Archive of Our Own

The months that followed were a slow, syrupy blur of bliss and revelation. The collar lived in the top drawer of their shared dresser, nestled in its velvet bed like a sacred relic. It came out when the world felt too loud, when the pressure of being Ilya Rozanov—captain, star, spectacle—built into a low roar behind his eyes. Those nights, Ilya would kneel by the bed, chin lifted, and watch in the mirror as Shane’s calm, sure hands fastened the leather around his throat. The click was a lock turning, a door shutting out everything that wasn’t them.

And Ilya melted into a puddle of happy, sated Russian. Every. Single. Time.

It was a chemical reaction, an instant dissolution of his hard edges into a pool of pure, surrendered devotion. The weight of it, the constant gentle pressure, acted like a sensory filter, narrowing the universe to Shane’s voice, Shane’s touch, Shane’s will. It was freedom in its most perfect form. Ilya loved it, Shane loved it, and it was perfect. 

But contentment, for a creature like Ilya, was a slippery thing. Satisfaction bred hunger. The peaceful submission he found in their bedroom began to curdle into a greedy, restless ache during the daylight hours. The collar was a secret. A beautiful, powerful secret, but a secret nonetheless. It lived in the dark, in the quiet. And Ilya itched and burned with the need to drag it into the light.

He wanted to wear it under his suit jacket at post-game pressers, feeling it shift against his collarbones as he gave bland, practiced answers. He wanted to feel it against his sweat-soaked undershirt during a game, a private anchor in the chaos of bodies and noise. He fantasized about it peeking out from the neck of his jersey during a goal celebration, a flash of black leather for the entire world to see. Look, he wanted to scream at the cameras, the fans, his teammates. Look at what I am. Look who I belong to. I am Shane Hollander’s fucking dog, and my bite is worse than my bark.

But he couldn’t. The pressure from the league, the scrutiny of the media, and the never-ending explanations were more confining than any rule ever could be. So the greedy dog whined and nudged for compromises, for lesser marks he could carry out into the world.

“Shane,” he’d grumble, nosing at Shane’s shoulder as they lay in bed. “The collar is… perfect. But it stays here. I want… I want to take a piece of you with me. Something they can see.”

It started with the scratches. When he fucked Shane, he’d beg for it, his voice a wrecked rasp against Shane’s ear. “Harder, kotik. Use your nails. Mark me up. Let me feel it tomorrow when I stretch.” And Shane, caught in his own pleasure, would dig his fingers into the powerful muscles of Ilya’s back, leaving raised, red trails that faded to faint silver lines over days. Ilya would examine them lovingly in the mirror each morning, tracing the paths Shane’s possession had taken.

But Ilya wanted more. The hickeys were next.

“Team already thinks I have a crazy Montreal girl,” he’d whined, hands roaming Shane’s waist as Shane tried to read his book. “Let them see her claim. Please, Shane. Right here.” He’d tilt his head, exposing the strong column of his throat, the place where his pulse jumped. “Where my jersey doesn’t cover.”

Shane had sighed, putting his book down. “It’s juvenile.”

“It is perfect,” Ilya insisted, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please.”

Shane had given in, of course. He always did when Ilya’s need was this raw and real. But being Shane, he couldn’t just do it. He had to research it. Ilya came home from practice one afternoon to find Shane on the couch, laptop open, frowning at what looked like a medical diagram.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, dropping his bag.

“The capillaries are closer to the surface in some areas,” Shane muttered, not looking up. “Apparently you’re not supposed to use teeth. And you should avoid anywhere with too much pressure.”

Ilya’s heart did a funny, frantic beat. “You are… researching how to give me a hickey?”

“I’m researching how to give you an effective one that won’t cause a hematoma,” Shane corrected, finally glancing up. His cheeks were faintly pink. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

The memory that followed was seared into Ilya’s brain, a pornographic loop he revisited in idle moments: Shane, sitting primly in his lap in their bed, glasses perched on his nose. Ilya, shirtless and obedient, hands resting on his own thighs as instructed. Shane would lean in, press his lips experimentally to a spot on Ilya’s neck or chest, suck gently, then pull back, squinting at the faint pink bloom.

