore it was with Hollander, or at least he wanted it to be, and what the hell was he supposed to do with that information?

Kink was always an outlet for him, a way to feel sane when everything was falling, falling apart. 

And Hollander made his heart race, his stomach tingly, his fingers tap, tap, tap in nervous anticipation, not that he’d ever admit it to the guy. 

And things felt blurry most of the time, and nothing really made him feel anything anymore. He was just blank to it. So any kind of feeling, any danger, anything that made him feel sick, or sweat, or want to cry. He craved it. 

It was those fucking meds. To be honest, he was lucky his dick still worked. He’d heard horror stories about people who got on those fucking meds and couldn’t get it up after. Even after they stopped taking them. 

And yes, he was good at hockey. He liked hockey, whirling around, clashing sticks, the cheers and boos of the crowd. Conducting the crowd with his baton, his stick, into hating him, loving him, hating him again. But he didn’t love hockey. Not like Hollander so obviously did. He was just good at it. Really fucking good at it. 

It had crept on him, insidious and unrelenting.

Most of the time he felt like things just happened to him.

Out of his control.

He never really felt alive, not unless he was scared, or anxious. 

And he didn’t really feel much of that anymore. 

Those fucking meds.

But he couldn’t stop taking them, he’d get zappy feelings in his brain, and he’d feel so unstable, so paranoid, so jittery. So he’d stop and then realise he’d fucked up, he’d fucked it all up again, and realise that he still needed them, and the cycle would repeat. It was humiliating.

Always so fucking lazy. 

And he wasn’t lazy, he didn’t think. Just, sometimes, he found it a bit harder to take care of himself, to care what happened to him. 

Going through the motions.

He was, a little bit, wasn’t he?

Those Americans, what are they teaching you over there?

He was better of a player than he’d ever been before. The best, probably.

And you had so much potential, as a child.

He had so much more as a child. Had felt so much more. Had cried, had laughed, had scorned. Had been scorned.

A disappointment. Just like your mother.

He had missed her, once. Had cried over her. Sobbed, even. Begged. Why, why did you leave me, why couldn’t you live, please, mama, please come back.

But Shane, Shane Hollander made him feel something. Like there was something more, like there was more to his meaningless existence than playing hockey, winning hockey, sending his asshole brother his money so he could just gamble it all away. Worrying about his father, his queerness, his fucking meds. 

And it scared him. That he kinda maybe felt a bit more for Hollander, already, than he should have. It scared him so much. But Ilya could barely feel anything anymore, and this was something, and he chased that feeling because at least it wasn’t nothing, nothing like it had been for years.

He used to get by just from the thrill of it, doing stupid, dumb, dangerous shit that he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Like screwing his coach’s son. But slowly that wore off and he was all on his own again. In Canada, in America, away from Sveta, away from his asshole fucking brother.

And he had bad days, and he had good days, and the bad days were mostly in Russia, so his teammates didn’t really know. In the house he’d grown up in, where he’d found his mama. And he had never really wanted to… you know. He wasn’t like her.

You are so weak.

But if it happened to him. 

If it happened to him. He didn’t think he would really mind. 

So there wasn’t anything actually wrong with him. He could still function, kind of. And he only hurt himself a little bit, and not very often. Not very deep. So it didn’t really count. And he didn’t cry, and he wasn’t sad, so he was fine. Really. He was fine.

And other people had it so much worse.

Mama?

Didn’t have his sports cars, his fame, hockey, his partners.

Please wake up.

So who was he to complain?

He was nobody.

 —-----------------------------

They were cuddling together, Ilya being the big spoon, curled tight around Hollander’s solid, dense body, his legs tangled between his. He was running his fingers lightly over Hollander’s muscled back, tracing the figures that had been drilled into him as a child, before his father had decided that hockey was more manly, that he didn’t belong with those prissy princess boys with their sequined leotards, their mesh panelled costumes.

He’d been good at that, once. Had started ballet. Stopped it. Committed to hockey, instead.

But he still did his figures every once in a while. It made him more precise on the ice. 

He looked at the time, and groaned.

Fuck he needed to take his meds.

He reached over into a drawer and grabbed the packet, dry swallowing it with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t stick in his throat and feel uncomfortable all day like it sometimes did.

“What’s that?” Hollander asked, blearily, still out of it.

“Meds,” Ilya grunted, careful to hide the package label.

“Okay,” he replied, simply.

Ilya was grateful he was still facing away from him. Couldn’t take it if Hollander saw.

Weak.

Hollander was so fucking trusting, and sweet, and pure. Had responded with the kind of beautiful, wonderful sounds that Ilya loved, and craved, and wanted more of. He wanted to hear it all the time. 

He’d been so lucky when they’d met, of all places, at the club in New York. He’d been shocked to find him there, carefully schooling his expression because he didn’t know what to expect. Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyagers. So drilled, so focussed on the ice, and even more of a golden boy in real life. Such a sweetheart, always so polite, so kind. Ilya had ribbed at him anyways, trying to get a rise, and he always got a little surge of satisfaction when Hollander snapped back. A tiny bit of pride that he was the only one who managed to get under his skin like that. 

So yeah, he didn’t know what to expect when Hollander had turned up, right under his nose. A tiny part of him had been scared that Hollander would tell, and let the world know how much of a freak he was, but that was insane, and wouldn’t be possible without implicating Hollander himself. And they both knew which would draw the bigger headline.

And he’d been pleasantly surprised some more when he turned out to be so good, so perfect, and wonderful, so eager to please.

And now he was in Ilya’s bed.

He made him so unbelievably happy. Ilya wanted to drown in it.  

He wanted to kiss him, to keep him as his own. It was a stupid thought. Hollander didn’t belong to him. They’d only really met up a couple times. A lifetime of taunting on the ice didn’t count.

It stung a bit.

It shouldn’t have. 

He kissed him anyways, a press of lips against Hollander’s back. He could at least have this, if nothing else.

 —-----------------------------

[Boston Bears vs Montreal Voyagers Match 2017 Playoff Season]

372,938 views

Comments 3814

blue_line_blues [3 hours ago]
Rozanov looked slow tonight. Not what you want from your 1C in a game like that.

actualhuman42 [3 hours ago]
He won like 40% of the draws lol. And Hollander is cracked. But yeh sure, blame the captain when the rest of the team can’t keep up

puckluck88 [2 hours ago]
Idk man i didn’t really feel him out there today

statlineenjoyer [1 hour ago]
He had the hardest matchups all night. You don’t notice a centre when he’s doing his job properly.

Mapleghost [1 hour ago]
If they win that game, no one says a word about him.

puckluck88 [1 hour ago]
Yeah but they fucking lost, didn’t they lmfao

 —-----------------------------

“Debrief, now Hollander,” he grunted. He’d cleaned them both up, with a warm cloth, taking care of Hollander like he was something precious. He didn’t really want to get out of bed but his stomach was growling and he needed to piss. So he tugged on some ratty shorts and heaved himself up, making it to the kitchen, peering into cupboards. 

“You want food?”

“Uhhh… I can eat?”

“Chocolate,” he thrust some at Hollander, who looked down at it.

Hollander looked a bit like he had whiplash. He did that a lot. He looked cute, his brown eyes wide and unassuming, the splatter of freckles above his nose looking kissable, breaking up his features. He hesitated.

“...do you have dark chocolate?”

God he was so cute. And boring. Gosh.

Ilya mock rolled his eyes. He found some in a drawer, then threw it at him, before turning back to his fridge, ignoring the yelp of dismay. 

He frowned.

“Melt?” Ilya asked. He had run out of tuna. 

“Um. Sure? But it’s no pressure, I can probably grab something-”

“Sit down,” Ilya said. He cracked some eggs into a pan. Protein. 

They cooked quickly. 

He shovelled some on two plates and thrust them at Hollander. He put a fountain of ketchup onto his. The melt was nice.

“You should eat,” he said. What was the word? Hypoglycaemia. He didn’t know the English for it. “You are shaking,” he said, instead.

He watched Hollander as he shovelled food into his mouth. He was so pretty. 

He wiped the corner of his mouth.

“So…” Ilya kinda always hated this bit. But he needed to do it. For himself, mostly.

“That was intense,” he began, haltingly, “We should talk about it. What Went Well and Even Better If?”

Shane stared at him like he’d grown two heads.

“Are you quoting my high school English teacher to me?”

“No…?” Ilya replied, somewhat sheepishly. Not intentionally at least. It was a valid question! He’d googled it.

Shane looked like he was thinking. 

“No,” he finally said, “It was all great.”

“You cried a little.”

“I just tear up easily.”

Ilya was relieved and a little excited. He’d been worried Hollander hadn’t really known his own limits. That he wouldn’t know when to stop. Or that he’d be able to stop. 

Shane looked a little embarrassed, “That’s okay, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. Then added, because it was true, “Was hot.”

He smirked. 

Hollander looked exasperated, because yeah, Ilya was kinda fucked in the head like that. 

“Of course you found it hot.”

But he was smiling really hard. Ilya wanted to bask in that expression. It made him feel warm.

He looked away instead.

“So, Hollander. Anything you liked? Disliked?”

He kinda needed specifics so he knew he didn’t fuck up. And reference for next time. As much as he would love to cling onto the floaty happiness, Ilya knew he needed to do this, or he’d get a weird squirmy feeling and awful, gut-wrenching guilt if they didn’t talk about it. 

“Uhhhh…” 

Hollander was turning a bit pink. It was fucking adorable, and Ilya didn’t want to think too much about that right now. 

“I really liked. Um…” he trailed off. 

“Yes?” 

Hollander put his face in his hands. 

“Why is this so embarrassing?”

Ilya huffed a laugh, “Don’t be embarrassed. Say it.”

“I liked when- uh,” he swallowed, looking up at Ilya now, blushing and earnest. “Obviously I liked it when you hurt me. Down there.”

Ilya grinned, wide and gleeful and kinda predatory. “We can definitely do more of that.”

“Yeah, uh. That would be nice.”

Hollander inhaled a little bit. 

“But I also liked when you gave me an out. Like, I don't know. It was okay that I couldn’t take it."

Ilya hummed a little. He chased a little bit of egg across his plate.

“And. Um. I liked when you made me ask for it. What I wanted. And I liked being…” he turned a little red, “Called those things?”

Ilya gave him a fond look. 

He wasn’t his boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even his dom. Not really. They weren’t exclusive. And Hollander was free to see whomever he wanted. 

He didn’t know what he was thinking.

But Hollander was so gorgeous. And he came apart so beautifully, and he loved how they ribbed at each other on the ice, pushed each other, equals in every sense of the matter. And he let Ilya do shit like this to him. Offered himself up so easily.

When they’d finished eating, Ilya collected up their plates and stacked them in the sink. 

“You want help washing up?”

“No, is fine.”

Hollander made to wash them up anyways, and Ilya batted his hands away. 

“They need to soak.”

Hollander gave him an exasperated look, then shook his head. He went back to the sofa, where he’d left his clothes neat and folded up, and began shrugging them on. Ilya quietly mourned the loss of all that beautifully smooth skin.

“So.” he said. Paused. “We see each other next in December.”

Hollander looked up from where he was tying his shoes.

“...If you want to meet up again?”

And he was sure he’d done ok, that Hollander would want to meet up again. But maybe he wouldn’t?

