Chapter Text
The thing about Shane was that everyone always said he was boring. Focused, disciplined, the best at hockey, but boring. No scandals, no secrets, nothing the media could twist into a story. Well, except his rivalry with Ilya Rozanov.
But as far as the world knew, Shane Hollander was painfully dull. Even Ilya said so. The only exciting thing about him, in Ilya’s opinion, was that Shane liked to suck his cock.
He was just a boring guy, and in a world divided between Doms and Subs, he was a boring Dom.
Or so everyone thought.
The truth was far from that.
Shane Hollander wasn’t a mediocre, mid-tier Dom who could barely get rookies to straighten up. People assumed he didn’t use his Dom voice, something frowned upon, but occasionally used by higher levels, because he simply wasn’t strong enough. But the team still listened to him. He was their captain, their best player, the one who led them to victories.
People still snickered behind his back though, marveling at how such a “mid Dom” had made it so far.
But they were wrong. Completely wrong.
Because Shane Hollander wasn’t a Dominant at all.
He was a Submissive.
In a world built around Doms and Subs, a Sub was the last thing anyone expected him to be. No one trying to make a name in sports wanted to be labeled a Sub, not when it meant vulnerability, regulation, stigma. No Sub had ever made it into the major leagues in anything. Why? Because even though it was frowned upon, if a Sub went into sports, the Doms around would try to use their voice on them. Enough problems had been caused by it that now it was regulation to not let Subs into any professional leagues. They could have their own Sub teams that played against other Subs, but you would never see them on TV.
They were always so fragile and too docile to make anything entertaining enough, or so everyone said.
Shane on the other hand was strong, big, steady. He didn’t yell or brawl, but he never backed down from what he believed. When other Doms tried to use their voice on him, he would just frown and skate away. Nothing about him signaled “Sub.”
But that was exactly what he was. And only his parents and his doctor knew.
He remembered the day he found out.
Everyone else in his age group had already presented their designation. Doms tested their voices on each other, puberty making their voices crack, competing to see who ranked highest. Level 1 Doms was barely above a Sub and could get Dommed by higher levels. Those who tested that low kept their levels to themselves and tried to stay out of the way of everyone. On the other side of the spectrum were the level 10 Doms could bring trained Doms to their knees. But those were one in a million. They only knew of a handful and they were treated as royalty, usually parading and working for their government. The strongest in their year had been Ryan Price, a proud Level 7. The last Level 8 had presented two grades above them and was practically a legend.
Kids catered to the higher Doms. Subs—mostly girls, and a few unfortunate boys—were separated half the year and taught how to avoid being Dommed into dangerous situations. And Doms were taught how to use their voices safely without getting into trouble. Using a Dom voice on a Sub without consent was highly illegal. The only time it was socially accepted was to calm down hysterical subs. But what was considered a “hysterical sub” was hazy at best and some tried to toe the line. No one wanted to be a Sub.
Shane had learned all the rules, all the dangers. When he hadn’t presented, his fellow Dom classmates had tried their voices on him, only earning them a warning from the adults, to try to see if he was a sub. When he hadn’t even batted an eye, they had just taken him as defective, a late bloomer. But the idea of their voices working on him had given him nightmares. Teachers tried to reassure them, telling stories of how cruel the world had once been, when Subs were treated like property, when children were killed if they presented as Subs too young. That history was why testing was forbidden until puberty, and why laws now existed to protect them. They tried to reassure him that if he tested as a Sub that he would be ok. He would find himself a nice Dom and learn to enjoy being taken down.
Everyone always talked about how much Subs enjoyed being taken down. They talked about how euphoric it felt, how it felt like floating and that was why God had made them that way. To let the Subs enjoy the bliss of letting go. It was not always a sexual thing, although it could be. It was more about trust and safety. Dom parents could bring down their Sub children in a healthy manner, building a stronger bond between them until they found their own Dom partner and that safety and bliss could be turned up a notch. But no one talked about the downsides of not being taken down. No one talked about it because it was rare for subs to not be taken down. It was unheard of.