“Hmm. The skin is thicker here. More resistance.” He’d consult his mental notes, shift position, and try again, his brow furrowed in adorable concentration. All the while, Ilya sat ramrod straight, a thunderstorm of arousal trapped motionless in his body, his cock aching against his sweatpants. Shane’s clinical muttering—“Angle is important… sustained suction, not biting…”—was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard. By the time Shane had perfected his technique, leaving a litter of definitive, plum-dark marks on Ilya's skin, Ilya was trembling, breathless, and so hard it hurt.

“There,” Shane said, sounding satisfied, his thumb brushing over the bruises. “That should last.”

Ilya had collapsed against him, groaning. “You are going to kill me. In the best way.”

The next day at practice, the marks were visible above the neckline of his practice jersey. A few guys noticed. A few hollering, some knowing smirks. “Wild night, Rozanov?” Ilya just grinned, feral and proud, and touched the spots reflexively. Yes, he thought. My wild night. My person.

But the greedy dog was never satisfied for long. The asymmetry of it began to gnaw at him. He could wear Shane’s marks, carry them like medals, but Shane remained untouched. It wasn’t that Shane was against marks in theory; he simply had practical, Shane-like reasons against them.

“I don’t pick people up, Ilya,” he’d explain patiently when Ilya whined about it, head in Shane’s lap. “You show up with a hickey, it’s ‘oh, his girlfriend.’ I show up with one, my entire team—who thinks I’m straight, by the way—would have a million questions. And I’m a terrible liar. It would be a whole thing.”

Ilya understood. He really did. But understanding didn’t stop the pathetic, possessive ache. You can spot a dog owner by the fur on their clothes, he thought miserably. No one looked at pristine, composed Shane Hollander and saw the owner of a beast like him. There was no trace. No evidence.

The worst was the hockey of it all. Other players—opposing defensemen, brutes from Colorado or Tampa—could leave their marks on Shane. They could check him into the boards, leaving bruises on his ribs, his thighs, the canvas of his skin. Their violence was a sanctioned, public claim. Ilya’s love had to be invisible.

It felt profoundly unfair. He wanted to sink his teeth into the juncture of Shane’s neck and shoulder, to leave a brand that screamed MINE in a language of burst capillaries. He wanted to cover Shane’s back in his own scratches, a map of passion, not violence. He wanted the world to see that the most controlled, meticulous man in the league was owned by its most volatile, that Shane’s calm was the direct result of Ilya’s willing surrender.

One night, after a game where he’d watched a particularly aggressive hit leave a fresh, angry red mark on Shane’s bicep, the feeling boiled over.

The sight of that fresh, violet mark peeking from his sleeve was a branding iron on Ilya’s mind.

Sanctioned. Public.

He wanted to scream.

The moment their front door clicked shut, Ilya moved. He spun Shane around and slammed him back against the solid wood. Shane’s gasp was swallowed as Ilya’s mouth crashed down on his.

It was not a gentle kiss. Ilya licked into his mouth, deep and claiming, his hands rough as they slid down Shane’s sides, palming his hips before cupping him firmly through his trousers. He knew exactly how to touch him, where the pressure would make Shane’s careful control unravel. He poured every ounce of his frustrated, jealous hunger into it.

And it worked. Shane, startled for only a second, melted. His body went pliant against the door, a soft, desperate sound vibrating in his throat as he kissed back, his own hands coming up to fist in Ilya’s shirt. When Ilya finally ripped his mouth away, Shane’s eyes were already glassy, his lips kiss-swollen and parted, breath coming in shallow pants. Perfect.

