Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom/sub-verse, Sub Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pheromones, Scenting, Subspace, Enthusiastic Consent, Dirty Talk, Wet & Messy, First Time Blow Jobs, Size Kink, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Fights, Team as Family, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), biokink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of OWNED (hollanov dom/sub-verse)

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Words: 16,719 Chapters: 1/1

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Summary

“My fucking god, Hollander, you talk so much,” Rozanov says and Shane clenches his jaw. "I am not trying to set you up with Dom friend!”

“What then? You came to rub it in or–”

Rozanov throws his hands up in defeat and snaps, “Am trying to say; Hollander, I am Dom and I will Play with you, but you talk so fucking much I can not say this!”

Shane freezes. There’s no laughter now. His stomach swoops and plummets. 

“That’s not funny.”

“Do I look like I am laughing, Hollander? Am serious.”

Notes

Biokink glossary:

Sub- Submissive (desire to be dominated)
Dom- Dominate (desire to dominate)
Playing- A scene between a Dom and Sub
Command- Orders between the Dom and Sub that the Sub is inclined to fulfill
Subspace- Mental state where a Sub gives up complete control
Subdrop- Condition where a Sub experiences intense feelings of dread and anxiety

Shane pulls at the knot of his tie. The fabric is far too tight and he’s already sweating so badly that his fingers slip on the knot. 

“Stop fidgeting.”

His mom’s hands come up to bat his own away and readjust the collar of his suit. Shane swallows and breathes in the comforting, familiar scent of lavender and pine as she dusts off the shoulders of his jacket before taking a hold of his shoulders. 

Her eyes are so much like his own. He sees himself reflected in the dark, warm irises. 

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Shane lies. 

“Okay. Then stop looking so antsy. This is a big night for you–”

Shane groans. “I know, mom, I know–”

“--and you don’t want to give anyone any reason to doubt your confidence. This is important for you, but it’s also important to all–”

“Alright, mom,” Shane agrees placatingly and reaches up to squeeze her hands on his shoulder. “I’m fine. Okay?”

She smiles a little too tightly for Shane to think she believes him, but she nods her acceptance. “I know you are, baby. Come on, let’s go to our seats. Dad is waiting for us.”

The arena is overwhelmingly bright and full of cameras. Shane can feel that as soon as he walks in at least two of them are pointed in his direction. His shoulders begin to slump protectively until mom nudges his side and he remembers to sit up straight and lift his chin.

The commissioner takes the stage looking old and rich and every bit of the Dom that he is. Shane swallows, becoming hyper aware of all the scents surrounding him. There are many other draft hopefuls here today and every single one of them is a Dom. 

Except for Shane.

He subconsciously slides closer to his dad, whose Sub pheromones are softer and sweeter than the cloying musk filling the room.

“Welcome to the 2009 NHL draft,” the commissioner is saying. 

Mom grabs his hand and dad rests a soothing hand between his shoulders. Shane is flanked by love and support and it makes it easier to face the crowd, who are all turning to stare and whisper. Sub, Sub, Sub. He hears it echo around the hall. 

He pretends not to notice. He knew, he always knew, that if he pursued his dream of joining the NHL it wouldn’t be without opposition or criticism. It motivated him to work harder, be faster, get stronger until he was the number one overall junior Canadian player. 

Some speculate that he might be first overall in the entire junior league, but not everyone has been so open minded about that. Instead, Shane has let his game speak for itself and it’s brought him here.

“They would be stupid not to pick you in the first round,” mom told him over and over again this week and Shane appreciated the vote of confidence, but it was still a toss up if the league was ready to add someone like him to the roster. 

Shane doesn’t let himself think about that alternative. He straightens the lapels of his suit and tries to focus on the commissioner’s opening speech. He’s going to be drafted. He’ll go to a great team. He’ll be able to prove his worth to all the naysayers and he’ll win his city the Cup and he’ll open doors that people like him thought would always be closed. 

“With the first overall draft pick, the Ottawa Centaurs choose—“

Shane’s stomach lurches nervously. 

There are a few pros and cons of being a first round draft pick. The pros, of course, being the prestige and higher price tag on your contract. But the weighted lottery also means that the non-playoff teams get to pick first. 

The Centaurs are inarguably the worst team in the last decade. Zero cups, zero conference championships, zero division championships, and only a handful of forgetful playoff appearances. If Shane is drafted there…

“Not Ottawa,” he begs silently. “Please. Anywhere but Ottawa.”

An hour later, Shane is shaking hands with Brandon Wiebe, the Ottawa Centaur’s coach.

“On behalf of the Centaurs,” Coach Wiebe says, “we’re excited to have you on the team. With you on the roster, I think we can finally take the Cup.”

Shane smiles politely. The Ottawa Centaurs haven’t taken the Stanley Cup in decades. Shane should feel lucky. It wasn't definite whether he’d even be drafted at all, all things considered. Instead, Shane is a first round pick. Shane is going to live his dream in the NHL. 

Shane is going to be the first Sub to ever do so. 

The flashing camera bulbs remind him of that, along with the press gathering around him and the Centaur’s coach to yell out questions like, “Shane, what would you like to say to the public who has concerns over a Sub playing professional hockey?” Or “Mr. Wiebe, what safety measures are you taking in your locker room this season?”

Shane’s stomach sours and he’s sure Coach Wiebe, a Dom, can sense his unease and frustration. Shane steps away from his side. He’s not uncomfortable around Doms. He’s been around them his whole life, played alongside them on the ice since he could walk. 

But Shane wants to prove he can stand on his own. He doesn’t want the pictures posted tomorrow in the media to look as though he’s hiding meekly behind his Dom coach. He can already see what the comments will look like, they’ve been in his Instagram posts for weeks since his draft debut was announced.

subs have no place in the nhl wtf!!

one command and ur donezo 

Lol I wouldn’t mind sharing a shower with this one :) 

“There was no doubt in my mind that we were going to use our pick for Shane Hollander,” Coach Wiebe is telling the camera. “He’s proven himself on and off the ice as a leader in this sport and I believe he’s the missing piece we need to get Ottawa back on the map.” 

Shane blinks, a little surprised by Wiebe’s answer. Not one mention of Shane’s Sub status or self-congratulatory remarks about how the Centaurs are so liberal for signing him, which is what Shane had expected. 

“Shane,” a reporter rounds on him and Shane tries to straighten his shoulders. “How would you respond to the Doms who have been outspoken in their concern about playing against a Sub?”

“I would say…” Shane pauses, unsure if he should be truthful or inoffensive. He looks to Coach Wiebe who only offers a patient, encouraging smile. 

It helps Shane stand a little straighter. He promised himself that he wouldn’t make himself smaller to fit into any ‘niche’ the NHL would try to create for him. 

He refused to be a poster child for inclusivity and diversity, only to be kept on a shelf and be seen and not heard. He had working his fucking ass off for over ten years to be where he is and he knows that his actions from now on will set the precedent for all future Subs in hockey.

“I would tell them to play better if they’re so worried about losing.” 

Shane is blinded by the sudden, rapid flashes and only then does he realize the commotion his comments will make when the league’s Doms catch wind of them. 

He turns to gauge Coach Wiebe’s reaction. Would he be angry? Annoyed with Shane’s controversial remark? But he seems… amused. One dark eyebrow is lifted along with a barely-there smile that somehow still crinkles his eyes. He looks a little proud.

After their press circuit, Shane feels all the emotions of the day build in the new silence and press down on his shoulders. He slips into the empty Men’s Room and runs the cold water to splash on his face. 

The dread starts to set it. What will he do in Ottawa, so far from his parents and support system? How will he handle it if his teammates look down on him for his designation? 

The door to the bathroom creaks open and Shane pretends to wash his hands as Coach Wiebe slips inside. Shit. Fuck. Has he come to reprimand Shane already? Rescind his contract offer? 

“Hey,” Wiebe says softly, but Shane still flinches as if he’s been slapped. “You alright?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’m– Listen. I’m sorry about that.”

Coach Wiebe’s thick eyebrows draw together in confusion and he slowly crosses the bathroom to lean against the wall opposite of the sink; still a respectable distance away from an uncollared Sub, but more familiar than a stranger would dare to stand. 

“Sorry? What do you have to be sorry about?”

The water is scalding Shane’s hands, but he can’t seem to stop scrubbing them. “Just– they’ll probably be some articles tomorrow about what I said. I know that’s, like, not great press for the Centaurs.”

“Yeah, we definitely aren’t used to bad press.”

Shane chances a look up where Wiebe is smirking, his arms crossed but shoulders relaxed, and his dark eyes filled with mirth. 

“Shane, I’m sure Ottawa wasn’t your first choice–”

“That’s not–” Shane interjects, feeling panic crawling up his throat and getting stuck under the tight knot of his tie. Wiebe raises a hand to stop him and Shane closes his mouth so fast his teeth chatter.

It’s not proper for a Sub to interrupt or disrespect a Dom, but Shane has always struggled with acting like a proper Sub and he wonders how long it’ll be before that gets him into trouble. Right now, Coach Wiebe could Command him to apologize and Shane’s legs tremble slightly from just the thought of having to Kneel on this dirty bathroom floor.

It makes him feel sick. It makes him feel scared. 

“You were right to say what you did,” Wiebe surprises Shane and shocks him even more by adding, “and you should never feel like you can’t defend yourself because of your job.”

Unsure of how to answer Shane says, “Oh. Ah– thank you.”

Wiebe snorts. “Don’t thank me. Seriously. But I meant everything I said, especially the fact that we’re lucky to have you on the team.”

Who is this guy? Certainly not like any Dom Shane has ever met before, besides his mom who has always been a supporter of Sub rights and equality. Shane feels his body relax a bit. Maybe he’d gotten lucky with the Centaurs after all; if the other guys are anything like their coach, Shane thinks he might be alright. 

Shane voices a new concern. “I just don’t wanna cause any trouble for the other guys.”

“Trust me,” Wiebe laughs heartily. “You think we don’t know trouble? We have Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane likes his new team in Ottawa. Actually, he really likes his new team. 

He likes Zane Boodram, a left wing player from Trinidad and Tobago who is probably the most positive guy Shane has ever met. He always smells a little salty like the ocean and his smile reminds Shane of the summer sun.

He likes Hayden Pike, another left winger, the most. Hayden had been the first to approach Shane on his first day and Hayden talks so much that Shane doesn’t feel like he has to awkwardly hold a conversation like he usually does. 

Hayden grew up in Canada, like Shane, and tells him that he had six Sub siblings. His first hockey team, he joked. He doesn’t treat Shane any differently and he has a spicy lavender scent that reminds Shane of home.

He doesn’t know Evan Dykstra or Luka Haas very well yet, but they’ve been kind and supportive throughout the first month of practices. Dykstra’s wife always packs him way too much food and he offers to share with Shane, who still is living on Booster Juice’s take-out that fit into his macros.