“Yeah, of course.”

Hollander gave him a bright smile. It soothed something in him, a little sliver of happiness curling up in him. The next game was only two weeks away, because the last had been rescheduled. 

“It’ll be in Montreal so maybe you wanna come over?”

“Okay.”

He hoped the short response didn’t betray how excited he was. Hollander stood up, grabbing his stuff.

(Ilya didn’t want him to leave.)

But Hollander looked unsure, a little uncertain, as he looked back at Ilya. He tried to play it cool, casual. 

“Bye, Holland-” 

And he found himself wrapped up in a hug, warm and grounding, the rest of the world going quiet. 

And that happiness surged and bloomed up in him, sure and pure, and all-encompassing.

He pressed a kiss into Hollander’s hair, taking a minute to bask in the scent. Hollander tilted his face up and pressed a chaste little kiss against his lips. Ilya held him tighter. He felt like he could burst.

He stepped back, smiling. 

And just to be the cocky asshole he was-

“Excited to beat you!” he shouted, down the corridor, as Hollander left.

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

He could tell Hollander was rolling his eyes.

“You will be sore when I beat you.”

“Beat me up, do you mean?”

Ilya laughed, delighted. 

“That too!”

 —-----------------------------

He blindfolded him this time, noise cancelling headphones on his head, cuffs already attached to his wrists and ankles. He’d gag him, but Ilya kinda liked the litany of sounds he could tear from Hollander’s throat. He looked a pretty sight on his bed, kneeling and hands held behind his back, the flex of his quads as he shuffled, adjusting on the soft surface. 

Ilya was still fully dressed. He’d had to ask about the boots, because, of course. And Hollander had looked a bit uncertain but he’d been okay with shoes on the hardwood in the end. If it was carpet, Ilya was sure it would've been a different story. 

He took his time, laying out his tools, getting his own dick out, admiring the way Hollander’s neck meets his collarbone, the junction wonderfully exposed and appealing. He wondered how a collar would look on that throat. 

Hollander shifted on the floor, unsuspectingly. Ilya crept forward. He had no idea if Ilya is in the same room as him; for all he knew, he could still be getting ready, or even having a shower before starting play. Ilya could be reading a book or scrolling his phone or checking his emails and he wouldn't know. 

Ilya was so close now to his muscled back. He stepped forwards in one fluid motion and encircled his arm around Hollander’s throat, the swell of his bicep pressing down, the other arm going down to trace his right pec, squeezing harshly, and giving it a rough slap. Hollander startled, an immediate gasp of surprise escaping. 

Ilya crooned at the sound, and pressed a kiss into the side of Hollander’s head. He delighted in the sound of Hollander straining, gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come. A hand slid down to cup at his balls, giving them a slap. He laughed at the way Hollander jumped. It wouldn’t have hurt, it was just a cautionary tap, but with his senses taken away, Ilya was sure it had come as a jolt to the system. 

Ilya lowered his head and said in his ear, in Russian, “I’ve got you now, darling.” It was sweet, but Hollander didn't know that, only heard the harsh syllables of his native language and the sharpness of his tone. 

“Get up,” he said. He wrenched Hollander up by his neck, taking delight in the way he stumbled to his feet, unsteady, the feeling no doubt rushing back to his legs, an uncomfortable tingling pervading his lower half. His cock was already bobbing about his stomach, a little bead of precum on his tip. 

He watched Hollander struggle to get off the bed, unsure of where to put his feet, off balance, before taking pity and deciding to help him out a little bit, grabbing him by his hair and guiding him to the floor. Hollander followed, haltingly, and Ilya gave him another tug on his hair for good measure. 

He assumed position on the floor, kneeling, panting wetly. The tip of Ilya’s boot pressed into his balls, sharp pain sending a shock of sensation into the base of his spine. Hollander’s throbbing cock was laid heavily across his shoelaces, and he nudged at it experimentally. Hollander chased the sensation. God, he loved masochists.

He took the blindfold off, and the headphones. Hollander gave his hair a bit of a shake, and then met Ilya’s eyes.

“Please,” Hollander said. His eyes were shining. “It hurts.”

But his arms weren’t tied. He wasn’t restrained in any way. Not yet. He could get up and leave whenever he wanted. Hell, he could hit Ilya back.

He loved this. This submission. This choice. 

Ilya caught him by the chin, gripping him with calloused fingers, roughly yanking his face upwards.

“I didn’t ask,” he said, voice taking on that distant tone. “Shut up,” he added, pressing his boot in deeper.

“Hurts-”

Ilya gave his face a harsh slap, not wasting a second. Hollander’s face blanches a bright and pretty red, whipped to the side.

“Fuck-” 

Ilya slapped him again. He watched Hollander’s face, looking for any sign of backing out. There was none. He was just being needy for no reason. 

Okay, Ilya thought. So he’d have to work a bit harder today. No matter. 

He ground his foot down. Hollander tried to grab at his legs, looking for some sort of stabilisation. 

“I said no touching,” Ilya said, as he slapped him in the face again, revelling in the way Hollander’s eyes went glassy and unfocused, head whipped to the side. He looked gone, and he tried to refocus his eyes on Ilya’s. The pain was no doubt sharp and stinging, exacerbated by the fact Ilya was still holding his neck in place, preventing him from flinching away. 

“I’m sorry sir-”

“Sorry doesn’t matter if you keep. Fucking. Doing it.”

“I’m sorry!” Hollander lets out a pathetic mewl this time. 

“And again, with your manners. I said I’d beat you but I didn’t expect you to actually deserve it so much.”

He was unusually wriggly today. Touchy. It was why he’d been sent to his room in the first place, to cool off.

“Sorry sir,” he corrected. “It just, it hurts.”

Hollander whined again. He reached up his hands, as if to grab onto Ilya, then seemed to think better of it, letting them drop to his sides, then holding them behind him, fisting them in a way that said to Ilya, this hurts like hell.

That was okay. Ilya’d won the game today. He’d earned this. 

“The fuck if I care it hurts,” he said, dismissively. He felt his lips split into a saccharinely sweet smile. He cupped Hollander’s face again, and made as if to hit him, stopping his palm from connecting at the last second, revelling in the sharp flinch it drew.

He was naked and shuddering, a fine film of sweat covering him as Ilya’s boot pressed down on his balls. He removed his foot for one blissful second, and he could see Hollander making as if to say thank you, but before he could get the words out, delivered a swift punt to his balls, where his foot had just been. 

Hollander almost folded over in pain, letting out a punched out gasp, but Ilya grabbed him by his hair and tsked. Hollander’s head lolled a little bit, and Ilya tried to kick him again, only to find Hollander had reflexively closed his thighs. He kicked them apart, and Hollander shuffled into place. 

“Sit up straight.” he said, “Open your legs. I won’t ask again.”

He grabbed his cane from a side table. It was a simple thing, made of willow. Flexible and thin, with a knotted handle. Stung like a bitch. 

He hit Hollander across the thighs with it, and he almost bent over again, but remembered just in time. It left a red stripe across both thighs. 

“Wider,” Ilya said. He was touching himself lazily, enjoying the scene with assessing eyes. 

Hollander whimpered, needily. Ilya caned him again, in quick succession, leaving another couple stripes across his thighs. They’d discussed this before the session. Marks were okay, as long as they’d fade within the next couple days, before Hollander’s training restarted. Ilya let him catch his breath, panting.

“Yes sir,” Hollander said, quietly, shuffling his legs apart some more. Ilya let out a pleased noise of satisfaction at this, and Hollander keened a little. He seemed to be floating high in the clouds now, mind fuzzy and in that lovely headspace. 

A job well done. 

Ilya let Hollander nuzzle against the raw denim of his trousers. He slapped his cock against Hollander’s face, which was turning red on one side. He looked so pretty like this. 

He nudged his foot against Hollander’s balls again, running his foot along the length of his cock, catching a bead of precum. “Awww,” he crooned, “So wet for me, huh? Just from some pain on your pretty little balls?”

At this, Hollander was so far gone he could barely do anything other than whine and nod against Ilya’s crotch. Ilya took pity, accepting that answer. It helped that Hollander had stuck his tongue out and was wetly running it up and down his shaft, Ilya enjoying the eager ministrations, smearing his dick, his scent, all over Hollander’s face. 

“You gonna complain again?” he asked, not expecting an answer, “Because if you do I’m gonna have to hurt you.”

Hollander’s hips jerked up at this, almost involuntarily. Ilya’s boot was too far away to grind against. 

“Awww, you like that, pet?” Ilya ran his hand through Hollander’s hair, who preened at the touch, “Wanna fuck yourself against my boot like a mutt?”

“You fucking dog,” he spat. “You wanna fuck my boot you gotta ask for it.”

And he could see Hollander’s brain struggle to function, see exactly when he tried to formulate words. “Please-” he made out, “Please. I want- I wanna fuck sir’s boot.” He gasped another breath, and hey that was definitely tears starting to form unshed on his eyelids. “Your boot, please. On- on my cock. Please. I want to feel it. I wanna feel you. God please-”

And Ilya laughed, because he felt like being mean today, and bless Hollander, sweet, docile Hollander for falling for it. He laid the span of his boot lengthwise onto Hollander’s cock and began to press. He cried out immediately, and tried to wiggle away, but Ilya held his hair in place.

He began to properly sob now, blubbering wetly, “Thank you, sir, it feels- Fuck,” he wailed as the edge of his shoe caught him, “Please hurt me, sir. I’m your- I’m your mutt. I’m yours. I’m yours, I’m sorry-”

And Hollander tried desperately to fuck himself against Ilya’s boot anyways, through the pain, and Ilya would be vaguely impressed because that wasn’t what he had meant, if he wasn’t so fucking turned on. Because Hollander was still hard, and he clearly loved it. 

He leaned down, letting Hollander go, and pressed a dirty, open-mouthed kiss to his mouth. Hollander moaned into the feeling, licking into his mouth. He seemed to forget about the pain that he’d just been put through, in a slide of soft lips and spit. He broke away with a wet sound. 

“You wanna come?” Ilya asked, meaning it for real this time. He’d been impressed enough by Hollander’s gung ho approach to getting off, no matter the cost, enough that he felt like he’d earnt it. 

Hollander took the out for what it was immediately, nodding, eyes shining wet with tears. 

“You wanna come that bad, huh?

Hollander moaned, “Yes sir.” He was so eager, so sensitive. 

“Rut against my leg,” Ilya started. He grinned, feeling a sense of morbid curiosity, and decided to be mean, “You got 30 seconds.”

And before Hollander could move, he started, “Thirty. Twenty nine-”

Hollander startled, jolting into place, his hard cock rubbing against Ilya’s legs, and he looked completely fucking filthy, desperate. Ilya told him so. A filthy degenerate. 