Ilya didn’t hesitate. He ducked his head and fastened his mouth to the unmarred column of Shane’s neck, right over the pounding artery, sucking harshly, relentlessly. He used his teeth, just enough to make Shane jolt and then arch into the sensation.

“Ilya—wait,” Shane managed, voice slurred with dazed arousal. “I have… a photoshoot tomorrow, you asshole—”

Ilya growled against his skin, sucking harder. He didn’t give a single fuck. His dog was pissed. His territory needed marking. Now.

“I don't care. You have concealer,” Ilya muttered, finally pulling back to survey his work: a perfect, livid purple bruise blooming on the pale canvas of Shane’s throat. Satisfaction, dark and primal, surged through him.

Ilya pulled him to the couch. The world then narrowed to heat and friction and spilling into each other's hands. 

Silence stretched for a minute, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then Shane pushed himself off Ilya and stomped down the hall. The bathroom light snapped on.

A beat.

“Rozanov!”

Ilya’s grin spread across his face, a slow, satisfied thing. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat finally slowing.

-

Shane came home from the photoshoot with the particular, heavy-footed silence of someone nursing a spectacular grudge. Ilya watched from the kitchen island, leaning casually against the counter, as Shane methodically hung up his jacket, toed off his shoes, and placed his keys in the ceramic bowl with excessive precision.

The air was thick with unspoken agitation. Ilya took a slow sip of water, letting the suspense build.

Finally, Shane turned, his expression a mix of mortification and fury. The high neck of his sweater did nothing to hide the faint, tell-tale shadow on his throat, a ghostly echo of the bruise Ilya had painted there the night before.

“The concealer,” Shane stated, his voice dangerously flat, “was not enough.”

Ilya’s lips twitched. He schooled his features into a mask of mild concern. “No?”

“No. It was ‘visually distracting.’ They had to airbrush it out. Frame by frame.” Shane’s cheeks flushed a delicious pink, remembering. “The director whistled. He whistled, Ilya. Then he said, and I quote, ‘Someone had a good Thursday night.’ Everyone laughed.”

The image was too perfect. A low rumble of laughter escaped Ilya’s chest before he could stop it. “It was a good Thursday night.”

“It was unprofessional,” Shane hissed, striding into the kitchen. “I looked like a… a distracted teenager!”

“You looked like a man who is thoroughly loved,” Ilya corrected, reaching out to hook a finger in the neckline of Shane’s sweater. Shane swatted his hand away, but the fight was leaching out of him, replaced by a familiar, weary exasperation.

“Your mouth gets me into so much trouble,” Shane murmured, the words more a sigh than an accusation.

That was profoundly true, Ilya thought. His mind flickered through a private catalog of transgressions: the time he’d sneakily blown Shane during a late-night phone call, reducing his Shane to breathless, begging silence. Or, his personal favorite, the desperate afternoon when Shane was on a Teams meeting, his face hopelessly flushed, his jaw tight as he tried to deliver a coherent response while Ilya worked between his legs under the desk. Shane had always been too expressive during sex, every gasp and shudder written plainly across his beautiful face—one of the many reasons Ilya was utterly obsessed with him. It probably hadn’t been very corporate-friendly.

“This is a known hazard of being with me,” Ilya said, not sounding sorry in the least. He closed the distance, crowding Shane back against the refrigerator. “You are aware of my… territorial nature.”

Shane looked up at him, the last remnants of anger dissolving into that dazed, wanting look that turned Ilya’s insides to liquid heat. “I’m aware you’re a menace.”

Ilya claimed his mouth then, the kiss a slow, deep brand of ownership that was somehow both an apology and a reaffirmation. Shane melted into it, his hands coming up to clutch at Ilya’s shoulders, a soft sound of surrender in his throat. Just as Ilya was considering the merits of moving this to the nearest horizontal surface, Shane pulled away, clearing his throat with a sudden, businesslike firmness.

“I want a bet,” Shane declared, his eyes sharpening with competitive fire.