Shane is fine with Troy Barrett, who doesn’t really smell like anything at all. He’s standoffish, but not in a mean way. He’s a little awkward, but Shane understands awkward, and he appreciates that Troy doesn’t try to fill silences between them with bullshit. The worst part about Troy Barrett is his friendship with Ottawa’s captain.

Shane does not like Ilya Rozanov. Five years his senior, Shane has never understood why Rozanov would settle for a team like the Centaurs. He’s probably the most talented center in the entire league. He’s agile, strong, and his game intelligence is insane.

Rozanov is able to recognize his opponents patterns, find their weakness, and exploit them. He reminds Shane of a big cat lurking on the ice and waiting for an opening to pounce. Shane knows he’s wasted in Ottawa and it makes him irrationally angry that Rozanov seems so complacent here.

Rozanov is a Dom. Unlike Shane, he’d be able to sign wherever and with whatever team he wants. Shane has no idea what’s keeping him here.

It’s not the only reason Shane has a genuine dislike for his captain.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Shane tells his mom over the phone during one of their nightly calls. “Everything I do, he always has something to say.”

“Language,” mom reminds him, “I’m still your mother, so keep your locker room mouth there.”

Shane mumbles a small sorry, mom and hears the distinct noise of plates clattering and something hissing on a stove from across the line. It hits him with such an intense bout of homesickness, looking at the pile of take-out containers and his empty kitchen, that he has to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“If he’s picking on you, you should tell your coach.”

Shane rolls his eyes, even if his mom can’t see it. “He’s not picking on me. He’s like this with everyone. Which is why I don’t understand how no one has fu–,” Shane corrects himself. He’s spent months now in the locker room and hates how Rozanov’s filthy mouth has rubbed off on him. “Punched him yet.”

Mom is silent on the other end. 

“What?” Shane asks. “Just say what you’re gonna say.”

“Well… I guess I’m just relieved to hear that he’s not targeting you because of your designation. I know that doesn’t make it better, but I’ve just been worried…”

She trails off and Shane’s mouth tightens. He hadn’t thought about how hard it would be for her. Usually, the Dom parent takes responsibility over their Sub children until they’re married off to another Dom to ensure they’re protected and taken care of with regular Play and Aftercare. 

His mom had never been a traditional Dom in that sense. Most parents of Subs, after they come in to their designation, pull them from sports and introduce them to hobbies more fitting for their secondary gender. Not Yuna Hollander.

Yuna had been Shane’s first fan. The person who went head to head with the junior hockey commission to ensure Shane could keep playing, even though Shane knew it made other parents uncomfortable and the league annoyed by forcing their hand; either they let Shane play or they’d face a discrimination lawsuit. Don’t fuck with Yuna Hollander. 

But mom still had her base instincts and even though it had been both of their dreams for Shane to join the NHL, it must be hard for the Dom matriarch to be so far from her son. 

“No, listen,” Shane tries to mimic a soothing Sub tone he’d often heard others use. “Everyone’s been really cool about it. Did you know Hayden has, like, a million Sub siblings?”

“Yes,” he can hear mom’s smile in her voice. “You’ve told me.”

“They’ve all honestly been great,” Shane reiterates. “Not even, like, being gentle with me or whatever. They just treat me like one of the guys.”

“That’s good, baby. Except Rozanov?”

Shane sighs. Because that’s not necessarily true. Out of everyone, Rozanov treats him the most… not normal. Not really. Even though Shane has never been a good Sub, he’s used to people treating him like one. He’s used to Doms treating him a certain way based on his designation, but Rozanov doesn’t treat him like that at all.

If anything, Rozanov is the first Dom to ever treat Shane like an equal. 

He lays into Shane for his missed goals. He makes fun of Shane’s ‘boring’ clothing. He takes the last Gatorade from the team fridge whether or not Shane has had any yet. It’s infuriating. And the worst part is, Rozanov does it to everyone. But they still all seem to love their captain. 

Maybe if it was someone else Shane would appreciate the equal treatment, but there’s something else about Rozanov that drives Shane’s instincts haywire; his scent. 

It’s like nothing Shane has ever smelled on a Dom before. Something fruity, woody, and floral but still aquatic and musky. It makes Shane feel, well, really weird. 

He’s been on suppressants since he presented at ten. A very young age for a Sub to start, and probably contributed to his smaller than average stature for a man, but it was one of the compromises of Shane being able to continue playing. Mom had fought for ages against it, saying there was no proof early suppressant use wouldn’t cause future health problems, but Shane had insisted. He’d do anything, anything, to stay on the ice.

(Shane subconsciously rubs at his sternum, where over the last few weeks he’s been experiencing shooting pain that’s woken him up in the middle of the night. He has an appointment with his team’s doctor soon and he doesn’t want to worry mom over it if it’s nothing.)

But with his suppressant use came various consequences. For instance, his sense of smell was weaker than other Doms and Subs. If he’s close by he can pick up higher notes in their pheromones, enough to distinguish their designation, but he smells Rozanov everywhere.

Doesn’t that bother the other Doms on the team? Rozanov’s pheromones must be strong, all over the place. Yet they don’t shy away from him. There’s no random acts of aggression. 

Shane’s own scent is also muted. His friends have told him he smells fine, but you have to be very close to Shane to pick up his scent. This benefited him most as a junior hockey player. On the ice, with his helmet on, he could blend in with any of the other Doms there. 

But it also made life very lonely. Other Subs didn’t recognize Shane as one of them. He was more muscular, for one, and without being able to tell by scent; they assumed he was either Normal or a Dom and stayed away. 

The biggest consequence had been in Shane’s Sub development in the fact that he has never, ever Played before. Commands aren’t sexual in nature and Subs are introduced to them by their Dom parent, as was true for Shane, but by the time they’ve reached full maturity Doms and Subs find themselves Play partners. 

It’s not that Shane can’t find a willing Dom. There are hundreds of dating apps and pairing services on his phone within reach. It’s just that… Shane’s not scared of Playing, but maybe he is. And now, without his parental Dom, Shane has been without Commands for months. 

Not that his mom knows that. She’s tried to secretly hint at it and even went as far as getting Shane’s dad to call him, Sub to Sub, to ask after his ‘health’, but it’s so damn awkward to talk to your parents about… that. Shane has dismissed them with the assurance that he’s fine. 

Anyway. All this to say that Shane’s suppressants have impacted his instincts so thoroughly that he’s never reacted to a Dom so visceral before. Not until Ilya Rozanov. 

He makes Shane want to bare his teeth, but also bare his neck. Shane has the insane urge to kneel for his captain, something he’s never felt before, but also the urge to punch him in his stupid, smarmy, Russian mouth. It’s a mess of oxymorons. 

“It’ll be fine,” he tells his mom, who has been waiting patiently for his answer. “I can handle it.”

Who is he trying to convince? Mom or himself?

“Hollander.”

A glove smacks Shane on the side of the face and he picks it up to throw it back in Hayden’s direction. “Stop throwing shit at me, Pike.”

Hayden grins. “I wouldn’t have to if you were paying attention to what I was saying. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Shane answers immediately, a lie. 

He wasn’t able to sleep much at all last night between his aching stomach and pounding head. He took more Tylenol than is probably recommended and even that did nothing to soothe the pain. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s getting worried. He’s always been healthy; always been active, always taken care of his body with the right foods, always kept up on his vitamins and probiotics. Maybe it’s the lack of home made food since he’s moved to Ottawa. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Another glove hits him, this time right in the face. 

“Christ, dude,” Hayden laughs as Shane scowls at him. “Focus!”

Shane is about to throw the glove back again when it’s plucked from his hand and their captain is there, smelling fucking terribly good, tutting at Hayden. 

“Stop making fun of our rookie. He’s delicate sensibilities.” 

Shane narrows his eyes. He hates when Doms act like this. Like they have to protect him or something. Sub or not, Shane is a grown ass man in a Dom-dominated field and he can handle himself, thank you very much. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

A chorus of jeers accompany his response and, for a moment, Shane’s heart stops. It’s not the way to speak to a Dom and it’s certainly not a way to speak to your fucking captain and Shane waits for the inevitable lashing he’s about to get but then Rozanov grins and Shane’s heart kicks into a new, faster rhythm from how annoyingly handsome Rozanov is when he smiles like that. At him.

“Meow, Hollander,” he teases and hands the glove back over. Shane’s face is probably a deep red. In anger, of course, and not from the deep purr of Rozanov’s voice. “Go ahead. Aim lower, though, maybe. To the ballsack.”

Hayden immediately covers his groin protectively, but he’s saved by coach Wiebe entering the locker room with an unimpressed sigh. 

“Do I really have to tell you guys not to throw around your very expensive equipment? Do I really?”

Rozanov crosses his arms over his broad (shut up, Shane!) chest with a sympathetically disappointed hum. 

“Is what I tried to tell them, coach.”

Troy Barrett comes up behind Rozanov with a scoff and bumps his shoulder, which in turn pushes Rozanov so close into Shane’s space that he’s hit with the sudden, overwhelming scent of fruity-woodsy-floral musk that makes Shane’s head dizzy. 

For a moment, he’s frozen. Rozanov is staring down at him with an expression of, Shane’s stomach lurches, disgust? This is the first time Rozanov has been close enough to smell Shane’s pheromones and Shane feels a rush of insecurity. 

Rozanov’s confused, wrinkled nose is smoothed out instantly when Troy says, “Get your mouth off coach’s ass, Rozanov.”

“Why? You want it on yours? Barrett, I had no idea you feel this way for me.”

Christ. Rozanov is an animal. And Shane is definitely not thinking of his mouth anywhere in the hypothetical vicinity of anyone's ass. Not at all. 

“Alright,” Wiebe interrupts before Troy can respond. “Everyone keep their mouths and their gear to themselves for the love of god. We’re on the ice in fifteen and I want everyone’s focus to be on this game. Understood?”

Agreement rings around the room and Shane swallows and clutches his stick at the reminder that he’s about to step into the rink of his first NHL game as a starter. He needs tonight to go well and he can’t let anything, not even Rozanov, distract him from that. 

“Okie,” Rozanov stands on a bench to address the locker room, using the top of Hayden’s head to steady himself. Shane snorts at Hayden’s displeased grunt. “Listen up, you fucks.”

“I am tired of losing. Which means you are tired of losing. New York is good team, yes, but we are great team.”

There’s a clatter of sticks hitting the ground. 

“They have Scott Hunter, we have me,” Shane rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches and he finds himself banging his own stick in agreement. “They have Tommy Anderson– good goalie. Yes, young, talented. We have Wyatt Hayes, great goalie. Old, but great.”

The room erupts into laughter, even Hayes joining in with a smile and shouts,”Experienced.”