And it wasn’t long, surprisingly, at the 18 second mark, that he started to shudder, and he looked up at Ilya with sweet, trusting eyes and said please sir, please I’m gonna come, please may I come- Not on my trousers- Yes sir, thank you, God, thank you-

He came all over Ilya’s boots, shuddering, sobbing through it, and Ilya couldn’t help himself anymore, fisting his cock roughly, dragging Hollander up by his hair and forcing his cock into his mouth, fucking him through it. Hollander’s eyes fluttered closed at the rough treatment, throat relaxing, taking it. Taking it most of the way, Ilya noted. His cheeks were swollen, streaked with drying tears. He was so far out of his head that he couldn’t even think to be humiliated by it, not anymore, only focusing on taking Ilya’s cock as far as he could. And he would be worried by the choking sounds, and the occasional filthy fucking wet noise, but one glance down said that Hollander was having the time of his fuckign life down there. Hollander made a happy sound, and all Ilya could think was where the fuck did I find someone like this, he’s so perfect, I’m so lucky, fuck, I’m so lucky-

He came to, curled around Hollander, their sweaty fronts plastered to each other, Hollander’s head against his chest. It didn’t deter him from pulling him closer. 

His mind was quiet, still. 

It was all perfect.

I’m yours, Hollander had said.

Ilya thought that maybe a part of him belonged to Hollander, too.

Chapter End Notes

Hello my lovelies!!! Turned out a bit longer than it was meant to be, and I ended up on a little detour trying to sus out PLOT because, hell yeah we're gonna get some PLOT and it's gonna be sad guys :(

So I tried to get this out asap, lmk if there's anything atrocious in there that pops up when you read it.

What have I been up to this week? Uhhhh. So. Honestly really not much. First patient went swell. My sub is in Chicago rn on a business trip and I told him I wouldn't cage him, but that he wasn't allowed to jerk off. I think he made it about two weeks and then had a particularly horrific day and had a pity wank. Anyways, if anyone has any ideas of how to make him fucking regret that, I am open to suggestions.

I coordinated an exhibition? That's something. And I've been trying to approve a 10 pound sunset lamp for life drawing. And I've got a magazine launch tomorrow. Keeping busy asf.

And yeah Ilya's a depressed lil guy. Poor thing.

OH ILL TELL YOU WAHT I FUCKING FIGURED OUT> YOU CAN PASTE THIS SHIT INTO RICH TEXT. IVE BEEN MANUALLY DOING THE WHOEL SHEBANG OF FOR ITALICS HOLY SHIT THIS IS A GAMECHANGER FOR ME oh it doesn't show up bc html

Love you all!

Chapter 5: velvet jacket lined with satin resting on your thigh

Chapter Notes

Warnings:
- reference to child abuse if you really squint

It wasn’t like he’d never had a crush before. It was just, it hadn’t happened in such a long time. He forgot how it felt, to feel giddy, feel stupid. 

And he’d always been pretty in touch with his feelings, had known what he wanted. Always been emotional, soft, his father would say. Honestly, he was just happy he had something to think about, someone to angst over. It had been too long. 

He liked stupid.

The Christmas gala was boring, filled with politicians and military officers. Everyone was milling about, pretending to enjoy the other’s presence. Ilya hated these things. Meeting the lawmakers that were actively campaigning to criminalise his very existence. 

He knew Svetlana was around somewhere, probably tied the same way he was, to the hip of her father. He wanted her to swoop in and save him, like she always did. 

He thought back to Sochi, in 2013. Losing to Latvia, of all countries, on home ice. But more so, of playing nice to politicians who scorned him. The sharp escalation of the crackdown against queers, homosexuals, faggots, and especially after the hope that things could, and would, change. To stand in a room, and not feel hated, and scared. 

It had seemed so simple before, to fool around with Sasha, unaware that things would change so fast. 

Sasha had a friend in 2014. He wasn’t out, per say, and he wasn’t even fully gay. Bi, like Ilya. But it hadn’t mattered; he wasn’t gay but he looked it, and he’d been out in St Petersburg when it had happened. A birthday party. It had only taken a drunken jeer, a sloppy punch, a misstep on the slippery ice. He’d fallen, and hit his head on the flagstone, and there’d been blood, so much blood, Sasha had said. He’d been kicked, bruising, relentless kicks, and he hadn’t been moving, but they kicked him anyway. 

The police had turned a blind eye; an accident, they said, on the official documentation. But they hadn’t called him a fag, a cocksucker, by accident. Hadn’t left dark, purple, black, orange, brown bruises all over his torso by accident.

To think that Ilya’d thought he’d liked the danger, the thrill, way back when. When actually, he hadn’t had a single taste of it yet.

And Ilya didn’t think his brother would rat him out, not really. He was reliant on Ilya’s money, and to fuck that up would send an army of debt collectors his way, not all of them friendly. But he didn’t want to test it, didn’t want to fuck up that delicate balance they had going on, to upset the status quo. It was safer this way, to take the abuse and vitriol, and recoup his losses by skating, and being far, far away from it all. 

Ilya lingered by his father’s side while he addressed face after face of the dreary Russian elite. It was tedious, mind numbing work, occasionally interspersed with a quip at his expense. Some general, red faced and bearing a smile that looked more like a grimace. He was holding some caramel coloured whiskey and it sloshed as he gestured, drunkenly. 

“-and Ilyushka, he is just, how you say-”

Ilya’d tried, with the pleasantries and greetings, peering faces all eager to get a hold of this handsome star in the American League. Redeemed himself in the years following that very public humiliation. But honestly, he was just about keeping his eyes from glazing over. 

Shane Hollander, with his lovely, lithe body, and beautiful freckles. He’d never noticed them before, never been close enough. But now he wanted to kiss every single one. Shane Hollander, with his sweet, sweet reactions, how perfectly he took Ilya down his throat.

“- he is not smart, he needs people like us, to push him, otherwise he is so lazy-”

Shane Hollander, with his pretty eyes and the way he made Ilya feel so contented, happy. 

“- and Ilyushka. Ilyushka-”

Shane Hollander, who made him feel hopeful again. Who was sunshine-

He’d been distracted, half-turned towards a group of guests who’d recognised him, answering the same questions out of habit, smiling when expected. He missed the first cue entirely, his father's hand tightening on his sleeve, the subtle warning that someone important was approaching.

“Ilya,” his father said, low and sharp, in Russian. 

He’d nodded without looking, zoned out completely, still vaguely listening to someone talking about hockey, about contracts and schedules, still mostly thinking about Shane Hollander.

His father lost patience.

“You are not paying attention,” he said, louder, now, conversations faltering nearby as his tone rose. 

“You are ignoring them,” he said, eyes sharp and unfocused at the same time. “You cannot do that. Do you know who they are?”

Ilya frowned, finally turning fully toward him. “Papa- what?”

His father’s gaze had slid past him, scanning the room with growing urgency. “They are watching. You think this is allowed? You think they don’t notice disrespect?”

A couple of nearby conversations had stalled. Someone glanced over.

“Hey,” Ilya had said quietly, stepping closer. “It’s fine. No one said anything.”

His father had shaken his head, breathing uneven now. “You always do this. You never listen. Just like before.”

“Before what?” Ilya had asked, a warning note creeping into his voice.

His father’s face had tightened, confusion hardening into certainty. “Before the hearing. When you embarrassed me. When they wrote everything down.”

Ilya’s stomach had dropped.

“There’s no hearing,” he had said, low and urgent. “That was years ago. You’re retired. Remember?”

But his father had pulled his arm away, eyes flashing. “Don’t lie to me in public,” he had snapped. “Do you think I don’t know where I am?”

Heads had turned now. The air around them had thinned.

“Papa,” Ilya had said, forcing calm he didn’t feel. “We’re at a Christmas gala. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

His father had laughed, short and brittle. “Safe?” He looked around again, visibly agitated. “They never let you be safe. You should know that. You should be paying attention.”

“I am paying attention,” Ilya had said, voice rising despite himself. “I just- I don’t really care-”

That had done it.

“You should care,” his father had said, cold now. “You are here because of me. You are here because I said you would show respect.”

He moved towards him, abruptly, grabbing Ilya by the arm, grip firm and unrelenting. It hurt.

And it wasn’t like Ilya thought he’d actually hit him, not here in front of everybody. But he couldn’t stop his body from making a full body jolt anyways.

And he felt really stupid, to be so scared of a demented old man.

“Where is your respect? I did not raise you like this. You have no appreciation for what I have done for you, what I have sacrificed to get you this far. You are mine. You belong to me. You will show me respect. Do you understand?”

Ilya opened his mouth. He closed it again, biting back his tongue. 

“Do you understand?"

“Yes sir.” he muttered, looking down. 

“Then pay attention. Why did you come if you wouldn’t pay attention?”

“I came for you,” Ilya said, panic creeping in. “Because you wanted me to come.”

His father had stared at him, something flickering across his face- confusion, then suspicion. 

“No,” he said slowly. “You needed me. You always need me to clean things up.”

That hurt, sudden and deep.

“I don’t,” Ilya had said, jaw tight. “I just want you to look at me.”

For a moment, his father had seemed lost, eyes darting, breath shallow. Then his shoulders had sagged, anger draining into exhaustion.

“I don’t know what they want,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They keep changing the rules.”

Ilya had stepped closer, lowering his voice, shielding him as best he could from the room. 

“It’s okay. We can leave. We don’t have to stay.”

A pause, assessing.

“Who tied this, your mother?”

His tone had changed. He seemed warmer, more fond.

Ilya stilled, feeling a chill run through him.

“Father,” he began, gently. He looked him in the eye. Because no matter how much of a bastard he was, Ilya hated to see the proud man so lost. “Mother is dead, remember?”

His father froze, blinking. Ilya could see his guard coming up again, hackles rising. It pained him to see. 

“Of course." 

He looked confused, and scared, all of a sudden a frail old man in a too-big suit covered in medals from a different age. 

“I meant your… your stepmother.” 

“And where is Polina?”

Ilya searched his father’s eyes, looking for some proof of recollection. There was none. Just a panic, a desperate search for an answer that wasn’t there.

He felt bile rise quickly in his throat. 

Ilya turned, unable to stomach it any more. He put down his glass of champagne, and steeled his expression, wiping it of any form of emotion. 

People had gone very still around them, pretending not to hear.

“We should go,” he said, carefully. “Polina… I mean. Papa. Mother is waiting for us. She wants us home before 11.”

His father’s expression cleared, and he nodded.

“Yes. That damn woman.” he started, then laughed, “You should never get married. It’s a trap! They use you and they never let you get away.”

 —-----------------------------

Ilya clutched his gold cross, fingers indenting from the sharp edges. They left little ridges in his skin. Counted to ten. Counted to ten again. His breath fogged in the cold air. It was shaky.

He was okay. 

He let out a quiet whew, then grabbed his keys from his pocket, unlocking his door, and shaking away the leftover chill from outside, stepping into the warmth. 

He shed his dinner jacket, discarding it in a corner.

There was a sound, and he stilled, heart racing again.

And Svetlana burst, out of nowhere, arms curling around his neck, a sloppy kiss pressed to his cheek, “Merry Christmas!” she said, in Russian. Ilya jumped out of his skin, flinching bodily, before relaxing into the hug.

“Sveta!” he said, in mock outrage, “What the fuck are you doing here?” He held her at arms length, assessing her. He couldn’t believe she was really there.

“Seeing you, dummy!” She had a bright smile across her face, and Ilya let himself grin in relief, whirling her around his living room. 

They stopped, panting heavily, and Ilya knew Svetlana could see every wrinkle of exhaustion in his face.

“I saw you leave,” she began gently.

Ilya flinched and looked away. 

“He had an episode.”

“I know.”