Ilya’s interest, always piqued by Shane’s gambits, was immediately seized. “Oh?”

“Next five games. Total points. If you get more, I will…” Shane paused, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “I will wear that maid costume you ‘accidentally’ left in the online shopping cart.”

Ilya straightened up so fast he nearly went dizzy. The mental image was blindingly glorious. “Done,” he said instantly, his voice husky.

“If,” Shane continued, holding up a finger, “I win… I get to tie you up. And gag you.”

Ilya froze. A slow, wicked grin spread across Ilya’s face. He leaned in, his voice a low purr by Shane’s ear. “Nope. You would miss my mouth too much. You would be bored within minutes.”

Shane huffed, a faint blush returning to his cheeks. “I would enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“You would be checking the time,” Ilya countered, trailing his lips along Shane’s jaw. “You love my mouth. You love what it does to you.”

Shane rolled his eyes. "I have plans for you, Mr. Rozanov," Shane muttered. "Just you wait."

Ilya shivered. God, he was so fucking obsessed with this man.

“Deal,” he said, leaning forward with a kiss that tasted of challenge and promise.

As they pulled apart, Shane nipped lightly at Ilya’s bottom lip. “You’re going to lose,” he whispered, eyes sparkling. Ilya just growled and kissed him again, because arguing with his mouth was better anyway.

-

The loss was a sting, but only a faint one. Ilya had lost against Shane by only one point.

He wasn't disappointed. How could he be? Shane had been spectacular, a force of nature, and the determined glint in his eye for the last two weeks told Ilya this win had been meticulously chased. He was vaguely, thrillingly aware that Shane must have been planning this for a long time. The anticipation was its own exquisite kind of foreplay.

The following evening, a rare night off stretched before them, ripe with possibility. The air in their bedroom was thick with a nervous energy that seemed to emanate mostly from Shane. Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Shane fidgeted.

“You’re sure?” Shane asked, his voice quieter than usual. “You can back off anytime. You know that, right?”

Ilya reached out, capturing one of Shane’s restless hands. He brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “Solnyshko. I am so down. So green. You have the words. I have the words. We are good.”

Shane took a visible breath, his shoulders relaxing at the reminder of their safety net. “Okay. Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He stood and walked to their closet, pulling out a plain, unmarked cardboard box. Ilya’s eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face. Exactly how long had Shane been planning this?

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, preemptively answering his unasked question, his ears turning pink.

Shane opened the box and first drew out long, flowing lengths of deep sapphire silk. “No handcuffs,” he explained, his fingers stroking the fabric. “I didn’t want you to have bruises there. Not for this.”

Ilya opened his mouth to protest—he would have loved the marks—and then shut it again, warmth flooding his chest. Shane knew him so well. Knew his appetites, but also his limits, his realities.

Then, Shane pulled out the second item.

It wasn’t a gag.

It was a muzzle.

A fucking muzzle. Black, sleek, high-quality leather with polished buckles. It looked professional, serious.

Ilya’s brain fizzled into static. Every thought, every smartass comment, evaporated. He could only stare, his pulse a deafening drum in his ears.

Shane took another deep breath, the implement looking both alien and perfectly natural in his hands. “I got a muzzle instead of a gag because… well, dogs don’t do gags, right?” he said, his voice gaining a thread of steadiness as he slipped into the rationale. “And my good boy, my best boy deserves only the best.”

Ilya was already nodding, a dumb, slow movement. His head was beginning to sink into that warm, submissive space, where Shane’s voice was law and his own complexity simplified into a single, focused need: to be good for his owner.

Shane shuffled forward on his knees, coming to sit in front of Ilya on the bed. “Can I… can I put it on you? Just to see if it fits?”

Ilya didn’t speak. He simply bowed his head forward in offering, like a knight receiving an honor.

Shane’s hands were beautifully, painfully careful. He adjusted the straps, his fingers brushing Ilya’s jaw, his hair, his neck. The leather was cool at first, then warmed quickly against his skin. The buckles clicked softly, securely. It fit perfectly, of course. Shane had measured him in his sleep, probably.