Rozanov continues until he’s named everyone in the room, even Hayden who seemed genuinely surprised by the compliments he receives from his captain. He’s even preening a little, Shane grins. 

“-- And now we have Shane fucking Hollander,” Shane’s body locks up tight when he hears his name in Rozanov’s accent. “Rookie, yes. Not as fast as me, yes. Ugly clothes–”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Get to the point, captain.”

Rozanov sends him a wink that makes Shane’s gut clench. 

“You get my point, yes? We have something New York does not have,” Rozanov gestures to Shane. “Him. And we are going to win this game tonight and we are going to keep winning. We are going to fill every seat in this fucking arena. We are going to surprise everyone and we are going to the playoffs this year. Not next year. Not in the future. This fucking year.”

Shane feels an overwhelming pressure in his chest as he looks around the room at his teammates. They’re all cheering and pulling each other into a pile of hugs and pats on the back and Shane is right there being pulled along with them. 

It feels big. The nerves leave his body immediately as he’s surrounded by the now familiar, comforting collective scent of his team. Rozanov is staring at him from his perch on the bench and looks shocked when Shane sends him a genuine smile. 

He hadn’t expected this from Rozanov. There’s a of things about the Centaurs he hadn’t expected.

Rozanov visibly swallows and looks away. “Let’s fucking go.”

They don’t just win, they destroy New York. Everyone had played their best game; Troy scored, Haas scored, Wyatt made insane saves in the net. Hayden’s assists were fucking beautiful and Shane and Rozanov? They played as if they were of a single mind. 

They dominate the ice together. Shane doesn’t even have to look when he passes to know that Rozanov is there to receive it. Much to their fans joy and the other team’s disgruntlement; by the time the buzzer goes off New York is only let in one goal to Ottawa’s five. 

And Shane is… Shane is trembling in relief. He needed this. He needed to prove he belonged here, that other Subs belong here. Across the ice, Rozanov blows him an exaggerated kiss and Shane doesn’t even roll his eyes. And he doesn’t notice one of New York’s defensive players skating up to him until Rozanov is blocked by the guy’s massive body. 

Shane jerks back. Alan Wright has been traded every year since his rookie season due to “personality conflicts,” which Shane knows is code word for being a fucking dick. 

“What? Did you fuck your captain to make you a starter?”

Shane freezes. Wright’s face is red in anger and embarrassment. This was his first game with New York and, like Shane, he’d probably hoped to prove something. But he was unable to protect the puck from Rozanov and Shane’s lithe muscles carried him faster across the ice than Wright was able to with his bulk, which made for an unimpressive play.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Wright sneers. “You heard me, fucking bitch. Did you get down on your knees for him or something?”

“What did you fucking say?”

In his peripheral, Shane can see both his team and the remaining New York players on the ice skating towards them. The roar of the crowd is deafening. His ears are ringing. It’s not that Shane hasn’t heard shit talking before, this is hockey, and it’s not nearly the first time an opponent has thrown his designation in his face, but this is so…

“Got nothing else to say? Subs have no place here. You should learn your place.”

“Oh yeah? And where’s that?”

The anger clouds Shane’s judgement and suddenly he’s shoving Wright backwards. Without hearing their initial argument, New York crowds around him with insults of their own seeing Shane touch one of their players after the game is already over.

He can hear Scott Hunter in the background, somewhere, trying to rally his team back to their sideline, but Shane is still surrounded by blue jerseys and the sweaty stench of Dom that makes his skin crawl. There’s too many of them. He feels the walls closing in around him. 

Wright’s eyes glow viciously. “On your knees, bitch. Kneel.”

The Command locks up Shane’s entire body. His mouth parts in a painful gasp and his legs tremble with the urge to obey. He’s scared. He’s so fucking scared his body will betray him and he’ll fall to the ice in submission and then this victory tonight will be all for nothing because in the morning it’ll be reduced down to this. 

A wall of red surrounds him. There’s yelling. Arms grab him under the shoulders and Shane recognizes the sweet tobacco scent of Haas holding him up. Keeping him from dropping to his knees on the ice. To the crowd, it might look like he’s holding Shane back from a fight. 

“Hey,” Haas whispers. “Hey, it’s fine. It’s alright. We’re gonna get you back to the locker room. You’re fine.” 

Shane doesn’t feel fine. He can’t fucking breathe. Bood flanks him on the other side and, together with Haas, they pull a limp Shane across the ice to their tunnel. Shane turns his head to look over his shoulder at the gathering crowd. 

Hayden is in a shouting match with one of New York’s players. They’re awkwardly grabbing each other’s jerseys and sliding on the ice. Dykstra and Hayes are pulling other teammates away from each other while the refs blow their whistles. 

And Rozanov. Rozanov has a fist full of Alan Wright’s hair. Rozanov has an eye that’s already swelling. Rozanov’s teeth are gnashing and his eyes flare as he winds up to land a punch directly across Wright’s cheek. 

Dazedly, Shane thinks Rozanov looks a little like a vengeful god. 

“Come on,” Bood says. “Just a little further. That’s it.”

Shane closes his eyes and allows his teammates to bring him to safety. 

“Oh, honey.”

Shane flinches at the panic in his mom’s voice. He called her immediately after the game. He needed to hear her voice. He knew she’d be watching tonight. He knew she’d see through the appearance of a post-game brawl. 

“I’m okay,” he assures her. “I’m…”

He feels his throat closing and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry, mom.”

“Baby. No.You have nothing to be sorry for. What are you apologizing for?”
“This was so important. I wanted little Subs to see me and play and.. And–”

“They did, Shane. And they saw you win. You did so good, my love. So good. Do you hear me?”

Shane nods, not trusting his voice, and takes a shaky inhale of breath. “Yeah.”

“Okay. How are you feeling? Do you need me to get your dad? Are you feeling like you might Drop?”

His stomach revolts at the implications of the word. “No. No, it’s not like we were Playing. It was just one command. I’m alright— I promise I’m alright.”

“I’m calling the commissioner in the morning. Wright’s conduct is absolutely unacceptable.”

Shane groans. “Please don’t. Please. It’s going to be hard enough for me already without everyone thinking I’ll run to the league.”

“Shane. He deserves to be suspended.”

“I think he’s learned his lesson,” Shane says, thinking of the hit Rozanov had landed to his face.

“Hm,” Mom hums. “I think I’m an Ilya Rozanov fan after tonight.” 

Shane smiles. “I have to go. I love you.”

“I love you, baby. Congratulations on the win tonight, don’t let anyone take that from you.”

They end the call and Shane allows himself a few more moments alone before rejoining his team in the locker room. The medic team who had been privy to what happened on the ice had wanted to separate Shane from the other Doms in the event of a pheromone induced Drop, but Shane knew for certain that they were waiting for him.

He’s right. When he enters the locker room, everyone is there including coach Wiebe who looks frazzled and a little guilty, which Shane doesn’t understand. Everyone is showered and dressed except Rozanov, who’s being tended to by the team’s doctor Harris Drover. 

Rozanov’s handsome face is a complete mess. His eye is nearly swollen shut, he has a nasty bruise across the bridge of his nose, and his bottom lip is split and bleeding. 

“Fuck, Harris,” he hisses as the man dabs a wet cloth on his bloody knuckles. “Ouch.”

“You’re fine,” Harris says unsympathetically and begins to wrap the hand in gauze. “Maybe next time you’ll think to keep your helmet on.”

“Do you hear this, Barrett? Tell Harris stop being mean to me, I am injured!”

Troy is, to Shane’s surprise, giving their team doctor the biggest heart eyes. It’s more surprising, however, that no one else seems to notice. Or care. Considering that Harris is a Dom and Troy is… Well, he’s a Dom too. Shane is pretty sure of it, except his suppressants prevent him from scenting it for sure. 

“Shane!”

Haas spots him first and then Shane is crowded by a concerned group of Ottawa Centaurs, sans Rozanov. 

“Are you alright?”

“Holy shit, that guy is an asshole.”

“Give him some fucking space,” Rozanov commands. Sheepishly, the rest of the guys seem to realize how overwhelming it might be for Shane to be surrounded by so many Doms after a non-consensual command and they back away. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov addresses him directly. “You are good?”

Shane takes him in. His beaten face, but his soft eyes. He remembers how his team held him up. How they fought for him; not Doms protecting a Sub but as… friends. A team protecting one of their own. Shane swallows. 

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Rozanov bows his head in a quick nod. “Great. So now I can say; beautiful playing out there, everyone. Wyatt, great goal tending. Thank you for so many pucks, Pike.”

“Fuck you,” Hayden narrows his eyes. “I’m taking a goal for myself next time.”

Rozanov shrugs and that’s when Shane notices his torso is bare. There are red welts across his abdomen and Shane thinks he sees the beginning of a bite mark on his shoulder. How violent was the fight between him and Wright? 

He should be concerned. He should be a little annoyed at his captain for risking suspension for their next game. He’s too focused on the soft, golden planes of Rozanov’s unmarred torso. How the muscles dip and flex with every movement. He’s big, bigger than Wright which must have made for a nasty matchup, and Shane is struck by how impressive it is that Rozanov’s bulk doesn’t seem to slow him down on the ice.

“Okay, we will see,” Rozanov says to Hayden in a condescending tone. “We go to your house tonight, to celebrate.”

Hayden groans. “Why my house? Why not Barrett? Or yours? Don’t you have, like, a mansion or something?”

“Barrett does not have dog. I do not have dog. You have dog. Is very simple.”

Shane smiles and makes his way to his cubicle to pack up his belongings. He listens to Rozanov and Hayden bickering and finally lets himself relax, until Harris Dover finishes patching up Rozanov and makes his way over to Shane.

Harris smells like apple pie and Christmas trees. With his rosy cheeks and thick beard, he looks like the epitome of the holiday season. It’s comforting and soft, but Shane still feels his hackles rising with the doctor so close. 

“Shane. I just wanted to check on you. I know the medics said you’re alright, but–”

“I am. I really am. Please, I don’t want to–” he looks around the room to make sure no one is looking at them. The rest of the team is focused on packing their duffels and Rozanov and Hayden are focused on each other. “I don’t want it to be a thing.”

Harris frowns and it looks out of place on his chubby, happy face. “It’s not a thing, Shane. You were given a Command by an unknown Dom to try and force you into Subspace. You could have Dropped–”

“But I didn’t,” Shane snaps and apologizes when he sees Harris’s shocked expression. “Sorry, Harris. Sorry. I know you’re just– I’m just feeling– I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

A shooting pain stabs through Shane’s stomach and he gasps, clutching at his sternum. Harris steadies a hand on his upper arm. “Shane?”

“Fine,” Shane gasps. “I’m fine. Just a cramp.”

The pain passes after a seemingly eternity of agony that Shane grits his teeth through. He can see Harris narrow his eyes in suspension but, blessedly, doesn’t force Shane back to the medic room. 