He blinked, and tried to hold back tears.

Svetlana pulled him into a hug. She was all bones and wiry muscle, but Ilya collapsed into her anyway. 

“I should’ve noticed sooner. I wasn’t paying attention. And then everyone was looking and I-”  He gasped, breath catching. “I don’t know how to do this. Alexei didn’t say anything about him getting worse-”

“Hey. Alexei is a dick.” Svetlana punctuated the sentence harshly. She held Ilya’s gaze, her eyes a warm honey in the low light.

“It’s gonna be okay. 

She smiled softly, brushing snow from his sleeve. “Come on,” she had said. “You’re freezing. Let’s go somewhere warm. We’ll have some hot chocolate. It’ll be okay.”

Ilya nodded, finally. They settled on the couch, his head in her lap. The weight in his chest eased, just a little.

 —-----------------------------

The 2017 All Stars Game was a Captain’s draft, and to nobody’s surprise, it was once again Hollander and Rozanov. 

The draft was meant to be a harmless little pregame show; the captains, picking players one by one, some trash talk for the cameras. Hollander leaned into it easily, smiling, charming. 

It was meant to be just a bit of fun.

Ilya decided about 3 minutes into losing the first pick that Hollander looked way too pleased with himself.

That wouldn’t do.

Ilya took a winger Hollander had clearly been lining up. Casual as anything. Hollander made a quiet, offended sound, from the other podium. He blinked, annoyed, and glared back at Ilya, as if he’d just been robbed. He kinda had. It was funny. 

And okay, nobody was meant to really take these games too seriously. It was fucking January, after all. They were meant to be a bit of light entertainment, a fun little detour as the play started ramping up in preparation for their yearly bid towards the Stanley cup.

Hollander cleared his throat, obviously miffed, and said into the mike, “Bold choice.”

Ilya didn’t look at him. He touched his foot against Hollander’s. 

He played dumb, leaning forwards, “Yes.”

The crowd laughed, and Hollander rolled his eyes, adjusting his board. It was okay. He could work with this. Ilya could see him rapidly running calculations in his head. He took the next best pick for his board. 

And Ilya nabbed another one of his defencemen, just to make a point.

Hollander gave him a look.

He took a guy Ilya had been eyeing. It was an absolutely terrible pick for his lineup.

Ilya was gleeful. And a bit hungover. It was fucking on.

 —-----------------------------

The NHL’s All-Star Skills competition was held the night before the All-Star game. Nobody was meant to take it really seriously, but Ilya was there, dammit. And his idea of fun was trying his best to humiliate Hollander as best he could. Payback for the whole rest of the draft, which went terribly. He’d had to give up trying to put a good team together, and resorted to causing the pick to descend more into chaos as they chose whomever would piss the other off hardest.

And if the league was trying to get them to compete against each other in the skills competition, they certainly didn’t need to try very hard. They’d been pitted against each other in the shot accuracy competition before, in their rookie season. They hadn’t had a chance to do shot accuracy against each other since. And Ilya was aching for a rematch. He hadn’t taken it too seriously the first time, skating languidly onto the ice, and breaking the targets in 8 seconds.

He hadn’t been too upset about that; the league record was about seven seconds. Not too far off, and perfectly respectable, impressive even, for a rookie skater. 

And then Hollander had demolished his fucking score. 

He’d locked in, with his cute little eyes, his perfect shots, directly on target.

Six point seven seconds.

That was not going to happen again.

And in a stark reprisal of what had occurred before, Ilya was going first.

Fuck that. He could do this. 

He could beat Shane with one hand tied behind his back. 

Although it would usually probably be Shane with his hands tied.

He shook himself.

Keep your mind out of the gutter Rozanov.

The whistle blew and Ilya just locked into those targets. He would never admit to Hollander how much he’d practiced in the weeks coming up to this, just to get a chance at beating him. 

Each one burst apart. Perfect shots.

Six point five seconds. 

A new record.

Ilya almost ripped open his shirt, there on the ice, but opted not to at the last second, instead letting out a roar, and skating over to the box Hollander was in, celebrating way more than was probably sportsmanlike, or necessary, for a fun, skills based competition.

Hollander skated up to replace him on the blue line. He couldn’t resist skating in close, almost brushing, and a good luck, Hollander, that he definitely didn’t mean.

The pucks flew immediately after the whistle was blown.

Six point six seconds.

He whooped in Hollander’s face, in a way that was definitely off putting and then schooled his expression quickly, suppressing a smile.

“Good match, Hollander,” he said. He couldn’t hide the sarcasm.

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” came the reply. But Hollander was joking too.

 —-----------------------------

The game went as it always did, flashy, a bit stupid, defence terrible, as it normally was in these games. The goalies were having a terrible time as usual. But that was okay, everyone else was having fun.

Except Ilya, who was having a fabulous time. 

They’d been pitted against each other early. Hollander had the puck, skating easily, playing cleanly, expecting to be given space. It would be dumb to be competitive in what was essentially a showcase. 

Ilya wasn’t usually dumb. Not when it came to hockey. But he could be, for Hollander.

He moved in close, a crooked little grin on his face, knocking heavily into Hollander, and whipping the puck away, ignoring the affronted ‘what the fuck dude?’

He skated away, and feeling extra showy, flipped the puck a couple times on his stick, and slipped past some defenders to whack the puck into the back of the net.

“Too slow.” he quipped, as he skated past Hollander, who was obviously fuming.

The game sharpened up again, and it felt like it was only him vs Hollander on the ice. He was playing hard and fast, and nasty as usual, and revelled in the boos from the crowd, raising his arms as if to gather applause. 

“You know this doesn’t count, right?”

Ilya took him in, cataloguing the way Hollander’s chest was heaving, how he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“If this doesn’t count, why are you trying so hard?”

“I’m not.” Hollander said. He was obviously lying.

Ilya rolled his eyes, “Then why’re you so out of breath? Old man.”

Hollander looked affronted. “We are the same age.”

“Uhuh.” 

It was a terrible comeback. But he’d just spotted an easy opening and skated in to take it. 

Hollander made an annoyed noise and chased back after a play he absolutely could have ignored. Ilya grinned. Hollander didn’t see it. 

 —-----------------------------

“What was that about, Rozie?” Scott Hunter asked, on the bench. He’d somehow ended up with Hunter on his team after fucking up the drafts. It was a cruel, cruel world sometimes.

For Hunter, obviously. Not him.

“What was what?” he said, feigning innocence. 

“You really got it out for Hollander?”

“He is easy to mess with.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Hunter replied. He looked a little cheeky all of a sudden, “Just… Keep your flirting for off the ice.”

Ilya looked back at him in mock horror. Obviously Hunter was joking, he wasn’t worried about that. But the idea that his competitiveness could be misconstrued as something it wasn't, that was an abhorrent notion.

“Not flirting. Russians do not do that. Americans, you flirt, you chase. I attract.”

“Whatever you say, Rozanov.”

“Is true!” He was severely put out by that. 

“Hey, don’t get defensive. Your fault it’s a fucking shit show out there.”

Okay. Yup that was fair enough.

They looked back out at the ice. One of Ilya’s teammates, Hudgekins, a massive lineman, was shoving at another one of his defencemen, Rover. Ilya vaguely remembered Hudgekins landing a dirty hit a couple seasons back, which put Rover out of the running for the cup, and the subsequent anger that followed. Clearly neither had forgotten.

“Break it up,” he yelled, halfheartedly over the ice.

They didn’t. 

 —-----------------------------

All-Star Chaos: Hollander and Rozanov Draft “Worst Possible Teams” in Petty NHL Standoff

TORONTO : What was meant to be a celebratory showcase of the NHL’s brightest talent devolved into gleeful sabotage on Saturday night, as captains Hollander and Rozanov appeared to intentionally draft baffling, dysfunctional teams during the NHL All-Star Game player selection.

Instead of stacking speed, scoring, and chemistry, both captains assembled line combinations that left analysts scrambling for explanations.

“It stopped being about winning after, like, the second pick,” joked one league executive. 

Sources close to the event say the draft quickly turned into a mutual act of escalation.

“Hollander picked a defense-heavy line with zero finish,” said one player. “Rozie looked at him, laughed, and immediately drafted three guys who all played the exact same role.”

Fans watching the broadcast took to social media in real time, questioning whether the captains were confused, overthinking, or simply committed to chaos.

According to insiders, the answer was none of the above.

“They were 100% aware,” said an All-Star staffer. “Every weird pick was followed by eye contact. They were daring each other.”

Players Caught in the Crossfire

Several players appeared visibly amused, and occasionally concerned, as they were selected into lineups that made little strategic sense. 

Still, the mood remained light. With the All-Star Game’s emphasis on entertainment, many players leaned into the absurdity.

“This is the most personality an All-Star draft has ever had,” one fan posted. “Putting Hudgekins and Rover on the same team was insane. They started fist fighting on the ice, on the same team. It was hilarious.”

By the end of the night, neither team looked remotely optimised, but both captains appeared satisfied. 

Asked after the draft whether the selections were planned, Rozanov smirked and said, “I think the teams speak for themselves.”

Hollander’s response?

“He started it.”

—-----------------------------

Ilya expected the knock on his door. They’d texted a little after the game, mostly snarky little comments about each other’s performance. He’d replied with his hand down his trousers, languidly stroking himself as he sent off the messages. 

He’d wondered what Hollander was doing. Was he in his room, lying on his bed? Was he wondering what Ilya was doing? 

Why was Shane Hollander so hard to shake? They’d only played a couple times. But every time had left Ilya overthinking, aching, wanting more. He wanted to text him constantly, to call him, to be near to him. But he wasn’t allowed to want more, they were just… what were they? Did Hollander think they were friends? Were they just casual, play partners? Were they a little more than that? 

But it was nice, what they had going. Meeting at each other’s games. Quietly hooking up, letting go. He didn’t want to disturb the careful routine they’d somehow built around each other. Because as much as he wanted more, though he struggled to admit that to himself, Hollander kept coming back, and he didn’t want to scare him off with hope of more.

And it was kinda stupid, the amount of power Hollander had over him, when really it should’ve been the other way round.

On the ice it was so easy to fall into place. They knew where each other stood, they’d played probably hundreds of games against each other. And Ilya loved playing against Hollander. He liked the challenge, the steely glint Hollander got in his eye when Ilya pissed him off. He pushed Ilya in a way that very few other people could. He loved slamming Hollander into the boards. He loved taking the puck away from him, showboating, look at me. He loved shit-talking, and stirring him up, and he’d get so freaking cute. 

And he loved fucking Hollander, he loved when his face would screw up and he’d relax into Ilya’s palm, looking at him, so sweet and trusting. He loved Hollander in so many ways. 

Which scared him. But it would be okay. He’d take it at Hollander’s pace, careful not to push or ask for details. 

He was happy with their arrangement. He didn’t need to know what they were, where they stood with each other. 

It was fun, but also Ilya suspected it was a little more than that. And that was okay, at least for now.

So yeah, he’d expected the knock on his door.

What he hadn’t expected was how Hollander had burst into the room as soon as Ilya opened the door. He looked, not terrified. But definitely on edge about something. Ilya watched as he breathed a sigh of relief, and scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

“Is someone chasing you?” he asked.

“Scott fucking Hunter is right next door.”