Ilya tested it, trying to open his jaw. It allowed only a little movement. He tried to say Shane’s name, and it came out a muffled, choked sound around the gentle barrier.

Shane’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly reached for the buckles. “Too much? We can—”

A sharp, distressed whine stopped him. Ilya shook his head, the sound desperate. No. Don’t take it. It’s perfect. Keep it on me. Have I been a bad dog?

The realization dawned on Shane’s face, his expression softening into something unbearably tender. “Oh, sweetheart. No, no. You’re so good. So good for me.” He cupped Ilya’s face, his thumbs stroking the leather-clad cheeks. “I need you to come up a little, okay? Just for a minute. We have to talk it through. Can you come back to me?”

It was a gentle command, and Ilya fought the pull of the headspace, grumpy but obedient, surfacing enough to meet Shane’s eyes with clearer focus. He bumped against Shane's palm, signalling he was here.

Shane sighed in relief, a small smile touching his lips. He reached back into the box and pulled out a small, black plastic device—a clicker, like a presentation remote. “This,” he explained, pressing it so it gave a soft click, “is for you. Since you’ll be… otherwise occupied.” He placed it firmly in Ilya’s palm, folding his fingers around it. “One click means green. Two clicks mean yellow. Slow down, check in. Multiple clicks, rapid-fire, means red. Full stop. I’ll check in with you constantly, and you can nod or shake your head, but this is your voice. Okay?”

Ilya nodded, his grip tightening on the clicker. His Shane. So thoughtful. So loving. He brought Shane’s hand to his muffled mouth and nuzzled his knuckles, a silent, clumsy thank you.

“The scene,” Shane continued, his voice dropping into that low, sure tone that made Ilya want to melt into the mattress. “I’m going to tie you with the silk. Then… I’m going to take my time with you. I wanna worship your body. I’m going to blow you. Then I’m going to ride you. Then we’re done, and I’ll take everything off and we’ll come down together. Is that okay?”

The plan was simple and perfect. Ilya felt the last of his resistance dissolve. He nuzzled his leather-bound face into Shane’s waiting hand, a rough, heartfelt sound escaping him. He pressed the clicker once, firmly.

Click.

Green.

Shane let out a long, shaky sigh, his eyes roaming over Ilya’s face, over the sleek leather that now framed it.

“Fuck, I wish I could kiss you right now,” Shane muttered, almost to himself, his thumb tracing the edge of the muzzle where it met Ilya’s skin. “But I have plans. And plans are important.”

He gave Ilya’s cheek one last, lingering stroke, then his demeanor shifted, becoming more purposeful. He gently pushed at Ilya’s shoulders. “Lie back for me. Against the headboard.”

Ilya went, the movement fluid and submissive, settling against the headboard. The posture felt right—upright, presented, waiting. He kept his eyes locked on Shane, who was gathering the lengths of deep blue silk from the bed.

“Hands up, sweetheart,” Shane instructed, his voice soft but firm. “Wrists together for me.”

A sudden, mischievous impulse sparked in Ilya’s hazy mind. He was good, he was so good, but maybe… maybe he could be a little bit of a brat first. Just to feel Shane’s control snap tight around him. He lifted his hands, but as Shane reached for them, he pulled them back, just out of reach, a muffled, teasing sound rumbling behind the muzzle.

Shane paused, one eyebrow arching. “Ilya.”

Ilya did it again, a little wiggle of his fingers, a tilt of his head that was pure, playful defiance. He saw the exact moment Shane’s patience transformed into intent. A fond, exasperated huff escaped Shane’s lips, and then he moved.

It was swift and decisive. Shane dropped the silk, planted a knee on the mattress, and leaned his full weight into Ilya, pinning his wrists to the headboard with one strong hand. He loomed over him, his face inches from the muzzle, his expression a delicious mix of sternness and affection.