Shane promised himself he’d be a good Dom when he finally presented. He would find himself a nice Sub and treat them right. Be gentle with them and only use his voice if they asked.
Except… he never presented at all.
Two years after his peers had discovered their roles, Shane was pale, nauseous, irritable. His worried parents took him to his father’s friend, a specialist.
And that was when they learned the truth: Shane wasn’t a Dom. He was a Sub. A Level 10 Sub.
One in a million. Almost unheard of.
Shane remembered the pity in his doctor’s eyes. The doctor had closed the door, voice hushed, and told his parents he would not register Shane as what he was. He would list him as a Level 5 Dom. Most people fell between a 4 and a 6. It was hard to take down a level 5 unless they really tried so it would not be weird when he didn’t react to other Doms using their voice. Not even a 9 could bring him down without medication or really trying. But no one would ever get the chance to try.
Because if the truth got out, the government would take Shane away “for his own safety.” A Level 10 Sub couldn’t be brought down without specialized medication; he was too powerful, too dangerous to himself.
Shane remembered crying, hiccupping through sobs as he asked whether this meant he couldn’t play hockey anymore. His parents and the doctor exchanged sorrowful glances before Yuna Hollander pulled him into her arms.
“We’ll figure it out, baby.”
And they had.
Yuna Hollander was a Level 8 Dom. David Hollander was a Level 6. With medication to keep him stable, they could bring him down when he was overwhelmed. It became routine. He learned to avoid excitement, to keep himself even. His meds helped him hyperfocus on hockey and block everything else out.
Instead of being the weird kid who never presented, he became the quiet mid-level Dom who presented late and was a rising hockey star.
His parents used their voices often: telling him when to eat, when to rest, when to calm down. The constant use of their voice helped him stay in control, without the need of a full drop. If he acted out, they’d use their voice to make him kneel in a corner. Shame always burned through him at how warm and hazy that made him feel. Nothing sexual, but comforting, fuzzy. They always helped him out of it gently—soft strokes to his hair, hugs, grounding touches.
It was enough for a while.
They stayed optimistic for him. They talked about how he could still marry a high-level Dom someday. Someone like his mother, a Level 8. Maybe, if they let themselves dream, a Level 9.
“There’s hope, Shane. Don’t cry,” they’d whisper.
So Shane stopped crying. He took his medication. He kept himself steady. He leaned on his parents when he needed grounding.
But there was always an itch under his skin, one their voices could never reach, that always left him unsatisfied and irritable.
He thought it would never be touched.
Not until he met Ilya.
The confident Dom, whose eyes never strayed, who never backed down with his cocky smile, had flustered Shane. Shane who never allowed himself to feel too much was feeling things he had never felt before. That night, when Rozanov told him, “More,” and Shane obediently drank another mouthful of water without even thinking, Shane learned what it felt like for that itch to be scratched. Just a little. Just enough to haunt him.
He spent weeks thinking about the pull he’d felt when he obeyed Ilya Rozanov without resistance. He had grown up around other Doms who liked to use their Voices to chirp at each other and not once had it ever affected him. But Ilya’s Rozanov’s whispered “more” had made him react without a thought, leaving him lighteheaded and satiated for hours.
All he knew about Rozanov, besides his skill on the ice, was that he was a high-level Dom. No one knew how high, but based on that moment, Shane guessed an 8 or 9. Most likely a 9. Rare. Powerful.
Their first night together confirmed it.
He had dropped to his knees for him without a second thought. Dropping to his knees and taking his cock into his mouth, worshiping it, had settled something in him he didn’t even know needed settling. He had felt unsettled when Rozanov had pulled him back up, thinking that he had done it wrong, only for his body to be filled with relief and his head to get fuzzy with the praise of Rozanov's words, the soft stroke of his fingers against his mouth. He had swayed with how loose his body had felt. He had fought to bring himself back in control, asking questions and focusing on the answers. The idea of the shame and embarrassment of going fully under with just some minor praises and caresses were mortifying enough to get him back in control.
But the thing about Ilya Rozanov was that he was not domineering. He had heard about Dom’s trying to control each other. Of Doms using their voice to bring their lovers on their knees and making them do things that they didn't quite want. But Ilya Rozanov was none of that.