“Yes, I know?” Ilya replied, amused.

“I almost ran into him, I had to take the stairs.”

Ilya moved towards him, crowding him with his arms around his waist. He enjoyed the little intake of breath Hollander made. 

“We should let him listen. Like mating call.”

“Fuck off,” Hollander replied, but he leaned into the touch.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Hollander said. He’d relaxed a little. The amber light made his hair seem lighter. 

Ilya, for the first time that week, decided to drop the act. He leant in and inhaled against Hollander’s soft skin. He smelled clean, like his detergent, a light floral scent. 

Hollander moaned a little, and lunged to kiss him, grabbing Ilya’s top in a fist and pulling him close. Ilya only had time to make a surprised noise before he opened his mouth on instinct, kissing back, deeply, and thoroughly. It was possessive. Ilya’s hands moved up to grasp at Hollander’s hair, making a rough sound into Hollander’s mouth, licking into the cavity. 

They broke apart, panting wetly. Ilya looked at him, tracing a hand gently up his cheek.

“Um,” Hollander began. “As much as I’d, uhh, like to.”

“Scott Hunter?” Ilya finished.

“Yeah, I mean. It’s just, we get kinda loud.”

“You mean, you get kinda loud.”

“Hey, it goes both ways!”

Hollander was flushed a pretty pink. Ilya wanted to kiss him, and then he realised he could. 

“So… What. Do. You wanna do?” he asked, in between kisses. 

“This is okay,” Hollander said. 

And that suited Ilya just fine. He leant down again to capture Hollander's mouth in a kiss, groping at him, and was surprised by the hiss of pain when his hand brushed against Hollander’s side. 

He looked down, taking in the wince on Hollander’s face, briefly remembering how he’d slammed Hollander into the boards during the game. 

“Did I do that?” he asked, tentatively. He wasn’t sure how Hollander would react. 

“Yeah,” came the reply. 

“Can I see?”

“Sure, I mean…” he trailed off, as he pulled his shirt over his head. Ilya saw a blotchy pattern of bruising down his side, left after a particularly rough couple hits. He had some himself, but they weren’t this bad.

“Does it hurt?” he pressed a finger gently into the dark, purpling bruise.

“Yes it fucking hurts!” came the hiss of pain. 

“Sorry-”

“No, it’s. It’s okay,” Hollander huffed a laugh. “It’s just the game. It’s fine.”

Ilya almost felt bad. 

But Hollander’s eyes had squinted shut, and while he flinched away from the contact, he leaned into Ilya. His pupils had dilated a little, and Ilya wouldn’t have noticed unless they were this close. But he could see the ring of dark brown rapidly vanish. 

He traced the pattern of the bruise again. 

Experimentally, he pressed another finger.

“Does this hurt?” Ilya asked, amused. 

“Yess…” Hollander said, breathily, but it came out as more of a moan. 

Okay, and he definitely seemed into it.

“You like this!” Ilya said, delighted.

“Fuck off, you’re such a pervert.”

“Hey, you still like this.”

And Hollander opened his mouth to object, but Ilya kissed him again, thumb still firmly pressed into the dark bruise. He grasped him harder, relishing in the startled gasp Hollander let go into his mouth. His cock throbbed where it was trapped in his jeans.

“Where else does it hurt?” he asked.

“Uhhh… I did chest yesterday. And I’m still a little sore from legs- aaargh!”

He was cut off, as Ilya dug a hard finger into the muscle between Hollander’s arm and pec, using his whole hand to palpate the muscle. He could tell it fucking hurt, at least by the way Hollander let in a sharp inhale and But it was hot. And kinda funny. And he could tell Hollander liked it too.

“Get your hands away from me,” Hollander said, eyes watering a little, but making no real attempt to escape from the pain. 

Ilya gave him his best devilish grin. 

“You want massage?” he asked, “I can do massage.”

He waggled his eyebrows, not really trying to be seductive, but failing at it either way.

Hollander rolled his eyes.

“That’s so bullshit and you know it.”

“Hey, at least let me even it out.”

“Whatever you say- fucking hell!”

He dug his hand into the other pec, sharper than before, and by the gasp Hollander let out, and the way he curled around Ilya was so fucking hot.

He was so fucking hard, so messed up in the head to like this, to like drawing out those agonised gasps and little moans. To enjoy seeing Hollander’s eyes flutter shut, and screw up, and the way he leant into Ilya’s grasp when he let go. He was floating already. Probably at least a little. 

“And you said your legs as well, right?”

“Yes…” Hollander admitted, tentatively, “What are you doing…?”

Ilya had dropped to his knees. Hollander looked a little scared. Ilya liked it. He curled his hand into a fist, and then pressed it into the base of Hollander’s left quad, and then slowly, and punishingly, smoothed it upwards, over the muscle, feeling the way it flexed and deformed a little under his hand. 

“What the fuck- that fucking hurts!” Hollander hopped away, hobbling in pain, gasping. Ilya stood up, and wrapped him into a hug and they swayed a little, laughing. 

“Sorry,” he said.

“God, you’re so not sorry,” Hollander choked out, in between giggles, “Do the other one. It feels weird now.”

And Ilya happily obliged, watching Hollander go glassy eyed and slack from the pain. He dug his finger back into the bruise on Hollander’s side for good measure. 

“If you wanna strip, I can actually give you a massage.”

“Promise?” Hollander said.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Not at all.”

They both knew this wasn’t true. Hollander shrugged off his trousers, and after a moment’s hesitation, his boxers as well. He was half hard.

“Lie on the bed,” Ilya said, and clarified, “Face down.”

He rooted about in his bag, and found some silicone lube.

“I don’t have massage oil, sorry,” he called. 

“Isokay-” Hollander’s voice was slightly muffled as he lay on the bed. 

Ilya took a moment to admire that muscled back, before taking off his own top. 

He lumbered over to the bed, legs depressing the mattress slightly as he shuffled, sitting on top of Hollander’s ass. He squirted some of the lube generously over his hands. Normally he’d try to warm it up a little before he did this. And normally, he’d do this for Sveta. But something told Ilya that Hollander wouldn’t mind the cold. 

He hadn’t really given a sports massage before, but he’d received plenty. He could figure this out. His shoulders still tight from the match, breathing slower as Ilya’s hands settled deliberately at the base of his neck.

The touch wasn’t rushed. Ilya worked with an unhurried confidence, thumbs tracing warm lines along muscle that had been clenched for hours. He applied pressure, responding to tension as it gave way. 

And fuck, he was hard. 

And if the way Hollander was rutting slightly into the mattress, he definitely was too. 

“Is this okay?”

“So okay,” Hollander slurred. 

Ilya ran his hands up his sides one final time, and then gently motioned for Hollander to sit up, and back into Ilya, his legs bracketing Hollander’s at the sides, holding him, Hollander’s back to Ilya’s chest. He got some more lube out, and began to jerk Hollander off with his right hand, his left reaching up to grope Hollander’s pec one more time, squeezing, and loving the tiny whines and whimpers as he found a particularly difficult knot. Hollander’s head lulled back into Ilya’s shoulder as he relaxed into Ilya’s firm grip. 

“Fuck, can I-”

“You wanna come?”

“Yeah, can I- fuck I’m gonna come-”

And he did, with a shuddering gasp, spilling into Ilya’s hand. It got on Ilya’s bedsheets, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He pressed an open mouthed kiss into the side of Hollander’s neck. His head lolled to look at Ilya’s, and they made out, slowly and languidly. 

“You wanna-”

“Yeah, wanna lie down?”

Hollander moved to lie back face down again, but Ilya couldn’t stop himself making a slightly displeased noise in his throat. 

“Hey, let me see you.”

Hollander turned, a bit confused, so he was lying on the bed, facing straight up at Ilya.

“No, not like that.”

He manoeuvred Hollander so he was lying slightly sideways against the bed, his torso twisted, to show off his fabulous ass, the gentle curve of his spine accessorised by the smattering of bruises against his skin. 

And yeah, he felt kinda bad to hurt Hollander like that. But more so, it was hot to see exactly how he’d left his mark. To see the scattered pattern of purple, red, blotchy bruises down his side. How they’d fight on the ice, and that no matter what, Ilya could touch him, that they were real. They’d played, and fought, and they occasionally fucked, but they were real, this was real. 

And that Hollander knew this side of him, that he enjoyed being hurt, enjoyed Ilya hurting him. 

This was the most real, most genuine version of themselves.

And as Ilya looked down at his handiwork, he felt as though he owned that; this private, gorgeous version of Hollander. He was (probably) the only person to see him that way, to see both sides of him.

And Ilya hadn’t really been with anyone else in weeks, not that he’d ever tell Hollander. It wasn’t even really to do with Hollander. Ilya was just being lazy. It was hard work to find a sub who was discrete, and pretty, and talented, and dedicated, like Hollander was. Or at least, that was what he was telling himself. Too much bother.

His come streaked over Hollander’s bruises, a claim, milky white against the colour. It looked good. He collected some in his fingers, and smeared it in, pressing gently. The colour would surely darken in the coming days, and Ilya wanted to make sure Hollander felt them, felt him, still, when he got home. 

Hollander made a content noise, waiting for Ilya to be done. 

He leant down for a kiss, and collapsed into his bed. 

Fuck. 

It was absolutely covered in silicone lube. 

He’d have to tip the cleaners.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, I'm like so sorry this took ages to get out. Writing hockey is so hard. I could so write figure skating, that would be so easy. Fucking obsessed with Ilia Malinin. Was an og Yuzuru girl ofc though. Watched the last Winter Olympics with my hands over my eyes, stressing the FUCK out. Is nice to watch floppy spinny boy do his thing.

So yeah, hockey is hard.

What else is hard? Certainly not any of my sexual partners right now, they've been too busy listening to me bitch and moan about my bike getting stolen. Spoiler alert: it is way too easy to pay people to beat up bike thieves. I accidentally assembled a crowd of like 8 people, consisting of: the Tescos express security guard, three workers, my local corner shop lady (love her), and a different corner shop man and his regular, and a local homeless man who was so sweet and who gave me a fat hug. Alongside me and three of my flatmates.

Anyways I've tracked this guy the fuck down, he's called Jimmy and I also know his surname but I'm not gonna dox him. I know where he lives. I know where he sleeps. Will eventually pelt him with a watermelon. But if I accidentally off him, please don't tell on me. I feel like watermelon murder is innocuous enough to come off as a spur of a moment decision.

Actually amazed myself with my detective work here. Was genuinely interviewing people up and down my street.

What else? Am allergic to a course of antibiotics I was given. Lovely finding that out.

I love some aggressive massaging. I dated a GB rower for a good while, and his sister went to the Olympics. Solid rowing family there. Austrians are sick rowers. My favourite pastime (other than, well. You know), was digging my fingers into him after some particularly rough sessions. Try out my techniques on your favourite gym bro! Guaranteed to make them weak at the knees and possibly even cry.

Okay, so in my rush to get this shit out, it has not been proof read at ALL. If it's shit I will notice after clinic tomorrow.

Am so excited for the plot coming up. Especially my take on canon Shane getting injured. I have elite medical knowledge. And when this fic gets a sequel (because it will), I lowk had (have) a hyper fixation on plane crashes. So I know how that shit works!!!! And it's so terribly written in the book. I can write a fucking awesome plane crash. Feel like a good start for my research would be United 232, or Quantas 72, where there was severe loss of control which would have definitely freaked out Ilya sufficiently for him to actually feel like he was going to die.