“Enough,” Shane said, the word a low vibration that went straight to Ilya’s core. “Be a good boy for me. My good boy. Can you do that?”

The fight evaporated, replaced by a wave of pure, wanting submission. Ilya whined, high and plaintive in his throat, his body going utterly lax beneath Shane’s. His owner knew exactly how to deal with him. He offered his wrists again, without reservation.

“That’s it,” Shane soothed, his grip gentling. He picked up the silk and began to loop it, his movements practiced and sure. He wrapped the fabric in wide, firm bands around Ilya’s wrists, then wove it through itself in an intricate pattern that was secure but allowed for some comfortable movement. He checked constantly, his fingers probing the binds. “Okay? Not too tight? Circulation good?”

Ilya, feeling profoundly cherished and mildly exasperated by the fussing, rolled his eyes behind the muzzle but gave a definitive nod. He squeezed the clicker in his palm, one time.

Click.

Satisfied, Shane finished the knot, tucking the ends in neatly. He leaned back on his heels, surveying his work: Ilya, bound and muzzled, propped against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with quick, anticipatory breaths. Naked, save for the cling of his black boxers, where the fabric was pulled taut over the obvious, straining shape of his arousal. A flush of dark, possessive pride washed over Shane’s features.

He leaned in then, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss right between Ilya’s eyes, where his brow furrowed.

The sound that tore from Ilya was a raw, punched-out whimper, vibrating against the constraints of the muzzle. He pushed his face into Shane’s touch, begging silently for more.

Shane softened. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, my love. Now… let me show you.”

Ilya huffed. Touch me. Get on with it. Tease me until I break.

Shane’s smile was a secret he wouldn’t share. He murmured something soft, then his mouth left Ilya’s brow and began a slow, maddening descent.

It wasn't the touch Ilya craved. It was a soft press of lips to his temple, then the hinge of his jaw. A gentle, open-mouthed kiss against the frantic pulse in his throat. Ilya whined, the sound muffled and confused by the muzzle. He strained against the silken bonds, his hips giving an involuntary, abortive jerk. What are you doing? his body screamed. Here. Touch me here.

Shane’s lips traveled lower, over the ridge of a collarbone, down the center of his chest, skirting agonizingly around a nipple. He was kissing him like he was something fragile, precious. It was unbearable.

A high, frustrated sound ripped from Ilya’s throat. He tossed his head back against the headboard.

Shane paused, his breath warm against Ilya’s sternum. He looked up, and his eyes were soft, understanding. “I know,” he whispered, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “I know you want… the usual. But I have a different agenda tonight.”

He placed another kiss, this one over Ilya’s heart. “I’ve been thinking.” Another kiss, lower, on the taut plane of his abdomen. Ilya shivered violently. “You’re always so good with your mouth. So good at telling me… what you see. What you like.” Shane’s hands smoothed over Ilya’s hips, not to grip, but to soothe. “You praise every scar, every freckle. You make me feel… so good. Unmade.”

His thumbs stroked the sharp crests of Ilya’s hip bones. “And I’ve seen the way you look sometimes. After. When you leave a mark and I have to cover it.” Shane’s voice dipped, tinged with a genuine remorse that made Ilya’s breath catch. “It’s not… dissatisfaction. It’s something else. A little sadness, maybe. That you can’t… brand me back in the same way.”

Ilya shook his head, a frantic, denied motion. No, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, just—

“Shhh,” Shane soothed, as if he’d heard him. “So tonight… tonight is for you. Nothing else. No goal. No frenzy. Just…” He leaned down again, his lips ghosting over the line of muscle leading into the waistband of Ilya’s boxers. “Just me appreciating you. Every part. Out loud.”

A shudder wracked Ilya’s frame. This was worse. This was a thousand times worse than any tease. It was a dismantling.