“I know we have an appointment coming up,” Harris says, “But I want to move it up. I can get you in at the end of this week.”

Dread fills every neuron of Shane’s brain, but he nods. It’s not like he can avoid Harris forever. And he is getting a little worried about how the pain and lack of sleep will affect his performance. 

Harris squeezes his upper arm comfortingly before he leaves. When Shane looks around, Rozanov is watching him with a funny expression on his bruised face. Shane turns back to face his cubicle and finish packing. 

Hayden’s home is perfect. His wife is perfect. His children are perfect. And, according to Rozanov, his dog is perfect.

“Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness,” Shane grimaces as Rozanov allows Hayden’s big dog to pummel him to the ground and lick his face, his cheek, his mouth. “This can not be my lisichka. When did you get so big?”

The dog’s entire body wiggles happily and Hayden rolls his eyes, unpacking the beer Haas brought into his fridge. “Stop calling him that or he’ll get confused about his name.”

“Kevin is human name. Bad name for dog. And this is my little fox, isn’t that right? Yes it is, yes it is.”

Shane never thought he’d see Rozanov, the big, bad Dom, reduced to a melted puddle of goo on a kitchen floor for a dog. He does not think it’s cute, okay? It’s actually really, really gross that Rozanov is letting the dog, who probably cleans himself with that tongue, lick all over his face. What if he gets an infection in his split lip? Rozanov doesn’t seem to care.

Kevin does look a little like a fox, though, with his long red coat and perky ears. And just hearing Rozanov repeat lisichka, lisichka, lisichka is doing all kinds of terrible things to Shane’s insides. He takes a long sip of his beer and then chokes on it.

“Yes,” Rozanov coos. “ I take you home in my pocket. Such good boy.”

Oh. Shane feels a fluttering in his gut. His skin feels a little tingly, too. It wasn’t directed at him, but just hearing Rozanov say those words…

He’s saved by the arrival of Bood, his wife, and several other of Shane’s teammates and their partners. Shane feels a little shy. He’s used to interacting with Doms, but Subs are another story entirely. He ducks his head submissively as the other Subs gather around the kitchen island where Shane is cradling his beer protectively. 

“Shane Hollander,” Bood’s wife slides into the stool next to him. She smells like a sweetened mix of patchouli and balsamic that immediately puts Shane at ease. “In the flesh. I was beginning to think you were a figment of Zane’s imagination.”

Shane blushes at the reminder that he’s been dodging the other Centaur get-togethers. “Um-”

“Leave him alone, Cassie,” Hayden’s wife, Jackie, reprimands her friend.

“How are you liking Ottawa, Shane?”

Shane’s hit with a slightly overly sweet scent of cinnamon and maple. The smell and the question come from Caitlin Dykstra, who is propping her chin in her hand and assessing Shane with big, blue eyes. Shane knows that Evan’s wife works for a Sub shelter, but she makes Shane the most uneasy. 

It’s just that Caitlin looks, smells, and acts like the perfect Sub. She is everything that Shane will never be. She must have had Doms lining up, offering themselves to Play, and Shane has never been approached like that before. 

Secretly, he wishes he were different. He knows he’s pretty with his freckles and the baby fat on his cheeks, but he’s big. He has muscles. He doesn’t smell right. He doesn’t act like a Sub. 

“It’s been okay,” he mumbles. 

“Did you know anyone in Ottawa before you came here?”

Shane shakes his head and grips the neck of the bottle tightly. “Ah, kinda. I grew up here, but then we moved to Montreal. So.”

“Oh,” Caitlin frowns. “So your family is still there? That must be lonely.” 

“A little,” Shane admits. “But I talk to my mom every day and they’re planning on coming to visit soon.”

“Montreal’s not far,” Jackie says gently. “My family is from Michigan. It was hard moving here to be with Hayden, but having my Dom around made it a lot easier.”

Hayden smacks a kiss to her cheek just as Cassie asks the dreaded question, “Do you have a Dom, Shane?”

It’s not an inappropriate or insanely personal question, but it makes Shane a little hot under the collar. If he says yes, he’ll have to answer questions about it. Answers he doesn’t know because he’s never had a Dom before. 

If he says no, if he admits he doesn’t and has never Played; they’ll know. They’ll know he’s defective. He’ll have to admit it in front of his entire team and their perfect, normal Subs and–

“Stop asking Hollander boring questions.”

Help comes from the most unlikely of places; Ilya Rozanov, spread out on the floor with Kevin’s head on his chest. He looks more like a big kid than a Dom, but his dark eyes flash warningly. 

For the second time that night, Rozanov has come to his rescue. 

“I’m just asking, llya,” Cassie rolls her eyes. 

But it’s enough to distract them from their interrogation, for now. Shane isn’t too naive to think this will be the end of it, but he’s grateful that after such an emotionally taxing night, he doesn’t have to deal with that right now. 

The group naturally breaks off. The arrival of Troy Barrett and Harris Drover (together! Shane wonders what’s going on there) has Rozanov begrudgingly up and off the floor to greet them, Kevin happily trailing behind. 

Jackie invites all the Subs, even Shane, to visit the newly finished nursery for the expected arrival of the first Pike son. Shane declines, not wanting to be cornered into further discussion of his dynamics. 

Instead, he drinks his beer and keeps to himself. His teammates are so familiar with each other that Shane is content to just watch and listen to their playful banter. He even finds himself laughing along.

He wonders if he’ll ever feel that comfortable anywhere, with anyone. His entire life has been one of involuntary solitary. Too much of this to belong there, too little of that to be accepted by them. 

But the way the other guys invite him into their conversations, the way their Subs continue throughout the night to include him in their activities… it’s close. He feels a small, private smile stretch his lips. He also feels a pair of eyes on him.

He’s felt this way all night, but no one ever seemed to be paying particular attention to him so after a while he just assumed it was his own insecurities making him feel exposed. This time when he looks up, a pair of dark eyes stare back at him.

Shane tips his head towards Rozanov. What? 

Rozanov looks away as if nothing has happened, which annoys Shane. Besides Rozanov’s physical defending of Shane’s honor tonight he’s practically ignored Shane, unless they’re on the ice and he’s shouting corrections or they’re in the locker room and he’s ribbing Shane for something. 

Honestly, Shane doesn’t think Rozanov likes him very much. Is it because he’s a Sub? Is it because he smells odd? Maybe since Rozanov’s own scent is so strong, his sense of smell is the same. 

Shane pretends it doesn’t bother him at all, but Rozanov is his captain. He’s the best player in the league, someone Shane had looked up to as a teenager before being drafted. They do say not to meet your heros. 

Shane straightens his shoulders. It doesn’t matter. They’re just coworkers, essentially. They don’t have to be friends. 

When it’s dark, Hayden wrangles everyone outside to a fire pit surrounded by plush chairs and a cozy, swinging bench. Shane takes the bench with Caitlin and Evan Dykstra while everyone else pulls their chairs closer to the fire. Rozanov sits directly opposite, flames licking the air between them and casting shadows across his strong nose and jawline. 

He’s staring at Shane too. This time it’s Shane who looks away first. 

“— and there’s this really nice Sub guy I work with,” Cassie says casually from Bood’s lap. “He’s Russian…”

Shane hears Ilya groan and something sours in his stomach. Maybe it’s the beer. 

“Sounds not my type.”

“I literally didn’t tell you anything about him.”

“Is Russian! There can only be one hot, sexy Russian in relationship. I have this spot already, so.”

Caitlin shakes her head. “You’re such a contrarian, Ilya.”

“I do not know what this means, but thank you. My friends, so sweet to me.” 

“It means you’re a big old softie, Lily,” Caitlin teases. 

“Wow. Dykstra, do you hear this? Your wife is liar who lies. This is okay with you?”

Evan stands. “I’m not getting involved in this. Shane, you want another beer?”

Shane shakes his head. The sick feeling that had begun when Rozanov and Caitlin started talking hasn’t gone away and he doesn’t want to upset it more with another drink. 

Evan disappears into the house, leaving his space next to Caitlin empty. Suddenly, a large body squeezes itself between Shane and Caitlin, who is howling with laughter.

Startled, Shane looks over to find Rozanov with Caitlin’s head tucked against his elbow in a faux chokehold. His leg is pressed tight up against Shane’s, the muscles in his thigh bunching under his jeans as he and Caitlin continue to struggle. 

“Your Dom is not here to protect you now! Take it back. Say; Ilya is big, bad, scary Russian Dom.”

Before, Shane might have agreed with that statement. But it’s hard to find a person intimidating when they spend half the night on the floor rolling around with a dog and playing fake-customer at Hayden’s twins fake-restaurant.

It’s a little awkward sitting at the other end of the bench while the pair struggle. The movement jostles the swing and Shane would get off if he didn’t think he’d fall flat on his face if he tried to stand.

And his stomach hurts. The way Rozanov is grinning at Caitlin— perfect Cailtin with her perfect scent and perfect looks and perfect perfect— and has his thick arm tangled around her. Something about it makes Shane feel very, very sick. 

“Alright,” Dykstra sighs when he returns. “Get off my wife, please.” 

It’s shocking to Shane that Evan seems so unphased by another Dom’s attention on his Sub. It shouldn’t be, he figures, considering how the rest of the team treats their Sub partners; like they’re their own humans. 

Seriously, where did these guys come from? And where they hell could Shane find one? Not that they’d want him back, which is a thought that has his mood turning. 

Rozanov releases his grip on Caitlin, who shoots up from her seat and into Dykstra’s arms. 

“My hero!”

“You are so drunk,” Dykstra grins, not at all annoyed. “Let’s get you home. Say goodbye to your friends.” 

“Bye, friends! Bye, Lily!” 

They leave, which prompts other members of the group to say their goodbyes too. At some point, Jackie and Hayden are called back inside by the baby monitor notifying them of their twins waking up. It leaves just Troy and Harris, who are immersed in their own conversation across the fire pit, and Shane and Rozanov; who hasn’t moved to return to his vacant seat. 

Shane looks at their thighs still pressed together. Should he ask Rozanov to move? Shove him away? 

“Why do they call you Lily?” He asks instead.

Rozanov’s side profile is sharp and masculine. The bruise on his face is dark and his split lip shines in the firelight. He turns his head to grin at Shane, which soothes a considerable amount of pain from his stomach. Weird.

“Is what the children call me when we have tea party.”

“Wow,” Shane can’t help but to laugh and shake his head. The image of Rozanov and his broad muscles shoved into a pink princess dress is too much. “Big, bad, scary Dom?”

Rozanov winks and the remaining ache in Shane’s stomach swoops and settles low in his gut as something… else. 

“Don’t be jealous, Hollander. Maybe you will get invitation soon.”