My friend, who's at CSM, is doing this really sick final collection and he's asked me to model for him! He's technically doing menswear, so it'll be alongside other male models, but it's a no-sew project, so he's doing a fetishwear inspired collection, based on posh boys and scallys. Which are supposedly a gay subculture. It's gonna be so sick, and I really see his vision, and honestly am so honoured he's asked me to model.

There's an insta post I'm looking for, which I wish I had saved, but I didn't because the creator uses AI in their photography. I literally should've. But principles, yaknow? But I'm looking for this post, if anyone knows where to find it: it's like gritty, dirty, there's a woman dressed cute leading around men on leashed who are all roughed up. Shot in a caravan, I don't know.

So yeah, sorry for the wait. But it's a nice long chapter this time! They are definitely getting longer. So much fucking time was spent on research and figuring out the fucking PLOT.

Anyways lmk if there's any mistakes! Am looking for a beta at the mo. Come yap at me. I don't have Tumblr, but if anyone wants my like. I don't know. Reddit? I don't know what else I have. Insta? Snap? Anyways, ask. Comments give me life.

OH MY GOD. I almost forgot to say. Was talking to a new potential sub and he's like 6'5, German, stupidly built and lowk actually hung. Which is fucking A. I was asking the usual, how long since your last serious relationship, blah blah blah. And then in the middle of conversation he hard launches the fact that he not only was ENGAGED, but she is no longer WITH US. First fucking conversation. He was 25 as well??? So young to have loved and lost. I felt awful.

But yeah I couldn't tell if we were flirting or arguing. Like, if he was just being a brat or if we actually had a problem. Was very funny. Probably gonna be a crash and burn situationship. We ball.

Chapter 6: but we like it when we're spinning in his grip

Chapter Notes

Shane looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was slicked all over the place, damp from the shower. He hadn’t yet made an attempt to dry himself. He was enthralled by the scattered marks on his side. They were darker in some places, than they would’ve been, more so than the usual hockey bruises. 

He traced a hand over them, hissing out as he brushed a particularly sensitive spot. 

It didn’t quite feel the same as when Rozanov had pressed his hands into them. 

He didn’t really know how he felt about Rozanov. He didn’t really want to think too hard about it, honestly. 

It was already fucking dangerous territory. He just couldn’t stop himself from going back, again and again, even though he knew he should've called it off, months ago. They’d be seeing each other again, soon. Probably. 

He hunched over his sink, gripping it with his hands. 

He needed to get it the fuck together. 

Rozanov was probably fucking someone else. Maybe even right this very moment. He had a playboy reputation, even for a hockey star. He had no shortage of beautiful men and women to fuck and take apart. Why would Shane be worth the trouble?

Shane knew that the words had just been empty praise, said in the head of the moment. Hell, he probably said the same thing to every other person he was fucking. But he couldn't help the feelings that rose within him at them anyways. Realistically, he knew he wasn’t anything special, kinda plain looking and boring, and everything Rozanov wasn’t. He was too clean cut, too pedantic, too much of a stickler for rules. Didn’t have Rozanov’s easy charm, even in a language unfamiliar to him. Shane knew how people saw him.

And he’d only ever really been dommed by people he was seeing anyways. No wonder he was getting confused. It was just probably a combination of dumb hormones and endorphins, left over from when his ancestors were hunting wildebeest with pointy sticks and the fight or flight response was useful for something other than freaking out over whether or not his weird kinky situationship liked him as a person or not.

What had Rozanov said? Sub space. That he had to be careful what he did after, to manage the come down. To not get attached when there was nothing there to get attached to.

So there. It was his brain being stupid after all. 

But in that single moment where everything seemed to slow down and be so simple. He could let the words work, allow the praise to flow through him, and make him feel wanted and desired and special in a way nobody else, and nothing else could make him feel. 

Even if they meant nothing. And he had to remember that, or lose himself fully. 

Shane looked himself in the mirror, wiping away the condensation. He squinted at the abundance of freckles on his nose. They were appearing, slowly and gradually and he hated them. He uncapped his vial of vitamin C serum, his daily moisturisers. His salicylic acid and benzyl peroxide spot treatment. 

Rozanov probably washed his face with dawn dish soap. He probably looked good with stubble, not like the patchy mess Shane got after just a couple days not shaving. 

He looked at the bruises again. His hand hovered over his bruise ointment. He didn’t really want to use it. He liked them, kinda. He wanted them to stay, a physical reminder that he belonged to Rozanov, at least in this one way. He pressed his hand into the marks, letting the pain wash over him. It still didn’t feel the same. But he watched the skin blanch and turn white where he touched it, and he imagined Rozanov touching him there. And that was okay, at least for now.

—-----------------------------

(He grabbed his phone and took a picture. Just one, and only of the darkest marks. You could just about make out where Rozanov had pressed his fingers into his skin. He made a new hidden folder immediately. He’d look at the picture later. He’d touch himself and make those heady, embarrassing little noises again-

-but they’d meet only the cool air of his bedroom. Nobody would be there to receive them.)

—-----------------------------

Hayden wolf whistled as he stripped to change. 

“Wowzers, Hollander. Rozanov got you good, huh.”

Shane looked at him, startled and instantly on edge.

“What do you mean?”

“The game. He was the only guy shoving you around like that. Wasn’t he?”

Shane was flustered, and quickly grabbed his towel, covering his body.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s nothing.”

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing. Nasty fucker. We’ll get him next time."

“Yeah. Of course.”

Hayden seemed confused. He gave Shane a one-over again. Shane wrapped the towel tighter, uncomfortable. They were already the last ones in the showers. He’d tried to delay, worried that some of the marks were a bit too conspicuous, a bit too hand shaped for his liking. He knew it was a bit weird, that it was just paranoia, that maybe he was acting a little off. He just hadn’t expected someone to catch on so quickly.  

He’d have to make sure he showered by himself from now on. Stall a bit. He didn’t really know. He’d just have to figure it out. 

—-----------------------------

And the final game against each other before the yearly bid for the Stanley cup was suddenly underway, and Shane was simultaneously elated and feeling a creeping sense of dread he didn’t really know what to do with.

{            Room number?            } 

He sent it casually on the way to the rink. A new notification appeared almost immediately.

[              what happened to hey, how r u doing?             ]

Shane felt a light little flutter in his chest at the message. He knew it wasn’t anything more than sex, or whatever the hell you’d define it as. But he could read it and imagine it was something more, something real. That maybe Rozanov cared a little about him too.

He decided he didn’t want to think too hard about it. 

{               Hey, how are you doing?                 }

[              horny.            ]

Never mind.

[              wanna see?           ]

{                I’m on the coach you ass                 }

[             ….and?          ]

{                Save it for later pervert                  }

{               Soooo… number?                 }

[              if you ask nicely            ]

{               :(                }

[              too bad then xx            ]

Shane’s lip curled up in a smile at the message, but then the coach abruptly stopped and his teammates started to grab their stuff from the overhead bins. He shoved his phone back in his bag. He’d have to ask Rozanov at the game. He was pathetic.

—-----------------------------

He whispered it to Shane on his way to the penalty box.

"2205."

—-----------------------------

“How was your side, after?” Rozanov asked.

He had a crooked little smile on his face. Shane could tell he wasn’t asking out of concern. 

“Hurt like shit for a couple days,” Shane admitted, “I kinda liked it though.”

He shot back a shy smile of his own.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. It was really nice,” he said, “You, uh. Wanna see?”

“Oh yeah.”

Shane got out his phone. He’d taken a picture of one bruise, darker than the rest. You could see exactly where Rozanov’s hand had dug into his skin. Rozanov’s grin got bigger when he saw the selfie. 

“That’s really nice,” Rozanov said. 

“Yeah, I mark up pretty easy.”

“We can take pictures next time. After. If you want?”

“Yeah,” Shane grinned. It was a weird thing to get excited about. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”

He didn’t have any photos of Rozanov on his phone. But pictures of himself would be okay, right? He’d just have to add them to the hidden album.  

“You know, the more you play, the harder it is to mark someone up,” Rozanov said, suddenly.

“Shit, really?”

Rozanov laughed and shook his head, “I actually have no idea. People say that though.”

“You wanna test it out?” Shane tried. It was a shit attempt at flirting. 

Rozanov gave him a look, like can you believe this guy?

“Are you sure? You said no to big marks before.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just figure it out tomorrow.”

“Okay… if you’re definitely sure?” he looked doubtful but carefully excited, as if he didn’t want Shane to know how definitely into it he was. 

“Don’t you dare patronise me.”

Rozanov laughed, “Okay, okay! If you insist.”

“Unless you’re not into it?” he teased. 

Rozanov glared at him, affronted slightly. “Don’t you dare patronise me,” he said. 

Shane snickered, and reached up for a kiss.

—-----------------------------

He was on all fours, presenting his ass on the bed. Rozanov was casually tying his wrists together with rope. He ran a hand up Shane’s spine, gently pressing down, encouraging him to arch his back. 

“You can try to escape if you want,” he said, “It won’t get you anywhere. But it’s fun to watch.”

He pulled against the ties experimentally. They didn’t budge. But without his hands free, he had to support himself cumbersomely with his elbows. He pressed his face into the mattress, panting softly. 

Something cold against his ass made him jump.

Rozanov made a shushing noise, and cradled his side, gently, squeezing.

“Relax. It will feel big.”

He hadn’t been stretched out or anything. It was some sort of silicone toy, too oddly shaped to be a plug. He shifted, spreading his legs wider.

The head nudged forwards, and he felt the full, heavy smoothness of the toy sliding in. Rozanov had obviously coated it liberally in lube, and he could tell it wasn’t even that big of a toy. But it hurt, burning as it entered him, heat against the cold of the slick. He felt himself stretch to try and accommodate it, and then the head popped past his rim, and all of a sudden the toy was in him.

Rozanov cooed, and then pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade. 

Shane just let go, a shaky breath, the toy a cool, insistent pressure on his prostate. He squirmed, and clenched a little, trying to adjust to it, willing his body to just accept the intrusion. He could feel his heartbeat around it, pulsing, which was horribly embarrassing and simultaneously arousing. His cock was hanging heavy and untouched between his legs.

“Try get up,” Rozanov said, “You can do it.”

Shane instinctively tried to move, but then the weight of the toy made him falter. His arms weren’t free, so he had to use his abs- 

And wow, clenching his abs really made him acutely aware of the pressure against his prostate. He whimpered, quiet and involuntary.

“Hey, do it.” Shane could hear the grin in his voice.

He tried again, this time much more carefully, mortified to realise he couldn’t do it without actively having to hold it in so it wouldn’t just slip out, with all the lube. He straightened up, with difficulty.

“Against the window.”

He hobbled over. Shane braced against the floor to ceiling window of the room, looking out to the balcony. The glass was cool against his hands, his breath fogging it up, slightly. He couldn’t hear the whir of cars, and traffic outside, but he could imagine it in the distance. In his head, he knew that nobody would be able to see them, so high up above the ground, the glass reflective and private. But still, having been stripped naked and made to present himself against the glass made him feel vulnerable, and kinda dirty. 