Shane’s mouth moved again, a hot, wet press just above the band of fabric, and Ilya cried out, the sound choked and desperate against the muzzle. His whole body was one taut, quivering wire.

“See?” Shane murmured, a hint of his own wicked amusement returning. He looked up, meeting Ilya’s wild, pleading gaze. “You’re already trying to argue with me in your head. I can hear it.” He shifted, crawling up to hover over Ilya, his face inches away. He adopted a low, gravelly mimicry of Ilya’s Russian cadence. “‘No, Hollander, this is foolish. I do not need this. I do not deflect at all, what are you talking about.’”

The accuracy was mortifying. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh, helpless whine escaping him.

Shane’s laughter was a warm puff of air against his lips. “You do. You deflect. You turn everything into a joke, or a challenge, or you just… take over.” He kissed Ilya’s sealed lips through the muzzle, a chaste, devastating contrast. “Not tonight. Tonight, you listen.”

He began again, his journey slower, more deliberate. His lips were a brand of fire on the slope of Ilya’s shoulder. “So strong here,” Shane murmured, the vibration buzzing straight into Ilya’s marrow. “Carrying us both, always.” The praise, so specific and true, lanced through him. He thought of all the literal times he’d scooped Shane up, but more, he thought of the weight of their shared life, their secrets, their fears. He’d carry it all. He’d carry him anywhere.

Shane’s exploration continued, a slow, worshipful inventory. He lingered on Ilya’s biceps, squeezing gently. “I love that you can just pick me up. Throw me around.” A soft, knowing laugh ghosted over Ilya’s skin. “I love it when you rough me up on the ice. When you check me into the boards so hard I see stars.” Shane’s lips brushed the powerful deltoid. “It’s these shoulders. They’re why you’re the best.” He chuckled again, a private, embarrassed sound. “Makes me so hard after. But of course, you know that.”

Ilya did know. He’d always known. The flush on Shane’s neck after a fierce play between them was his favorite post-game ritual. But hearing Shane admit it like this, in this vulnerable space, made his heart clench.

Then Shane moved to the broad plane of his chest, his palms sweeping over the firm, defined muscle. He laid his cheek against it, right over Ilya’s pounding heart. “So firm. So safe,” Shane sighed, his voice muffled. “This is the safest place in the world. I love hiding here when we sleep.” For a long moment, he just rested there, listening to the frantic rhythm beneath his ear. Ilya focused on breathing, on not breaking down entirely. 

Shane shifted, and Ilya felt the warm press of lips over the small crucifix that rested in the hollow of his throat—the one from his mother. Shane didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The kiss was a benediction, an acknowledgment of the parts of Ilya that existed long before Shane, parts he now held with equal reverence. It was the most profound gesture of the night, and another tear tracked down Ilya’s cheek.

The journey resumed. Shane’s fingertips began tracing the scattered moles across his torso, a celestial map only Shane could read. “I’ll get to the ones on your back later,” he promised, his touch feather-light. “You’re always going on about my freckles,” Shane murmured, following a trail of three dots near his hipbone. “But I’m crazy about these. So beautiful.” He bent, placing a kiss on each one. “I tried to look up constellations once. To find a match. But none of them fit.” His lips brushed another mole on Ilya’s ribcage. “Maybe I’ll just make my own constellation here. My home.”

Home. The word shattered the last of Ilya’s composure. A quiet sob shook his chest, tears flowing freely now, silent and unchecked. He was a constellation. He was a home. He was seen, in a way that left him raw and remade.

Shane moved lower, his breath hot over Ilya’s abdomen, then his thighs. He let out a low, appreciative sound—an attempt at a whistle that came out as a wet, breathy puff against Ilya’s skin.

Shane giggled, the vibration tickling, and the sheer, absurd humanity of the sound made Ilya’s weeping heart swell impossibly larger. “Damn it,” Shane laughed into his thigh. “I’ve been practicing.”

Ilya was so fucking in love with him he thought he might die from it.