They lapse into silence, making Shane’s skin itch. Rozanov still hasn’t moved, but if Shane doesn’t say something it’s inevitable that he’ll get up and Shane has never had the chance to talk to Rozanov alone. 

“Hey,” he says suddenly, breaking their silence. “I just wanted to. Like, I just wanted to say— thanks, for today. For what you guys did.”

Rozanov makes a weird face Shane can’t decipher. “Is nothing to thank for. What he did… I do not like Doms like that. And we are team— you are team.”

Shane swallows around a lump in his throat. 

“Yeah. I appreciate you all being so, like, accepting. Of me. You know, being a Sub.”

Shane says this to gauge Rozanov’s reaction. If he truly has a problem with Shane’s designation, he won’t be able to hide it in his reaction.

Rozanov turns to him fully now, a thick eyebrow raises. It removes the warmth of his leg against Shane’s, but their knees are still close together.

“You thought that we would have a problem with this?”

Shane snorts. “I mean, yeah. I was worried you’d think it would be a distraction for the team or something.”

“No,” Rozanov insists earnestly. “I do not think that. Have not. Why? The other guys make you feel this way?”

“No! No. Like I said, you’ve all be great. It was just hard, I guess, growing up as a Sub playing hockey. I hadn’t expected you— I mean, everyone to be so nice.”

Rozanov hums thoughtfully. “Yes. I can see it would be hard for you. But not here. And you will tell me if something like today happens again, da?”

Shane ducks his head to hide the blush that spreads like wildfire across his face. He’s sure Rozanov can still see the tips of his ears getting red though.

“I will. Thanks. My mom is, like, your biggest fan after tonight. I think she feels better knowing you have my back.”

“Your mom. She is Sub?”

“No, my dad is. But she’s always been super supportive of me.”

“That is good,” and Rozanov sounds like he really means it. He settles back into his original position at Shane’s side.

Secretly, Shane is pleased that Rozanov hasn’t moved over to create more space between them. 

“What about your parents? Is your mom a Sub?”

Because they’re pressed together again, Shane can feel Rozanov’s entire body lock up. Fuck. Something claws at Shane’s insides, he definitely has said something wrong.

“Yes,” Rozanov says after a moment. “She was. Is dead now, but she was.”

“Oh,” Shane gasps. “Shit. Fuck, Rozanov, I’m so— but your dad is still…?”

If possible, Rozanov only gets tenser beside him. Fuck, Shane, stop fucking talking.

“Let’s say; Alan Wright from New York is very much like my father. So we do not speak much.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane stammers guiltily, but Rozanov seems to force his body to relax enough to send Shane a comforting smile. 

“Why? For being nosy? I think you can not help it.”

Shane’s upper lip curls. “‘Cause I’m a Sub?”

“Because you are Canadian,” Rozanov laughs, leaning in to nudge Shane playfully with his elbow. 

Shane has never been this close to a Dom before. Especially one whose scent makes him feel so odd like Rozanov’s does. He sucks in a breath to stop himself from panting. 

Rozanov leans in for a quick but heartstopping moment and then away again. To Shane’s embarrassment, his face has the same expression it had the first time he was close enough to catch Shane’s scent. A fist wraps around Shane’s chest and squeezes. 

So maybe Rozanov isn’t as big of an asshole as Shane originally thought, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole at all. Why would he bother sitting so close to Shane if he was just going to be disgusted with his scent? 

Shane leaps from the bench, which makes it jerk Rozanov around slightly on the moving bench. Rozanov seems surprised, which annoys Shane even more. Did he expect Shane to wait around to be insulted? He’d already heard it all before.

Hollander, why do you smell like that? 

What’s wrong with you? 

Why is your scent so weak? Are you even really a Sub?

“I’ll see you at practice.”

It’s probably rude to leave before saying goodbye to the hosts, but Shane will apologize to Hayden tomorrow. He can tell Troy and Harris, previously immersed in each other, are watching him leave. 

He hears Rozanov call out, “Hollander!” 

Shane doesn’t turn around. 

His leg bounces impatiently. The thin paper acting as a barrier between him and the examination table crinkles and tears as he picks at it nervously. 

Shane thought he might be able to dodge Harris, the same way he was able to avoid Rozanov all week, but had no such luck. Harris was already waiting for him in the locker room, patient and rosy cheeked and smiling when he spotted Shane, and directed him to the medic area. 

It’s Shane’s least favorite place in the rink. He spent so much time in a room like this as a child, poked and prodded to check his suppressant levels, and the unnatural chemical smell masks any of the comfort Shane would be able to find in Harris’s apple pie scent.

He’d asked Shane for pee and urine and blood, and Shane is relieved he didn’t ask for any semen. While they wait for the lab results, Harris takes a seat on a little stool with a clipboard in his lap.

He doesn’t look at Shane’s notes. He must already know what’s there. 

“You’ve been on suppressants since you were twelve?”

“Ten,” Shane corrects automatically. If Harris was surprised by the answer, he doesn’t show it.

“That’s really young, Shane. Was there a reason?”

“Well, my coach—“

“A medical reason,” Harris interrupts gently. 

Shane hesitates. “Oh. I guess– no, but the team doctor told my mom they weren’t harmful. That, like, it wouldn’t impact my health.”

Shane is getting nervous now. His palms are sweating profusely and he rubs them against the fabric of his pants. Why is Harris looking at him like that? With furrowed brows and a thin, concerned smile? 

“Supressants are a great tool for those who need them. It’s not unheard of to put a child on suppressants at whatever age they present if they need them. But think of suppressants like a hormone regulator. They’re designed to target a Sub’s limbic system– that’s the part of our brain that controls pleasure, our sex drive, and our dominant or submissive nature.”

Shane is trying to follow along, but he wishes Harris would get to the point. He’s sure it’s all very interesting, how the brain works, but it also feels like Harris is building up to something. Shane swallows and politely nods along. 

“So let’s say a Sub presents at 100% submissive nature and it’s impacting their every day life. Maybe they Drop at even the smallest correction or they’re extremely sensitive to other people’s pheromones. We prescribe suppressants to bring them down to, say, 50% so they can have more control over their regulatory hormones.”

“But,” Harris leans forward a bit. He looks like he wants to maybe touch Shane’s knee comfortingly, but stops himself. “If we have a Sub who presents at– let’s say 30 or 40 percent, suppressants would still, well, suppress and now that Sub is only functioning at 10 or 15 percent. Does that make sense?”

Shane swallows. “Sure.”

It doesn’t, not really, and Shane doesn’t understand what this has to do with him. Harris gives him a small smile and Shane realizes he must read the confusion all over his face.

“When you presented,” Harris tells him slowly. “Your doctor would have seen the percentage of limbic activity in your hormone levels. And he would have seen that they are very, very low, Shane.”

“How low?” Shane demands. “Like, fifteen percent? Like you said?”

Harris shakes his head. “Right now? You’re under ten percent. That’s– even Doms have a certain amount, a really low amount but still, an amount of Sub hormones. Under ten percent is that threshold.” 

Shane takes in a shaky breath. His head feels heavy and his eyes are itchy and wet. He blinks and blinks and blinks to try and make it go away.

“So, what? I’m basically not a Sub anymore? That’s- that’s fine. It’s not like I’ve ever been, like, a normal Sub to begin with.”

“Maybe you feel that way because your body was never given the opportunity to regulate its hormones. If I had a newly presented Sub with numbers like this, I’d prescribe steroids to increase their limbic function and then, eventually, their body would be able to do it by itself.”

“You are a Sub, Shane,” Harris does place his hand on Shane’s knee now and squeezes and Shane bites his wobbling bottom lip. “There’s no such thing as a normal Sub, but you must have felt that something wasn’t right, haven’t you?”

Shane nods jerkily. Of course he had. The way his scent and sense of smell was nearly nonexistent. The way his body packed on muscle more than any other Sub he knew, even the ones he played sports with as a child. His avoidance of Playing and his refusal to find a Dom. 

He’d thought it was him. That his brain was wired wrong and that he just wasn’t a good Sub because his brain didn’t work the way it should. And he was right, but not for the reasons he thought. 

Harris leans back, breaking contact. Part of Shane is relieved at the space between him and the Dom, but a small part, the small part of his designation that worked, had found comfort in the grounding touch. A tear finally slips free and Shane quickly wipes it away. 

“Okay. So. The suppressants fucked up my instincts. That’s not dangerous, is it?”

Harris tips his head back and forth. “It’s not usually. There are many Subs who live below the threshold and are still healthy, but ten years is a long time to be on suppressants, Shane.”

“I wanted to play hockey,” Shane’s voice cracks. “I just wanted to play.”

“I know this is upsetting, I know. I’m sorry. But we need to talk about this, okay?”

Shane presses the heels of his hand to eyes and nods. “Okay.”

Harris sighs, but not like he’s annoyed. More like he’s just as upset as Shane but knows he has to be professional. 

“Your limbic system also impacts other parts of your body. Your adrenal glands, your pituitary glands– I know you probably don’t know what that means, but I want you to understand that suppressants don’t just affect your designation, it alters the way your body works.”

“Harris, please. Just tell me what’s going on. What is going on?”

Harris does look down at his chart now, his mouth pulled to one side. “Your kidney and liver enzymes are– they’re not good, Shane. Really not good. I notice you hold your stomach sometimes, are you in pain?”

Shane nods. “It’s… It’s not that bad, though. Only for a second.”

Though for the last week it’s happened more and often and for longer than Shane had experienced before. He’s getting even less sleep and he knows that even if it’s not affecting his game now, it will. 

“It’s not bad right now,” Harris echoes his thoughts, “But it will only get worse if we don’t fix your hormone imbalances and get your body’s natural regulatory system back on track.”

Good, Shane nods quickly. This is good. If Harris is suggesting that this is something fixable… Shane will do just about anything to keep playing. He’s sacrificed so much of his life, his health to be where he is now and he refuses to give it up.

“Okay. Alright. What do I have to do?”

“We’ll start by taking you off your suppressants–”

Shane’s entire body jerks. “No–”

“Shane–”
“I-I– they won’t let me play! The only reason I’ve been allowed to–”

“Shane,” Harris interrupts, his voice slipping deeper and closer to a Command. Shane’s jaw immediately snaps shut, but his teeth are still chattering. “This is not negotiable. You won’t be able to play if you’re dead either. Do you understand that?”

Shane… No, he can’t understand. He can’t even think about it. This is too much. Yesterday he was fine, everything was fine, and now…

“The league doesn’t have to know,” Harris reassures him. “Your hormones will still be unsubstantial enough. I’ll have to tell coach Wiebe, but he’ll agree with me that your health is more important than any consequence on the ice.”

“What else? I stop the suppressants and my body will, um, fix itself?”

“Have you ever Played before?”

