21 – 31 of 31 Works in Light BDSM
- Light BDSM ×
-
Hollander is always a bit like that, in increments. He takes every loss personally – every missed shot, every empty netter, every failed pass. He could stand to get out of his head for a while. It would be good, Ilya thinks, for him to calm down. To sit and relax, maybe.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,429
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76716351
-
Ilya gets traded onto Shane’s team. The problem was that Shane had one big, shameful secret —and Ilya Rozanov was the only one who knew.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 20,456
- Chapters:
- 6/6
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75771321
-
Rozanov was fucking him carelessly, roughly and with both hands gripping his pelvis. Shane tried his best to meet the movements, take each burning sensation washing over him but it was too much and too little, leaving him whining hopelessly. ”Shut up, pet. I’m watching the game”, Rozanov groaned and Shane felt the palm pressing the back of his head. He couldn’t see the tv, what was happening there but was nearly euphoric under the dominant touch. Or: Shane had nothing in common with the hockey player, he just drifted there, under him
- Part 1 of hollanov x anger
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,607
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76730216
-
A shameless smut ficlet. No thoughts, just vibes and Russian endearments.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,309
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76653261
-
Shane adjusted his tie for the third time, his skin prickling with awareness of the toy nestled deep inside him. Shane's muscles tensed under his shirt, his reactive nature making him hyper-aware of the remote tucked in Ilya's pocket. Ilya leaned close as he passed, his breath warm against Shane's ear. “Behave,” Shane's voice cracks. "I-I'm fine, just a h-headache." The lie burns in his throat as he forces a smile, his hand trembling against the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at Hayden. Completely unaware of the hand climbing Shane’s inner thigh, fingers pressing into the tender flesh just below his groin. Shane's pulse hammers against his collar as sweat beads at his hairline. Shane's adam' s apple lurches violently. He can feel Ilya's smirk burning into his profile without looking. He bites down on his tongue, tasting copper. Ilya's presence sears into his left side, while his other hand makes a show of adjusting something in his pocket. The vibrations suddenly intensify, sending a violent shudder through Shane's core. His vision blurs at the edges. Shooting electricity up his spine. His knuckles go white against the leather seat. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as Ilya's grip becomes bruising, fingers digging into the flesh through the soft black material. Leaning in, hot breath scorching Shane's ear: " Get yourself together, Hollander," each syllable dripping with that Russian growl that makes Shane pathetically weak. Fucking. Sadistic. Asshole. And all because of one goddamn bet. Only two hours earlier he was in the comfort of his own home. Steam billows from the bathroom as the door swings open. Ilya emerges, towel riding dangerously low on sharp hip bones, droplets racing down the planes of his chest and disappearing beneath the white terry cloth. Shane's fingers trace the edges of a small brown parcel on the kitchen counter. Ilya Rozanov, the label reads in neat block letters. Below that: Shane's address, his apartment number. Ilya freezes mid-step. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "This showed up today." Shane lifts the box slightly. "Your name. My place." Ilya's bare feet pad across the hardwood. He plucks the package from Shane's grip with long fingers, his knuckles brushing Shane's palm. "Mine," he says, placing it on the far edge of the counter, just beyond Shane's reach. "So I don't get to see what's inside?" Ilya reaches for a pair of grey joggers draped over the arm of the couch, pulling them on with a fluid motion. "It's for you, actually." Shane's stomach flips. The NHL26 loading screen bathes their faces in blue light as they sink into the sofa, controllers in hand. Shane's eyes dart to the kitchen every thirty seconds. The box sits there, taunting him. His birthday was ages ago, their anniversary wasn’t for another couple months, Today is... nothing. His player skates past the puck. Again. The controller vibrates with another missed opportunity. Ilya's score climbs: 3-0, 5-0, 7-0.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,625
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76615041
-
Just two men who attend a high-end sex club. Only rule is, they never take off their masks... They never reveal who the truly are. They both want one thing, and that's a good fuck. Until it's not enough.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,472
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76543176
-
Shane really just doesn’t want to have to think anymore. Ilya cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, so is like that, hm?” “Like what?” Shane asked flatly as he hastily rolled his socks up and shoved them into his sneakers at the foot of the bed. “Needy.”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,329
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76413996
-
Shane is in love with Matt. They're in love and it's fine. It's better than fine really, Shane loves just about everything about Matt and he loves all of Matt's friends. Except for the big tall Russian one that wont stop staring at him like he knows something Shane doesn't. Like he's waiting for Shane to snap. Like he's begging Shane to do something. And Shane won’t, obviously. Because Ilya is the type of man to reel you in and the leave you high and dry. Leave you looking for pieces of him in every new person that you meet, leave you looking for signs you didn't just make the whole thing up, like some wild fantasy that was born of monotony. Oh, and he fact he has a boyfriend who he loves. A lot. It isn't monotonous. Its love.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 22,513
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76273416
-
cut through all the noise by theboyysavior (belasteals)
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2025-12-23