“Arch your back.”

He complied easily, breath coming a bit shorter now, feeling as though he was being put on display. His hands were raised above him, palms splayed. He tried to hold his legs together, to keep it inside, but Rozanov kicked them apart. He sobbed at the humiliation, wetness blurring in his eyes. Precome beaded at his tip. 

“Don’t you dare drop it.”

Shane shook his head violently, no he wouldn’t drop it. He could be good. 

A hand reached over, and he heard the click of a button, and his whole body jolted as the bloody thing started vibrating, and he moaned gutterally at the sensation, and it almost slipped out then and there, heavy and unforgiving and he would’ve been so fucked, had he not remembered and bore down, pressing it right against his prostate and now that was a different kind of torture. 

“Okay?” 

Shane could just make a strained kind of sound, and Rozanov came closer, pressing a kiss first chastely into his cheek, and then tilting his head to meet him. And it was so deep, and filthy, that some distant part of him, that wasn’t floating away, realised that Rozanov was probably also pretty fucking turned on too. Maybe a lot. Hopefully a lot. 

“Ready?”

And Shane nodded before he quite remembered exactly what it was he agreed to, and the first crack of pain took him completely by surprise. 

He cried out, and- Rozanov was holding some sort of wooden cane, springy and it stung like hell. It contacted his back, and completely knocked the breath out of him, his body cramping in a silent scream.

He would’ve keeled over then and there, but then Rozanov’s hand fisted in his hair, and he repositioned himself, his hair hanging damp in his face. 

“Remember your safeword?” 

“Yes…” he slurred.

Whack.

“Yes sir, yes sir, fuck-”

“What is it?”

“Lampshade, sir.”

“Very good.”

The cane whipped through the air again and he landed a blow against Shane’s ass, and it stung but nowhere near as badly as his back. He jumped, nonetheless, but Rozanov still had a solid grip on his hair, and roughly forced him back against the wall, landing another stinging hit to his ass, even sharper. 

He felt the swish of the cane this time, before the hit, and instinctively flinched. Rozanov laughed, and the hit never came.

“You’re so cute,” he said, “Are you scared?”

He whipped the cane again, and Shane jolted at the sound, the air being displaced, the hit once again not landing. 

“Shhh…” he said, “Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Shane could hear the sarcasm, could feel how much glee Rozanov was gleaning from this; the mocking torture. Wanted to say fuck you, you asshole, but the words felt sticky in his mouth, and he couldn’t get them out, so he made an embarrassed sound again. 

And then he landed two quick blows in succession to Shane’s back, and his whole body contorted around it, in agony. He thought back to the vivid stripes he’d seen on people online, and could only imagine how his back was already starting to welt up. He felt too warm, and a bit lightheaded. Rozanov had let go of him completely, watching Shane try to sag, but unable to, without dropping the toy. He was almost feverish with the effort.

He was really struggling now, the constant back and forth, clenching. Every contraction, pushing the vibrator right against his prostate, sending little jolts of pleasure through him, making him squirm even when he wasn't actively being hurt. 

“What’s the number? Out of 10. For your back.”

And Shane tried to think, he tried really, really hard. Remembered the sharp, sudden jolt and the hurt blooming across his whole back, verging nearly on nausea.

“8… or maybe 9?” he managed.

Rozanov hummed, in thought. He traced a line on Shane's back, following the curvature of his spine. He seemed to have decided something.

“You doing okay down there?”

He knelt and tapped at the vibrator, pushing it up, making Shane feel uncomfortably full. 

“You know what’ll happen if you let it out?” he said.

Shane nodded, feebly.

“Mmmm you do.” Rozanov got back to his feet. “Open up.”

He pressed the cane against Shane’s mouth, and he opened up, grasping it in his teeth. A little ball was pressed against his hand. 

“You need to stop, or slow down, you drop the ball, okay?”

Shane shakily nodded, already falling so deep.

“And don’t drop that either.”

He clenched his teeth resolutely around the cane, vowing not to.

He heard Rozanov rummage around in a suitcase, but it seemed very far away. 

The edge of a flogger cradled his side. It gave him a light thwack on his ass.

He relaxed into it, seeking the sensation. He could handle this. This was better, easier. Not like the intense agony of the cane. He wiggled his ass, thank you.

It didn't sting as much, the thump of the tassels against his back rhythmic and almost comfortable- like getting into a hot bath from the cold, the searing heat before it faded into warmth. 

He liked it, he liked it a lot. And he imagined what Rozanov was seeing, the red marks from the cane and the blushing from the flogger, and his muffled yelps and screams in earnest. And he felt almost like he was floating away, like one part of him was the one making all that noise, and the other part of him was listening in rapture. And it amazed him, to be able to withstand this, and the blows from the flogger were hitting harder and harder now. But his mind flew high and above it all, and what a terrible, fucked up superpower. To not only be able to withstand pain, but to love it. To take it, crying, sobbing, begging, and to still want more.

He didn’t try to jerk away anymore, his mind committed to keeping his body still, to keeping the toy inside of him, hammering against his prostate, so he could be good for Rozanov, so that Rozanov could enjoy every little reaction, every little gasp, because it was all for him. He was giving himself up, all for him, and Rozanov was- Rozanov was giving it right back, in every lick of the flogger against his back, his ass, his thighs.

And then all of a sudden sent it on his ass. Probably mostly as a joke.

Shane jerked, and would've collapsed, if it wasn't for the hand gripping him upright, and he didn’t even clock the cane dropping from his mouth, only the light clatter of it on the floor, echoing through the space. A pit grew in his stomach, oh he’d fucked up. He’d really fucked up.

“Please,” he tried, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry sir-”

Rozanov just tutted in disapproval. He could feel the grin spread wide on his face. 

“I warned you.”

And Shane almost sobbed, because he had, and he’d broken the rule. 

“This is going to be punishment now. You will not like it.”

And Shane deserved it, and he loved it, and he wanted to hurt, wanted Rozanov to hurt him and put red hot stripes in his back.

“I’m not gonna give you anything to bite down on,” he said, “I like hearing you.”

And he was so pathetic for liking it, for liking this whole game they played, for wanting Rozanov. When he shouldn’t. And so every stroke would be a punishment. For sinking so fast, so easy when he shouldn’t have.

“Hey, hey. You okay? I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry.”

And maybe Rozanov had misread his hesitation for not wanting it, but he really did want it, need it.

And he thought back to the pictures; the marks, and he shuddered. He drew a deep breath in. He wanted this. 

He tried to make his mouth form the words, but couldn't.

Thankfully, Rozanov asked for him, “Do you need to stop?”

He shook his head, valiantly. He could take it.

“Okay. Five strikes.”

And it seemed almost deceptively easy, until he looked back at Rozanov. 

He’d dropped the flogger and picked up something that looked- it looked just plain nasty. A black coiled singletailed snakewhip, that Shane had vaguely recognised from his brief horny perusal on the internet. Holy shit.

“Count them.”

He saw it coming, out of the corner of his eye. Rozanov seemed to flick it with no force at all, almost gently. 

For a second he felt almost nothing, but then the pain sliced through him, fire and ice and drew a shocked gasp, and he slammed his fist against the window, leaving a mark.

“Fuck!” he shouted, “Fuck- sorry. F-five.”

Five strikes had seemed easy until he’d seen the fucking whip. Now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it at all. The pain split him open, and he felt sick and lightheaded. 

He kept quiet, his ragged breathing filling the room.

Crack.

He flinched, almost like he was dancing, and Rozanov let him, didn’t manhandle him agains the window like he had before. He let his whole body contort, willing himself to just fucking take it, he knew what the consequences would be, and his breath wooshed, unsteady, heart racing. 

“Count them.”

“F-f-four-” 

He could barely form the word. 

Rozanov stopped, considering. 

Shane saw the opening. 

“Please- please.” he said, “Can you- can you please kiss me?”

God, he was shaking so badly. His voice broke a little in the middle of it, and something about it made Rozanov soften a little.

“милый, of course”

He kissed him, filthy.

He teared up, his mind settling again. Rozanov wasn’t really hurting him, well, he was hurting him but he wasn’t harming him. He was listening. He would take care of Shane. He would push him, hard, today, yes. But Shane was safe, and he would gladly be taken there, if it was just for Rozanov.

 The slight glimmer of hope after so much pain.   

There. There. He was okay.

“You ready?”

He nodded, languidly, eyes closed. He was okay.

It had been exactly what he’d needed, and the little flare of endorphins meant he could take it better now, but fuck it still hurt, still throbbed. But he was flying now, his mind completely silent, he was Icarus, falling, but Rozanov would be there to catch him. He would catch him. He wasn’t afraid.

Crack.

The next two strikes came in succession. 

Crack.

It was a weird kind of mercy, to give the fourth blow before he’d really recovered from the third, but then, it was all nearly done, just one more to take.

“FUCK!” he shouted, “Fuckfuckfuck-”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Fuck-” he said, “Three and four. Thank you-”

The anticipation of the last strike was killing him. He just wanted it to be done. He knew how badly it hurt now, he just wanted to take it.

“Please, just-”

“If you say so.”

Crack.

He made a noise that was definitely completely humiliating, high pitched, but he didn’t care anymore, didn’t care at all. And he was sobbing, but he could take it, had taken it. And it was over now.

“Five-” he gasped. 

He just laid there as Rozanov gently eased the toy out of him, turning it off, cradling Shane in his arms and leading him to the bed. He pet him, fingers catching over what Shane was sure were deep welts, if not broken skin from how raw they felt, dark and lasting. He was completely nonverbal now, he’d barely managed to count. 

They just cuddled for a while, Rozanov petting him like he was a dog. Time seemed to be infinite, stretching endlessly in either direction.

“You look beautiful.”

Shane keened at the praise, mind still mush. He was sure he looked a mess, sweaty and  disgusting and thoroughly worked over.

And for once in his life, he didn’t care. 

—-----------------------------

Coming out of subspace was warmth, closeness and giddiness, the wonder pure and childlike. He was back home, leaving the coolness of the rink, the smell of old sweat and kit that never dried properly. His mom would make him a hot chocolate and he’d curl up onto the couch, watching the latest rerun of Merlin, not really following what was going on, just that Merlin was so hot and Arthur was so unfair to him, and little flashes of English countryside. Just a warm haze.

He was nestled under a blanket, curled close. When had that happened?

He blearily opened his eyes. Rozanov was petting his hair, gently, carding through the strands. It tugged a little, but didn’t hurt. He was crooning something under his breath. 

He blinked slowly, then turned his face to nuzzle against Rozanov’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, reverently. 

The hand stilled.

“Thank you,” Rozanov said. He started touching him again, tracing mystery figures into his skin. Like he was something precious. Shane drifted again.

—-----------------------------

“You should stay.” Rozanov said. 

He was staring at Shane intently, lounging like a big cat on his bed, the sheets thrown to the side, hair artfully touselled. 

“What?”

“Stay.”

“You sure?”

“I have spare toothbrush,” he said. “My bag.”

Shane grabbed the toiletries bag from the ensuite.

“I guess someone might catch me leaving?” he wondered. He didn’t know if he was reading too much into this.

“Yes, yes. Now get back here.”