Shane’s shoulders hunch. “Yeah,” he says defensively, “Of course I have.”

“Good,” Harris responds, obviously not believing him but being too polite to say so. “Because you’ll need a regular Play partner.”

“Harris. No. No, I can’t…”

Just the thought makes his heart rate kick into overdrive and his breath comes out in shallow, fast pants. 

“There are matching services if you don’t have one. Very discreet, very professional.”

Shane shakes his head. The thought of any Dom, but especially a stranger, being around him while he’s practically incapacitated makes him feel sick. Makes him feel scared. 

“Can’t you do it?” Shane begs. “It won’t even have to be like- like that. Just…”

He should feel mortified or at least a little ashamed of how desperate his voice sounds, but he knows Harris. Harris is a kind Dom. He’s a doctor. He’d know what to do if something were to go wrong. If Shane were to do something wrong.

He imagines a faceless figure coming in to see Shane bound to a bed. Shane’s never needed a Safeword before, what if he forgets it? What if the Dom doesn’t care? What if Shane does something weird because he’s never done it before and the Dom punishes him for it?

What if he doesn’t like the way Shane smells? What if he tells Shane he doesn’t look like a Sub or act like a Sub and Shane Drops? What if the Dom doesn’t help him out of it?

“Shane, you know I can’t do that,” Harris responds kindly, which is more than Shane thinks he deserves for being so brazen with a staff member. “I’m in charge of your medical care, which would be unethical. And I have a partner that I’m monogamous with.” 

If circumstances were different, Shane would have a million questions; who and since when and does Troy Barrett know? Right now, he can’t focus on anything other than the fear and desperation that clogs his throat and expands in his ribcage.

“I’ll send you home with some pamphlets about the services I was telling you about. We’ll start weaning you off the suppressants this week, so you should try to find a partner by next weekend.”

Next weekend. Next weekend?

“Okay.”

“Practice is optional today. Go home. I’ll write a script for some pain killers that’ll help you sleep and let coach know.”

“Okay.”

“Shane. It’s– I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now, but I swear it’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers and stares at the packets of information Harris has passed him. He’s thankful for the excuse to get out of practice. 

There’s no way he could go out there right now. There’s no way he can stand on the ice and not think about the reality that he may have to give it up. There’s no way he can face him. 

Dazed, Shane exits the examination room and runs into a wall. Except it’s not a wall but Ilya Rozanov wearing a very guilty expression. 

“I was not eavesdropping," He says, which is exactly the sort of thing someone who was eavesdropping would say. 

Shane could cry. This day is his worst nightmare. Not only does he have solid, physical proof that he’s a defective Sub, but now Rozanov knows about it. He knows Shane is wrong and bad and deficient. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles and pushes past Rozanov’s shoulder. 

He feels numb. Rozanov will probably tell the rest of the team what he’s heard and he’ll probably add it to his arsenal of insults and Shane will probably die of embarrassment  rather than his fucked up hormones. 

But whatever. Just. Whatever. 

To prove his point, Rozanov doesn’t even try to follow after him. Not that Shane thought he would. Not that he’d be hoping he would. It’s just… whatever. 

He pulls all the curtains closed in his apartment and crawls into bed. The pain meds stop pain that Shane hadn’t even known was there, he’d just gotten so used to it that he stopped noticing it. He falls into a fitful sleep and doesn’t feel any better when he wakes up later that afternoon. 

He lays awake on his back, staring at the ceiling of his room. He has to call his mom. Fuck, he really doesn’t want to. Really doesn’t want to. He knows that she’ll blame herself. He knows that she’ll say they should have known better and that they should have protected Shane and he can’t bear to hear the fear and hurt in her voice. 

Maybe, if he could find a compatible Dom, he won’t have to tell her. He won’t have to tell anyone. The Play would stimulate his hormones to correct themselves and his health would get better and he’d be able to continue playing hockey. 

If Rozanov tells the team, Shane hopes that they respect him enough not to go to the media about it. Can you imagine? The first Sub in professional hockey and instead of inspiring a new generation, he’ll be known as the defective Sub who never made it past his rookie year. 

He has to call his mom. Because there’s no way he’ll be able to find a Dom in a week, he’s never even had a boyfriend, and there’s no way Shane is using a matching service no matter how discreet and safe Harris claims it is. 

Shane has known Doms long enough not to trust it. Not to trust anyone. 

His eyebrows come together. There’s a banging sound coming from his living room and when he rolls out of bed to check, he realizes it’s his front door. Another rapid succession of bangs and Shane launches at the door to open it, finding Ilya Rozanov on the other side with his fist raised to knock again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Shane snaps. “My neighbor has kids, asshole, and you probably woke them up.”

“Can I come in?”

Shane looks at him incredulously. “Why? No! Go away!”

“We can talk out here,” Rozanov says pointedly, “But I do not think you want that.”

Shane’s cheeks flush in anger. Who does this guy think he is? Shane turns his head to find the clock above his TV. Rozanov must have ran here from practice. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov’s voice is serious. “I heard what Harris said to you today. About–”

“Shhh– Fuck. Just– come in. Fuck. Stop talking.”

Shane ushers Rozanov inside and shuts the door behind them. Rozanov makes himself right at home; perusing Shane’s counters and taking in the few pictures he made the effort to hang on the wall. There’s a pile of laundry that Shane has meticulously folded and hasn’t had the chance to put away yet. 

“You are very… neat,” Rozanov observes and Shane’s face flames hotter. He scowls and crosses his arms. 

“Shut up, Rozanov. What are you even doing here?”

“I heard what Harris said to you this morning. About your health.”

“Yeah, you already said that. What about it?”

Rozanov awkwardly fiddles with the quilt on the back of Shane’s couch. It’s old and worn and Rozanov pulls at the bare threads. 

“Stop touching everything,” Shane snaps. “And tell me what you want.”

“I… want to help.”

Shane blinks. Laughs. “Help? With what?”

“You need a Dom, Harris says. For your– To, um, feel better.”

Shane laughs again. Rozanov seems a little put out about his reaction, but what he’s saying is so ridiculous that Shane can’t help it. 

“Do you have a friend or something? Are they so desperate for a Sub you think they’ll settle for me?”

Rozanov looks surprised and, with a twisting in his gut, Shane takes that to mean he’s right. Whatever. Whatever. Shane turns so Rozanov can’t see the amusement drop from his face and be replaced by disappointment. 

“Hollander–”

“I’m not interested,” Shane interrupts. “Thanks, though, I guess. And could you– Listen. If you haven’t already, can you, like, not tell the team? I’ll do it myself if I have to but I’d rather it come from me.”

Rozanov looks like Shane has slapped him. His dark eyes are wide and his mouth is opening and closing silently. Shane would laugh if he didn’t feel like crying so much. 

“You can leave now. I appreciate you trying to help, but–”

“My fucking god, Hollander, you talk so much,” Rozanov says and Shane clenches his jaw. "I am not trying to set you up with Dom friend!”

“What then? You came to rub it in or–”

Rozanov throws his hands up in defeat and snaps, “Am trying to say; Hollander, I am Dom and I will Play with you, but you talk so fucking much I can not say this!”

Shane freezes. There’s no laughter now. His stomach swoops and plummets. 

“That’s not funny.”

“Do I look like I am laughing, Hollander? Am serious.”

No, Rozanov doesn’t look like he’s laughing. His eyes are narrowed and he’s pushing air out of his nose like an angry bull. 

“Why?” Shane whispers. “You– you don’t even like me. Why would you…”

Rozanov’s face twists in an odd way. “You are team, I told you this. We look out for our team.”

“Then I’ll ask Haas to do it,” Shane reasons, but he’s not serious. Haas is sweet, but young and there’s nothing that scares Shane more than a Dom than an inexperienced one who would be focused on proving himself. “He’ll–”

“No.”

Shane startles. It’s not a Command, but something zaps up his spine like it was. “No?”

“You say you do not want others on team to know. Why you tell Haas when I already know? I am your captain. I… care. About your health, how you perform.”

“Right.”

Rozanov crosses the room tentatively until Shane is hit with the scent of fruity-woody-floral that has his eyes closing. 

“You do not have to answer right now,” Rozanov is nearly toe to toe with him and when Shane opens his eyes again, he has to crane his neck up to meet Rozanov’s dark, earnest eyes. “How long did Harris say before you need to Play?”

Shane swallows. “A week.”

Rozanov nods. “A week. We have no game on Saturday, so you will let me know Friday what your answer will be.”

It’s the closest Shane has ever gotten to a real Command, besides Alan Wright’s on the ice the week before. Unlike with Wright, Shane leans into the Command. His chest feels hot with it. He nods, licks his dry bottom lip. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“No,” Rozanov says simply. “I do not. And yet here I am, offering, so you know it is because I want to.”

He wants to? Shane tries to temper down the warm buzzing that starts to spread across his skin. He wants to? Ilya Rozanov, the most stereotypically perfect Dom, wants to Play with him? Even after he heard how bad-wrong-defective Shane is?

Because he doesn’t want to lose you as a player, Shane reminds himself and that’s enough to swallow down the pleasure that had been building in his chest. 

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Rozanov grins like Shane has already agreed. Maybe he thinks it’s as good as decided, but Shane will think about it. It could be disastrous; doing that with his captain.

“I’ll think about it,” he reminds Rozanov, who rolls his eyes and waves him off. Shane opens the door and Rozanov slips through into the hallway, their arms brushing together and making Shane shiver. 

Rozanov turns. “By Friday, yes?” 

“I’ll let you know after the game,” for the first time that day, Shane smiles. A real smile. “Now go before my neighbors complain.”

Before Shane can stop him, Rozanov quickly and loudly bangs on Shane’s open door a few times before racing down the hall. 

“Bye, Hollander!”

“Such a dick,” Shane whispers, grinning, before he hears a baby start to cry and he quickly shuts the door. 

By Friday, Shane has worked himself into an anxious wreck. It’s a bad idea. A really bad idea. A terrible idea. 

Rozanov has probably Played with hundreds of Subs and Shane will just embarrass himself by not knowing what to do. And then what? He’ll still have to see Rozanov every day. It’ll just be another reminder of how bad-wrong-defective he is. Would he survive that humiliation?

It would be easier to decide, to say no, if Rozanov wasn’t everywhere. Before, Shane could easily avoid him because he seemed to be avoiding Shane too. Now it’s as if Rozanov has made it his prerogative to be anywhere Shane is. 

They practice on the same line together. If Shane requests more time to practice his slapshots, so does Rozanov. In the locker room, Rozanov takes the closest shower stall. The urinal directly opposite. 

It’s hard to think with the constant, overwhelming scent of fruity-woody-floral always curling around Shane. It makes him lose all reason. So what if he embarrasses himself? Wouldn’t it be worth it just to be on his knees for Rozanov?