He didn’t use any hint of his voice. He let Shane do things at his own pace, not shaming him for folding his clothes or for being clumsy.
Instead he had asked what he wanted to do. If what he was doing was ok. He was constantly checking on him. Praising him. It all went to his head. Shane had to focus hard to stay present.
Just being near Ilya left Shane’s mind hazy and his body loose. And he wanted more.
So much more.
The days, weeks, after that night had left him feeling refreshed and more steady than he had ever felt before. It had all come to a head when they met again at the All-Star Game. Seeing him again in the hotel room had him moving without thinking, launching himself at the other man and dropping down to his knees with a simple command. Rozanov hadn’t even used his voice, just told him to get on his knees and Shane had dropped. A rush of endorphins had flooded him, his mouth filling with saliva as he pulled Rozanov’s cock out of his sweats and swallowed him whole.
He had seen everything through hazy eyes, muddled thought until the realization that Rozanov wanted to fuck him shook him back into a resemblance of a level head space. And it had been easy to get back to reality with Rozanov’s nonchalant air and teasing.
It had gone well after. He had enjoyed the other man’s touches and kisses. That was until he tried to tell Rozanov that there would be no more. It was fun, but Rozanov was not any regular Dom. He could bring Shane to his knees with a simple command. This was his rival. If Rozanov found out that he could do this, would he use his voice out in the rink? This could destroy his career.
But Rozanov would not take no for an answer.
“Give.”
Shane pulled his phone out, dropping his gaze, and handed it over to the Russian man. He had tried to resist, but there was no resisting Ilya Rozanov. Shane thought about the man using his voice on him and a shiver ran down his spine. Yes, this was too dangerous.
But even though he knew this was a risky move, he knew he would be reliving these moments for the weeks to come.
He felt centered and focused afterwards, something he had been feeling less and less when his parents tried to drop him. His doctor had tried to raise his prescription, but they made him feel hazy and he couldn’t be feeling like that when he was trying to win games.
The idea of seeing Ilya Rozanov again pulled him forward.
But two weeks later, when they didn’t meet, and when he didn’t see Rozanov at the awards night, something inside him tightened. His skin felt too small. He went searching and finally found him on the rooftop.
Relief and shame hit him at once. Relief at the sight of him; shame at how his body reacted. His shoulders dropped, breath catching, nausea curling in his stomach.
“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over.” He said, breathlessly.
He expected Rozanov to turn, smirk, tease him about the win. Instead, he got a dismissive glance.
“Party all done?”
Shane swayed, unsure of his footing. He gripped the rail.
“No. Just need some air.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not.”
He wasn’t. He was dropping.
And that was the terrifying part. Rozanov hadn’t said a word in command. Hadn’t used his Voice. And yet, Shane’s eyes were relaxing; his tongue felt thick.
What. The. Fuck.
His parents couldn’t get him like this even when they used their Voice, but seeing Ilya Rozanov standing there, hearing him speak normally, was enough?
Again, what the fuck.
“Good for you. Big night for you,” Ilya said.
“Yeah, well… could’ve gone to either of us.”
“But it went to you.”
A spark of anger shot through Shane’s loose muscles.
“So what? You’re just up here sulking because you couldn’t take another victory lap around me?” he slurred. His tongue felt even looser. God, why did he feel drunk? One shot shouldn’t do this.
“All you do is beat me. I win one stupid thing, and you couldn’t even show your face down there.” The tears were coming. Rozanov still wouldn’t look at him. He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” Rozanov snapped, face twisting in frustration.
Shane blinked hard.
“So what is it then?”
Was Rozanov done with him? Had he gotten what he wanted and moved on? Had it all been nothing?
“What the fuck do you want?” Rozanov snapped.
“Nothing! I just wanted to see the view, get some air, and-”
“And what? Here’s the fucking view, Hollander. Check it out. Fuck!”
Rozanov turned away, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Shane stared out over the city, blinking rapidly, gripping the rail, forcing down the wave of emotion.
“I go home in three days,” Ilya said.
“Okay,” Shane managed. His throat ached. “Must be nice.”