Ilya leaned down and pressed an almost chaste kiss to Shane’s lips. “Stay.” Shane dutifully stayed still on the bed as Ilya went to the other side of the room, rummaging in the drawer for longer than usual. Shane fought the urge to turn and see what Ilya was doing until the other man came back, crouching down in front of him. He was holding lube, a condom, and–to Shane’s surprise–the pair of leather handcuffs that usually sat in the back corner of their drawer. They didn’t use the cuffs often, maybe a handful of times ever. Shane didn’t usually like not being able to touch Ilya. But Shane felt something warm and eager stir inside of him. He wanted Ilya to make the choices tonight. He was tired of thinking. Shane has a lot on his mind. Ilya gets a few things off it. Shane frowned at the pot of rice as the water splashed out cloudy again. He wasn’t counting how many times he washed it, but Ilya was stirring the saucepan on the stove, and the rice wasn’t going to be ready at the same time. Shane had been moving slowly, distracted. He turned on the tap again. At the same time, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The Rolex rep, confirming what time the shoot was tomorrow. Or his mom. Or Hayden, or JJ, or someone else wanting to talk about the shitshow last night. He swirled his fingers through the rice grains impatiently and poured the water out again. It ran clear enough. Buzz. Tap back on, cold water up to the joint of his finger. Buzz. Three texts meant it was probably Hayden. Shane didn’t want to talk about the game. If the Rolex rep hadn’t sent the time yet, he didn’t know how early he was getting up in the morning. They couldn’t shoot too late, because Shane had to be back at the rink for video review, which was going to suck. Theriault was pissed. He set the pot back into the rice cooker, closed the lid, and frowned again. Nothing happened. He pushed a button, but nothing lit up. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Piece of-” “Shane.” Ilya put his hand on top of Shane’s gently. His tone it wasn’t the first time Ilya had called his name. “Is not plugged in.” Shane took a deep breath. “What’s going on?” “Nothing. I’m just distracted.” Ilya’s hand trailed up Shane’s arm, and Shane turned a little to face him. Ilya brushed his fingertips across Shane’s temple. “Where are you?” Shane leaned into the touch and Ilya flattened his hand against Shane’s cheek. Shane closed his eyes. “Pittsburgh.” “Pittsburgh sucks. Montreal is much nicer.” Shane let out a little huff. “You didn’t get shut out by them.” “No. But half your team has the flu.” “I don’t have the flu. I played like shit.” “Ah, and hockey is individual sport, yes? You can do everything by yourself?” Shane turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the palm of Ilya’s hand instead of responding. He let out another deep breath. “Shane. Sit. I will finish dinner.” Shane didn’t feel like arguing. “Okay,” he mumbled into Ilya’s palm. Ilya took his hand away, and Shane missed it immediately. “And give me your phone.” “Why?” Shane was already handing it over. “Because you will look at it and be more stressed.” Ilya slid Shane’s phone into his pocket. “Sit.” Shane wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. He looked around, picked up the book on the end table he had been ignoring for weeks, and stared blankly at a page until Ilya came back in with two bowls. Shane ate listlessly. When they were done, Ilya pulled him back against his chest and Shane let himself relax a little into the other man’s arms. They stayed like that for a while, Ilya’s breath soft against the top of Shane’s head and his arms strong around him. “You are stressed,” Ilya said into his hair eventually. “Very observant,” Shane said quietly, no real bite to it. “Mmm. Nothing gets by me. Like Pittsburgh goalie.” Shane turned to complain, but Ilya kissed him gently. “Still. You are very stressed lately. You are thinking too much.” “I’m sorry. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, and I’m-” Shane gestured with one hand, and Ilya caught it in his firm grasp. “No apologizing. Come to bed. You need to relax.” Shane reluctantly stood up from Ilya’s embrace. “The dishes first.” “Yes, yes, dishes. Then bed.” Ilya had already loaded most of the dishes into the dishwasher. Shane rearranged them properly and slotted their bowls and forks in. Ilya kissed him again as soon as they made it into the bedroom, backing Shane up until the bed hit the back of his knees. They stayed like that for a while, kissing gently and then deeply, until Ilya pulled back and his eyes searched over Shane’s face. Shane made a frustrated little sound and leaned back towards him, but Ilya put his hands on Shane’s shoulders and guided him down to sit on the bed. “You are thinking too much. Let me make your brain quiet, yes?” Ilya said. His voice was even, but Shane could see he was half-hard in his sweatpants. Shane was almost embarrassed at how quickly he nodded. He didn’t want to think anymore. His whole body, tired and tense, craved Ilya. Ilya leaned down and pressed an almost chaste kiss to Shane’s lips. “Stay.” Shane dutifully stayed still on the bed as Ilya went to the other side of the room, rummaging in the drawer for longer than usual. Shane fought the urge to turn and see what Ilya was doing until the other man came back, crouching down in front of him. He was holding lube, a condom, and–to Shane’s surprise–the pair of leather handcuffs that usually sat in the back corner of their drawer.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,735
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76244011
-
It was two rings and then his thick accent and smooth voice washed over Shane like a slow molasses. “Hollander,” Rozanov sighed. “It is late. I thought you had date, no?” “I fucked up,” Shane whispered biting back a sob. Shane drops after he sleeps with someone that's not Ilya, so naturally he calls Ilya to take care of him.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,532
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75670246
-
“Do you want to know how it feels?” Shane let his hand fall back to the couch. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and lifted a brow at Rozanov. “What – holding the Cup? You’ve already made that joke once.” “No.” Rozanov’s fingers encircled Shane’s wrist and then he was pulling Shane’s hand between his legs. Or: Shane tops.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,892
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #74941796
- ← Previous
- 1
- 2