He shakes the thought away violently. It’s not as though they can’t Play platonically, which is what Shane had offered to Harris. Playing wasn’t always sexual. But if Shane is being honest with himself… Yeah. There’s no way it wouldn’t turn sexual with Rozanov.

He has eyes for fucks sake. Rozanov is sexy and hairy and masculine and big. Of course it appeals to the part of Shane that wants to be dominated. But his smile is boyish and cheeky and his eyes with some sort of mischievous that annoyingly has Shane’s heart racing when he catches a glimpse of them.

His other senses are working against him too. Rozanov’s voice is low and rumbling. The Russian accent only adds to the appeal, making everything Rozanov says sound like teasing. Like he’s teasing Shane. 

And then, of course, then there’s his scent. 

All of this is only made worse by the face that throughout the week Shane has been weening off his suppressants. It wasn’t different, until it was.

“Holy shit,” Haas had turned around on Wednesday as soon as Shane stepped into the locker room. “I thought you were some random Sub coming in here.”

Shane had raised an eyebrow but continued packing his stuff into his cubicle. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Dude, I can smell you! I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

Shane froze with his skate in his hands. “Do I smell different?”

“Not different,” Haas said. “Just, like, more.”

“Oh.”

Shane had spared a look to Rozanov, who was aggressively tying his skates and sneering at the laces. Shane’s mind had been full of dread; if Rozanov already didn’t like Shane’s scent when it was weak, would he be able to stand it now that it wasn’t? 

Haas rectified quickly, “It’s not bad! Seriously. It’s, like, good. Really good.”

Shane wanted to ask what was so good about it? What did he smell like? His mom always said it was warm and spicy and a little smoky, but Subs were supposed to have sweeter, fresher scents. He didn’t get the chance to because Rozanov had stood quickly, clasped his hand on the back of Haas’s neck, and grunted that he needed to get the fuck on the ice. 

It’s not as if Rozanov had avoided him after that. If anything, he was like Shane’s shadow during the game. It was a good play considering Rozanov had the bulk to create a defensive bubble around Shane and Shane had the speed and precision to get the puck into the net, but Shane tried not to question if Rozanov had a problem being so close. 

Ottawa won the game, which made their newly packed arena go wild. Just as Rozanov had demanded, Ottawa had surprised everyone with their winning streak and slowly, but surely, the fans had started to trickle in more and more each game. 

Shane had been grinning at the handmade posters with his number on them when Emmanuel Herrera from the Florida Gators had skated next to him. Shane had played with him once in the junior leagues and so he knew Emmanuel was a good guy, but after his experience with Wright Shane was hesitant to meet a Dom opponent so close on the ice. Especially without the protection of his suppressants. 

“Good to see you, Hollander,” he said, smiling with his missing front tooth. “You’re fucking killing it lately.”

Shane blushed until his helmet. “Thanks, E-Man. Maybe we’ll see each other in the playoffs?”

Emmanuel’s smile had only gotten wider. “Maybe I’ll see you before then.”

“Is there problem?”

Shane hadn’t even noticed that Rozanov and Bood had skated up behind him. Bood was at his side protectively, but Rozanov had muscled his way in between Shane and Emmanuel, much to Shane’s annoyance. 

Emmanuel raised his arms in surrender, his smile never tampering. “No problems. See you around, Hollander.”

Afterwards, Bood had been accepting of Shane’s insistence that the Florida player had been only friendly, but Rozanov had never lost his clenched jaw and curled lip. 

For practice on Thursday, Rozanov was noticeably more aggressive and on edge. Even Hayden, who usually loved to push Rozanov’s hypothetical buttons, steered clear of him. Shane wasn’t so lucky. 

Rozanov spent the entire day following Shane closely, stealing his pucks, blocking his passes. If he thought this would make Shane agree, he was sorely mistaken. He didn’t need Rozanov to protect him and he didn’t need Rozanov to… whatever show of dominance that was. 

(Even if, secretly, Shane’s heart had been pounding wildly the entire practice at the thought of every move being hunted by Rozanov was thrilling. Made his pulse thrum, his skin tingle.)

So now it’s Friday and Shane is no closer to giving Rozanov an answer than he was last week. He knew he would be waiting for Shane outside after practice, so Shane had snuck out between Hayden and Haas and ignored Rozanov’s narrowed eyes. 

He groans and fists his hair. It’s not just his scent that’s changed. He feels the need. It’s like an itch that only gets worse the more he ignores it. 

He can’t ignore it forever. He knows that if he doesn’t Play, and soon, he’ll surely Drop. 

His phone buzzes and he sneaks a peek at the ID name. It’s a phone number he doesn’t recognize, but it’s a text message. Another one comes in soon after. 

Unknown number: should i take this as ur answer

Unknown number: never took u for skittish little mouse hollander 

Shane’s heart pounds. Who is this? He answers back, as if he doesn’t know. 

Unknown number: Lily

Unknown number: I got ur phone number from group text 

Shane immediately saves Rozanov’s number before biting his lip and considering his response. 

Shane: I think it’s a bad idea

Lily: why?

Shane scoffs. 

Shane: We’re teammates. You’re my captain. There has to be other Subs you can Play with.

Lily: and if i do not want these other Subs? 

Shane’s breath whooshes out of him. He can almost hear Rozanov saying it. His lips pressed against Shane’s ear. A deep, Russian rumble. I want you, Hollander. Nobody else, Hollander, no one else but you. 

Shane swallows. 

Shane: You know I’ve never Played before. 

Lily: so?

Shane: So? I won’t be a very good partner. I wouldn’t even know what to do. Or what I’d like

Lily: u do not have to know. i would take care of you. 

Shane squeezes his legs together. His cock is filling out and pressing against the soft fabric of his sweats insistently. More texts come in rapid succession. 

Lily: u would not even have to think. u could go Under and not worry at all

Lily: i would make it so good, myshka 

Lily: do u trust me?

Shane presses a hand to his throbbing dick. Did he trust Rozanov? Probably more than he’d admit, even to himself. The man had thrown himself in front of another Dom who had been threatening Shane and gotten beaten and bruised for it. Happily. 

He’d done it again with E-Man, even if it wasn’t necessary. This was Shane’s teammate. This was Shane’s captain. This was Shane’s Dom. 

Shane: Yes.

Immediately, Rozanov shares a Google Maps location. Shane recognizes it as a group of luxury houses close to Ottawa’s arena. 

Lily: come to me 

Shane awkwardly stands in front of Rozanov’s door, glancing behind his shoulder to see if anyone is looking at him. Not that it matters, he tells himself. If anyone saw him, it would be easy to explain away. He’s just stopping by his captain’s house for a visit. No one would know he’s doing… that. 

Rozanov opens the door and Shane’s breathing immediately quickens. He looks good. Shane feels underdressed with his sweats and pullover when Rozanov has a dark button up and nice slacks on. 

“Should I change?” Shane asks seriously when Rozanov steps aside to let him in. 

He doesn’t know what he expected from Rozanov’s home. Maybe something grand and grey and modern, but it’s cozy. Everything is dark wood and dim lights and matte finishing. 

It’s very different from Shane’s rookie apartment that he hired an interior decorator to fill with things that are nice, but not really Shane. He’s suddenly thankful that Rozanov had invited him here instead of coming over because being surrounded with Rozanov’s scent, permeating every inch of the house, immediately relaxes Shane’s tight shoulders. 

“Does not matter,” Rozanov shrugs. “You will be out of them soon anyway.”

“Oh,” Shane’s pulse skyrockets. “Now?”

Rozanov trails his fingers down Shane’s forearm, leaving small electric currents, to grasp his hand. “Come.”

He leads Shane through a hallway to a room in the back of the house. There’s no widows and it looks as if it was probably built to be a library slash office, but is filled with Rozanov’s trophies and soft furniture.

“Sit.”

It’s not a Command, but Shane obeys quickly. Instead of sitting across the room from him, Rozanov folds himself into the space next to Shane and places a hand on the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb pressing into Shane’s pulsepoint which is beating erratically. 

“Relax,” Rozanov murmurs. “We talk first, yes? And if you do not like, we stop at any time. Okay?”

“Okay. What–What do we have to talk about?”

Rozanov smiles patiently. “We are new Play partners. You should always talk to your Dom before, to say what you like, what you do not like.”

“I don’t know, though. I told you that.”

Rozanov kneads Shane’s neck comfortingly and Shane’s eyes close on their own. 

“There is plenty you can tell me. Like; what is your Safeword?”

Shane’s eyes shoot open. “I hadn’t thought about– I wasn’t–”

Fuck. He’s already fucking this up. Rozanov is going to realize this is a mistake, he’s going to–

“Hollander. Relax.”

Shane gasps. His body goes limp and pliant under Rozanov’s hand. The tension in his muscles is forced away by the Command and the panic clears immediately. It feels good, so good. Shane feels so good already. Is this what it’s like? Is that what he’s been missing? 

“We will use traffic light. You know the colors?”

Shane nods dumbly and Rozanov smiles, his dark eyes softer than Shane has ever seen them. 

“Tell me what they are, Hollander.”

“Red, yellow, green?”

“Good,” Shane’s entire body trembles. “Yes. You tell me green for things you like, yellow if you are unsure, and red for absolutely not. I will stop right away. Understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rozanov chuckles. “Say yes Ilya, I understand.”

“Yes, Ilya,” Rozanov’s name tastes so sweet on his tongue. “I understand.”

“Have you ever had sex before?”

Shane bites his bottom lip. “Not really,” and then after Rozanov’s pointed look rectifies his answer. “No. I haven’t.”

If Rozanov is put off by this, Shane can’t tell. He just nods and hums agreeingly. “Okay. This does not have to be sexual, if you do not want–”

“I want!” Shane’s eyes widen at the sudden confession. Even Rozanov looks a little surprised. “Sorry. I just– that’s okay. If it is.”

“Thank you for being honest, myshka. You are being so good.”

Shane relaxes back into Rozanov’s hold on his neck and lets the praise wash over him. 

“I will touch you. Like this and in other ways. Is this okay?”

Shane nods, then realizes Rozanov is looking for verbal confirmation. “Yes.”

“Good. And what about kissing?” Once he sees Shane’s face, Rozanov tilts his head. “No? You do not like?”

Shane doesn’t really know. He’s shared kisses before. Chaste ones, closed mouth ones, cheek ones; but somehow he knows that’s not what Rozanov is asking permission for. Isn’t that extremely intimate? 

“I’m not sure,” he admits quietly. 

Rozanov seems to be contemplating something and then he’s using the leverage he has on Shane’s neck to pull him forward into a kiss. It’s dry and soft and so surprisingly gentle that Shane gasps against Rozanov’s mouth and the man takes advantage by slipping his tongue past Shane’s lips to flick against his. 

Rozanov breaks away first and Shane is mortified by the disappointed whimper he lets out. 