He’d also go home, pretend he wasn’t miserable, pretend this hadn’t meant anything. He shouldn’t have let Rozanov get to him. They’d had fun; he’d tasted something he shouldn’t have. And now Rozanov was making it clear it was over.
But-
“And I guess I thought maybe we…” He cut himself off. Rozanov’s profile glowed in the city light, too beautiful, too dangerous. No. He couldn’t have this. He shouldn’t.
“Nevermind.”
He stepped off the balcony, ready to leave, but the pull, the gravity of Rozanov, stopped him.
“I guess I’ll see you next season.” Stupid. He felt stupid even as he stuck his hand out. But he just wanted to touch him once more. The next time they’d touch would be on the ice, handshake line or a hit.
Rozanov turned, the city light catching his face. His eyes flicked to Shane’s hand. He stepped forward.
Electricity shot through Shane as Rozanov grabbed his hand and kept walking, forcing Shane backward until his back hit the wall.
Lips crashed into his, and Shane’s mind short-circuited. The tension, the nausea, the dizziness…all of it vanished. His body went loose and still. The ringing in his ears quieted. Everything went soft and silent.
Rozanov’s large hand gripped his jaw, and Shane let out a small, desperate sound. His knees buckled, and he sank down.
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Shane didn’t hear anything else. He didn’t think. He didn’t care that they were in public.
He was exactly where he wanted to be.
His legs went numb; his mouth filled with saliva. His hands fumbled with Rozanov’s belt. Rozanov helped, pulling himself free.
“Hng—”
Shane nuzzled into his crotch, inhaling deeply, mouthing at the base, leaving wet trails on the blond curls.
“Fuck, look at you.”
Shane whined, kissing along the shaft, smearing spit.
“So needy. You want my cock, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Ask nicely, Hollander. Beg.”
Shane moaned loudly and came in his pants, shuddering. That word had shot electricity down his body. It was electrifying. He'd never heard anything like it.
“Did you just—” Rozanov barked out a laugh. “Did you just jizz in your pants?”
Shane shook his head weakly and tried to take him into his mouth, but Ilya pulled back, gripping Shane’s head and tilting it upward.
“Look at you. You’re gone.”
Shane panted, eyes glazed. He was floating.
“Needy,” Ilya murmured. “Beg for me, симпатичный.”
Shane blinked once, then opened his mouth.
“Please. I want your cock.”
Rozanov’s lips curled. He nodded.
“Okay. Take it. Open your mouth.”
Shane closed his eyes, let his arms fall to his side, and opened wide as Rozanov guided himself in. He sank into the wet heat, whispering soft praise in English and Russian as he started to move. Shane lost himself to the glide of Rozanov’s dick going down his throat.
Shane startled when he felt Rozanov’s shoe press against his straining cock.
“Push up,” he ordered.
Shane did, grinding up against his shoe.
“Fuck. Coming—”
Rozanov threw his head back with a groan just as Shane’s vision blurred, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he spilled into his pants again, and Rozanov came down his throat.
Shane swallowed, then rested his head against Rozanov’s hip, dazed, as fingers slid through his hair.
“So good for me. So fucking good.”
Shane moaned, pleased, enjoying the caresses from the man above him.
As clarity returned, Shane lurched upright. Rozanov leaned in to kiss him, but Shane shoved him back.
“What the fuck are you doing? We’re in public.”
Rozanov, blissfully stupid with post-orgasm glow, smirked. “No one is looking.”
“You don’t know that.”
They stared at each other. When Rozanov tried to kiss him again, Shane shoved him away, switching their positions.
He wiped his mouth and adjusted his tuxedo. He felt disgusting. He’d come twice in his pants. Thank God the fabric was thick-no visible stains.
He turned and walked away. This couldn’t happen again. Rozanov had dropped him earlier and hadn’t even noticed. And the worst part?
He felt fantastic.
The air was crisp. His mind was clear. His muscles were loose.
“See you next season!” Rozanov called.
Shane didn’t look back. There would be no next time. Ilya Rozanov was bad news.
“Hollander.”
Shane kept walking.