He brushed efficiently, then wandered back into the room, where Rozanov was expectantly holding the bedsheets wide. He got in, hesitantly. Rozanov flung an arm around him, and nuzzled into his back. It was warm.

He waited a couple minutes, still tense, while Rozanov spooned him. 

“Relax,” Rozanov mumbled, “I can hear your brain thinking. Bzzzzz. Very loud.”

“Okay.” Shane said. He relaxed slightly into the embrace. He felt the hard lines of Rozanov’s body against his. 

And Rozanov pressed a little kiss to his neck and the slightly squirmy thought from earlier returned, that feeling of dread. That this would all be over soon, and he wouldn’t see Rozanov again for ages, and even so, Rozanov wouldn’t miss him. He was just easy pickings. 

But he snuggled closer anyways.

It was nice. It was really, really nice.

And he could really get used to this.

—-----------------------------

Come down drenched, at the end of May, with the cold rain so far into your bones that nothing will warm you except your own walking and let the sun come out at the day's end by Slievenaglasha with the rainbows doubling over Mulloch Mor and see your clothes steaming in the bright air. 

Be a provenance of something gathered, a summation of previous intuitions, let your vulnerabilities walking on the cracked sliding limestone be this time, not a weakness, but a faculty for understanding what's about to happen. 

Stand above the Seven Streams letting the deep down current surface around you, then branch and branch as they do, back into the mountain and as if you were able for that flow, say the few necessary words and walk on, broader and cleansed for having imagined.

—-----------------------------

The next morning, Shane grabbed his stuff from where it was neatly folded on the sofa. He groaned, realising that he hadn’t brought a change of clothes. He didn’t need more questions about his Boston girl. No matter. He’d just have to get in early and change before anyone else noticed. 

It was mostly clean anyways so he just threw it on. Black t-shirt and cargo pants. Basic enough. It would probably be fine. 

“Off already?” Rozanov groaned from his bedroom. 

“Yeah, uh. Coach has us doing early drills. Top secret stuff.”

“Hmmf,” he heard Rozanov yawn from his bed. 

He plodded back in, slightly apologetic about his abrupt leave. Rozanov tracked him through sleepy eyes. This would be the last time in a while they’d see each other; their last game before the yearly bid for the Stanley cup. He wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. 

“Gimme kiss,” Rozanov mumbled, pursing his lips. 

Shane dropped his bag and bent over, capturing Rozanov in a chaste kiss. His eyes fluttered closed. He tried to take in the moment. It felt domestic, almost. He didn’t know how he felt about that. 

He slowly pulled away, and pressed another kiss to Rozanov’s forehead, lingering a bit longer than necessary. 

“I’ll see you around?”

“I will text you,” Rozanov said. 

“Yeah, um. Okay,” Shane was relieved that at least he’d get some fill of Rozanov until the next season, “You can, uh. You can call too. If you want.”

“I want.” 

It would have sounded stupid if anyone but Rozanov had said it, with all his conviction and earnest certainty. Happiness bloomed in him.

He paused at the door. He was so shit at goodbyes. Had never really said goodbye without an I love you tacked onto the end. Not even a romantic thing, he said it to his friends, his family. It would definitely be out of place here though. He very, very nearly said it, out of habit more than anything.

He settled with another awkward hug and waved to Rozanov as he left. He already felt a bit stupid about what he’d almost said.

—-----------------------------

“You okay, man?” Hayden asked, as they left the rink. 

Shane guessed maybe he’d seemed kinda off today. He’d been pretty distracted, on one hand worried about what the fuck he had going on with Rozanov, and on the other, freaking out about how the games had ended, and that they probably wouldn’t see each other until the coming Winter. 

Would it be really weird to fly over and see him? Rozanov probably just saw him as a convenient hookup after all. He was ashamed to say that after the past couple weeks, he’d proved that he was pretty much a sure bet, and Rozanov probably wanted to take advantage of an easy way to get his rocks off. 

Shane was sure Rozanov had a similar problem to him, for finding partners. Although he was… bi? So that was one less kink in the puzzle. 

Kink.

He probably had different men and women in all his different cities. Some guys were like that. 

It was so his own fault for being so easy. For being such a sure thing. He knew it had been such a bad idea, but despite himself, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. 

“Yeah I’m fine- hey. You go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”

Shane kinda wanted the showers to himself. He’d have to be quick about it. His back was pretty fucked up still. 

Hayden gave him a weird look but complied anyway, making his way to the changing room, shrugging off his skins on the way. 

Shane watched him go, and pretended to fiddle with his helmet. He waited, a pause, then peeked in. All clear. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, he headed in, quickly discarding his skins and making sure he had a towel on hand. 

He exhaled under the warm water, scrubbing his face. It stung a little on his back. It was really, really nice. Like some parts of Rozanov still carried with him. He didn’t notice the door open. 

He turned to scrub his armpits, lost in thought, and jumped out of his skin. Hayden Pike was standing in the doorframe, frozen, a little slack jawed. He was staring. At Shane’s back. At Shane’s back.

It took him a second to process. 

He grabbed his towel but it was too late; he knew what Hyaden had seen. A mess of criss-crossing red and dark purple marks and bruising all over his back, his ass. He didn’t even want to know how bad it looked. 

He turned to face Hayden fully now. 

“Shit.”

Hayden looked distressed. 

“I’m sorry, I-” he started backing out of the door, “I should’ve knocked.”

“Wait, Hayden, it’s not like that-”

“No, I- I won’t say anything. You don’t have to explain. I’ll-”

And Shane accidentally dropped the towel with a wet slap, in yet another humiliation, trying to get to Hayden and convince him that- Convince him of what? What the hell was he going to say?

So he tried to pick it up again, and it stuck to him uncomfortably and by the time he’d wrapped it around him and looked back up, Hayden was already gone. 

He just stood there for a second. But then he realised he was still completely naked and one form of damage control was already enough. A sick pit was opening in his stomach. This was really bad. God, this was really, really bad. What the hell was he going to do? Text Rozanov? But he’d literally just seen him. He didn't want to come off as too needy, too clingy. He could sort out his own mess. 

So he grabbed his stuff from the bench and disappeared into a little private cubicle to get dressed. 

Holy shit this was so bad. 

—-----------------------------

“Hey, um. Hayden. Wait up!”

Hayden stopped, from where he was walking in the corridor and turned around. He looked uncomfortable and a bit fidgety, like he’d been caught off guard. He looked like talking to Shane was the last thing he wanted to do right now. 

“Um. About earlier…” Shane began. He didn’t really know how to start this conversation. Hey man. So. those marks you saw on my back. You remember Rozanov? Ilya Rozanov? Yeah he whipped the shit outta me last night. I loved it!

But he didn't have to; Hayden did it for him:

“I just- I’m sorry for making you feel weird earlier. It was just Rozanov, right? From the game, or something? I just, I don’t want to assume.”

Shane vaguely realised that Hayden was offering him an out, but he was a terrible liar. 

“I, uh. I mean, something like that?” 

It sounded completely unconvincing. Hayden picked up on his tone immediately. 

“It’s just… I’m getting kinda worried about you, man. Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. You’re not sneaky when you disappear in Boston, and I’ve seen how you’ve been texting… Lucy? Lily? You’re acting weird and I’m probably being completely paranoid, but. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Shane was completely mortified. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t really even know what Hayden was trying to imply. Surely he couldn’t mean… But he still thought Ilya was a girl? 

“But, um,” Hayden scrubbed his face, “Fuck, man. I don’t know. If you ever need to talk. I’m here for you.”

He waited for a beat, watching Shane’s reaction hesitantly. Shane was pretty sure he looked really fucking lost. He seemed to consider something, and then acted. 

“And, uh. Here,” Hayden rooted around in his bag. He looked at it for a second, and then seemed to decide to give it to Shane. It was something scribbled down on a piece of paper. He handed it to Shane, “If you don’t wanna talk to me. Give them a call, okay? They can help you, if you ever wanna get out.”

“... Get out?” Shane said, slowly. 

“Just give them a call. When you’re ready.”

Shane was really fucking confused now and he looked down at the scrap of paper. It was a phone number, unlabeled. Hayden pulled him into a hug, then clapped him on the back. 

“I love you man. Hope you know that.”

“I love you too…?”

“Talk to you tomorrow. Stay safe, okay?”

“Um. Okay?”

—-----------------------------

Shane looked it up later. 

It was the emergency number for a domestic violence hotline. 

A men’s charity. 

(And Shane vaguely remembered how quiet Hayden would get sometimes.)

Oh fuck. 

Well now they really needed to talk.

Chapter End Notes

How are you all my lovelies!!

You may have realised this chapter was posted and then taken down!!! That's because I fucked it up. :(

No matter. Up again.

HAPPY PANCAKE DAY AND HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR. ATE SO MANY CARBS TODAY. And I got a too good to go bubble tea except bubble tea doesn't really keep so I've had 3 extra large bubble teas with extra bubbles in the span of like 3 hours. It kinda goes with my strategy to prevent nap taking though- recently I've been trying to cut down on my Monster intake (Aussie Lemonade rules supreme), and to keep myself awake, have been drinking 2 litres of Ribena every time I feel sleepy. The constant urge to piss keeps me awake. An innovation, I know.

Anyways, the bubble tea has raised the stakes, and strengthened my resolve to not take naps. Partly because it's caffeinated. That helps. Also because my lactose intolerance means that instead of trying not to piss myself, I've been trying not to shit myself instead.

I made a really empty tumblr account for all you brilliant people so you can yap at me. Add meee! @bellonaxx

Not so sure about the life updates. I fear not much has happened.

So! Shane is such a little shit who we are REALLY going to struggle with in the next couple chaps. He's an idiot but it's not his fault. Kinda. And the poem is from Seven Streams by David Whyte. You can analyse it how you will.

Lowk starting to hate the og chapters, will definitely go through and rewrite at some point when I get the TIME.

I managed to track down the bike thief's girlfriend lmfao. I was also given a lovely bouquet of flowers for my trouble. Not that it got my bike back. GRrrr.

Was surprisingly not alone for valentines???? We watched Wuthering Heights and I actually have so many opinions about it and nobody around me has seen it. Agony. Agony, I'm telling you. I personally loved it, but could totally understand why people would hate it. Has garnered a very mixed reception.

I really hate nudity in films, weirdly. And I cannot stand sex scenes, I literally cannot watch them. And yes, I watched every scene in HR with my hands over my eyes lmfao. There's a picture of my doing a reverse plank when I was rewatching it with my friend, onto her sofa. That's how much I cannot stand sex scenes. That single shot of blood through his shirt was far more erotic than Margot Robbie's boobs will ever be, to me.

I also hate the style over substance allegations. Tell me the plot to any single Christopher Nolan film I dare you.

Best wishes,

Uhhhh. What do I sign off as.

I deadass chose my ao3 user when I was a child. So. Name change may be coming soon.

This is such a shit note I'm so sorry. It's late, okay. Will edit when I get the time.

Oh and one last thing-

I'm like really shit at pillowtalk.

I made my sub come just from CBT, and we were talking after about how much of a useless superpower it was. Picture the scene:

him - whew

m e- you freakky ass guy

im - yes

e- what a shit superpower

hi- yes

m- who's your favourite superhero

- ...?

- mine's matilda

Anywho. More of me on Tumblr!