“You seem fine with kissing. Color?”

“Green,” Shane licks the taste of Rozanov from his lips, greedy for more. His stomach clenches when Rozanov follows the movement with his eyes. 

“Good. Are you ready to Play?”

Bravely, Shane nods and Rozanov helps him stand from the couch on shaking legs. 

“Good boy, myshonok. Strip.”

Shane moves quickly. Unable to stop his hands from yanking at his sweatshirt, his pants. Pulling off his socks and his boxers. He folds his clothes and leaves them on the newly vacant sofa. Rozanov looks at them and smiles. 

He’s naked, but he feels so warm. He also feels a little shy being so exposed while Rozanov is completely dressed, but it only seems to add to the pleasure he feels racing through his veins. 

Rozanov rewards Shane with another kiss that makes Shane’s already unsteady knees tremble and then crosses the room. Shane takes a step to follow, like a puppy following its master, when Rozanov turns to look over his shoulder. 

“Stay.”

Shane’s body locks up, frozen to the spot. He watches Rozanov cross the room slowly, every step away from Shane feeling like a mile. Shane wants to go to him. He wants those hands on him again. He needs the warmth of Rozanov’s body, but he also needs to be good. 

Rozanov takes his time pouring himself a drink off the cart, unbuttoning and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, before finally taking a seat, cross-legged, in a wingback chair against the far wall. 

His gaze trails down Shane’s body and Shane ignores the urge he has to cover up. 

“So pretty, myshonok. Such a cute cock.”

Shane’s entire body ignites. Rozanov takes a long drink from his glass, an eyebrow raised. 

“I just complimented you,” he points out. “Say thank you.”

Shane swallows. “Thank you, Ilya.”

“Yes. Good boy.”

Shane shivers in delight. His boy is starting to feel heavy. His mind has a layer of fuzziness that threatens to pull him under. He fights it. He’s not ready to go yet. He doesn’t know where it’ll take him to. 

Rozanov crooks a finger. “Come here.”

Shane readily staggers forward, eager to get to where Rozanov is when he holds up a hand to stop Shane from going any further. Shane whines. 

“Crawl.”

Shane’s knees buckle and his palms flatten to the floor. His hard cock swings pathetically between his legs as he crawls slowly to where Rozanov is sitting. The Dom spreads his legs invitingly and Shane eagerly places himself between them.

Shane is panting now. His eyes are heavy lidded and he’s fighting the quicksand in his mind. It’s scary, it’s so scary, but it feels so damn perfect to be at Rozanov’s feet. Unable to help himself, he rests his cheek against Rozanov’s thigh.

A hand trails through his hair, yanking softly. The small amount of pain zings through Shane’s scalp and down to his dick which is dripping precum onto the floor. 

“Color?”

Shane sighs dreamily. “Green.”

Rozanov guides Shane’s face to his crotch. Shane gasps, feeling the hard length against his cheek. He nuzzles greedily, his open mouth hot across the head of Rozanov’s cock. With his free hand, Rozanov unzips his fly and his cock springs free.

Shane might die. Rozanov’s dick is fat and long and veiny and uncut. His foreskin pulled back from the flushed, wet tip. Shane leans in. He feels disconnected to his body. There is nothing that matters more than this cock and this man and being good. 

He places a tender kiss to the head and Rozanov hisses above him, the fist in his hair getting tighter. 

“Open.”

Shane complies. He opens his mouth and lets his tongue fall out, expecting Rozanov to guide his cock between Shane’s lips. Waiting for it. Rozanov takes his cock and smacks it against Shane’s tongue. Precum spreads across his tastebuds, salty and earthy and a little sweet, and he opens wider. 

Rozanov pushes into his slack mouth. “Suck, sweetheart. Yes. Yes, that’s good. Ah–”

Shane gags while trying to take it all. It only makes his brain fuzzier. He’s going Under, he’s going to go Under. He can’t stop it. He tries to fight it. Just a little longer. 

Rozanov coos and strokes Shane’s hallowed cheek. “How sweet you are. You do not need to take it all at once. Use your hand, yes, like this.”

He gently takes Shane’s wrist and shows him how he likes it. Shane pulls back the foreskin to lick the perineum. 

“Look at me.”

Without taking his mouth off of Rozanov’s cock, Shane looks up from underneath his lashes. He feels a gentle hand swipe the hair from his forehead and caress the arch of his eyebrow. 

Rozanov must see the hesitation, the uncertainty, in Shane’s face because he tells him gently, “Is okay. Let go, Hollander. I will catch you.”

Shane’s eyes droop. The static in his head turns into a soft cloud and he allows himself to fall, fall, fall because, yes, Rozanov will catch him. He slumps into the crease of Rozanov’s thigh and nuzzles his heavy, tight balls. 

From somewhere above him, Shane can hear Rozanov curse in Russian. “Fuck, you are under. Good boy. Good fucking boy, myshonok. Shit.”

Shane moans. The praise is like a balm for his soul. Every nerve ending sings and comes to life under the Dom’s words. He moans and rubs his nose against Rozanov’s shaft before taking it in his mouth again. 

Rozanov tosses his head back and Shane eagerly sucks more before Rozanov takes him off his cock by the fist in his hair. His mouth comes off with a wet pop as he gasps when Rozanov pushes Shane’s face back to his balls. 

Without needing to be told, Shane takes them in his mouth while Rozanov jerks himself off. The first string of cum lands against Shane’s cheek, then his lips, before he takes the head back into his mouth not wanting to waste anymore of Rozanov’s cum.

It’s Rozanov who is panting now. Weakly petting Shane’s head as Shane suckles the still weeping head and letting the cock get soft in his mouth. He’s murmuring in English, in Russian, all of it complete nonsense but telling Shane that he’s so good, he’s so good, he’s such a good boy. 

Shane has never felt so good. 

“Come up here, sweetheart.”

Shane scrambles into his lap. He’s big for a Sub and he’s usually feel insecure about it, but right now he only feels good. Rozanov’s open zipper scratches against the sensitive skin under his knee as he curls up in the Dom’s lap. 

Rozanov is making a comforting, rumbling sound from deep in his chest. Shane can barely keep his eyes open. 

“You must be aching, yes?”

He reaches down to touch Shane’s cock and Shane hears him gasp, feels the shock in the way Rozanov grips his waist. 

“Oh, Hollander. Already? Just from that?”

Shane has already come. His cock is soft and sticky with his release. He shyly tucks his head against Rozanov’s neck and breathes in his scent. So good. Everything is so good. He feels like he’s flying. 

Rozanov gently pries him away from his neck and kisses across Shane’s cheek, down his neck. It’s only then that Shane’s eyes shoot open. No, no. He tries to tamper down his scent. If Rozanov smells him now and rejects him, Shane really will die. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov’s voice is tight with concern. “What is it?”

Shane doesn’t recognize his own voice when it comes out deep and gritty. “N-Nothing.”

Rozanov pulls away. His thick eyebrows are pulled together and his lips are pressed together tightly. 

“I do not want to use Command, but I need you to tell me. I will not risk you Dropping.”

Shane ducks his head. Stupidly, his eyes sting. 

“Nothing! It’s nothing. I just– don’t want you to smell me.”

Rozanov is silent for a moment before asking, “Why is this?”

“Because you don’t like how I smell, obviously,” Shane snaps. “And if you reject me right now or if I see how much you don’t like it, I really will Drop. So, just–”

Shane yelps. Rozanov has pulled him up so quickly that Shane is unable to hide his red, embarrassed face. He’s straddling Rozanov now with his softened cock pressed between them. 

“You think I do not like how you smell?”

His voice is low. Dangerous. The smart thing, Shane thinks, is to not say anything at all. Rozanov’s eyes are glowing. He takes Shane’s cheeks with one hand to make sure they don’t break eye contact. 

“You think I don’t like how you smell? How is this possible? When it has been driving me fucking insane.”

And then he takes Shane’s mouth into a kiss that’s unlike their ones from before. Violent, insistent, demanding. He bites at Shane’s lower lip punishingly and then soothes it with his tongue. Shane, who had been dangerously close to slipping out of Subspace, is thrown back into it. 

Rozanov presses a final close mouth kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Let’s get you clean, yes?”

Shane’s arms tighten around his shoulders. He’s not ready to be left alone. He feels stupid and pathetic. Part of his consciousness comes back to him and his body starts to tense. He doesn’t have to worry, though, because Rozanov lifts himself off the chair and takes Shane with him. 

Shane grunts as he’s situated with his legs around Rozanov’s hips and is carried into an adjoining bathroom. 

Rozanov deposits him on a towel laid out across the counter. It’s thoughtful, considering Shane’s legs would have been bare and cold on the marble without it. He watches Rozanov turn on the sink faucet and pour water into a cup. 

“You would like some?”

Shane nods. His mouth is dry and his throat feels raw with use. He reaches weakly for the cup, but Rozanov pulls it away and takes it all in his mouth. 

Shane frowns, thinking it’s a little mean until Rozanov gently grabs his cheeks and parts his lips, letting the water fall into his open mouth. 

Some trickles down his chin and his chest and Rozanov ducks to follow the trail with his mouth, licking and kissing every inch of wet skin. Shane feels lighter than air.

A soft towel wipes up the remaining liquid and the cum drying on his cheek before Rozanov gives Shane a kiss there too. He’s fully out of subspace now and instead of feeling embarrassed or regretful, he feels amazing. He grins at Rozanov who grins back.

“Was good?”

“Yeah. It was, uh, really good. Really good. Thank you.”

Rozanov kisses the tip of Shane’s nose. “You were good, Hollander. A natural Sub.”

Shane’s chest expands and cracks open. He’d never cared about being a proper Sub but the compliment appeals to the parts of himself that he’s always tried to ignore. The ones that want to be taken and cherished and punished and good. 

He ducks his head, hiding a secret smile. With Rozanov’s steady hand helping him, Shane is led back into the study where he slowly pulls on his clothes. He’s hit with a sudden disappointment, which shocks him. He doesn’t want to leave. 

“I will see you tomorrow?” Rozanov prompts. Shane had been silent the entire walk to the front door. 

“Yeah,” Shane says quickly. “Yes. I’ll see you. Bye, Rozanov.”
It feels weird, after calling the Dom Ilya all night, to return to the use of his last name. But it’s a necessary evil. Shane has to remind himself that Play doesn’t equal real life. That just because Rozanov is his Dom here, doesn’t mean he’s responsible for Shane out in the real world. 

Rozanov’s smile is so soft and sated that Shane is helpless but to return one of his own. It felt good to make Rozanov feel good. For the first time, maybe ever, Shane feels like a real Sub. 

“Goodbye, swe--Hollander.”

Shane leaves. Smiling, happy, overfilled with pleasure. And yet, with the feeling that he’s left something behind.