Shane sobered, his hands smoothing over the dense, powerful muscles of Ilya’s thighs. “These thighs,” he breathed, his tone back to reverent worship. “God, I love sitting on them. Love riding them.” He kissed the inside of one, just above the knee, then shifted further down. Ilya tensed, unsure, until he felt the soft, deliberate press of Shane’s lips on the arch of his foot. It wasn’t sexual. It was something else entirely.

“I’m not a feet person,” Shane said softly, kissing the top of his other foot. “But I am so, so thankful these feet brought you to me. All the way here.”

That was it. The final, tender blow. Ilya was undone. The sobs that wracked his chest were silent, stolen by the muzzle, but his body trembled with the force of them, tears streaming down his temples into the pillow. He was completely unmoored, adrift in a sea of sensation so profound it bordered on pain. Every scar, every muscle, every flaw had been named and loved. He was not just bound; he was cherished. He was so fucking adored. Shane Hollander. The love of his fucking life.

Shane’s hands came up, cradling his face, thumbs gently swiping away the tears. “Shhh, my love,” he cooed, his voice impossibly soft, a balm on the exposed nerve endings of Ilya’s soul. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re so beautiful like this. So perfect for me.” Each word was a kiss against his damp skin, a whispered anchor in the storm of sensation. Ilya leaned into the touch, a broken, needy sound escaping around the bit in his mouth.

After a minute, maybe two, the violent crest of emotion began to ebb, leaving him spent and trembling, but wonderfully, beautifully hollowed out. Shane pressed one last, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Still with me, Ilya?” he asked, his tone tender but edged with a familiar, dark heat. “Still good to go?”

Ilya’s response was immediate and vehement. He nodded, the movement sharp, desperate. His hips gave an involuntary jerk, the desperate ache between his legs a throbbing, urgent counterpoint to the emotional catharsis. To emphasize the point, he clicked the clicker in his right hand once, the sound loud and decisive in the quiet room.

Shane’s grin was a flash of white in the dim light, predatory and fond all at once. “Good.”

With agonizing, deliberate slowness, Shane hooked his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s boxers and pulled them down. The cool air hit his overheated skin, and then his cock sprang free, fully hard and achingly wet at the tip, a blatant testament to everything Shane had just put him through.

Shane let out a low, dreamy sigh. “There he is,” he murmured, wrapping a confident hand around the base. His thumb swiped through the slickness, smearing it, and Ilya jolted, a muffled cry caught in the muzzle. “So perfect. So eager for me.” Shane’s praise was a continuous, filthy stream as he stroked him, his touch firm and knowing. “Look at you. All that strength, all that power, just… mine. Begging for it.”

Ilya could only whimper, his head thrashing side to side. He was begging, with every fiber of his being.

Then Shane leaned down and took him into his mouth, swallowing him whole in one smooth, devastating motion.

The world exploded into white-hot sensation. Ilya shouted, the sound a harsh, guttural mmph!!! against the leather. His hips snapped up off the bed of their own volition, a violent, uncontrolled thrust that made him freeze in panic—had he hurt him? But Shane just hummed, the vibration traveling straight up Ilya’s spine, and pressed him firmly back down into the mattress with a palm on his belly. The message was clear: I’m in control. Take it.

And Shane went to town.

There was no gentle buildup, no teasing rhythm. Shane sucked him with a relentless, hungry expertise that had Ilya whining, huffing through his nose, his body writhing against the restraints. He was hurtling towards the edge with terrifying speed, every nerve ending screaming for release. It was too much, it was too good, Shane was too good, and he was going to—

The climax tore through him like a lightning strike. He came with a strangled, desperate sound, back arching off the bed as he pulsed helplessly down Shane’s throat. Shane took it all, swallowing steadily, not pulling back an inch until Ilya was spent, twitching and oversensitive.

Finally, Shane released him with a soft, wet pop. He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a simple, utterly carnal gesture that made Ilya’s spent body give a weak, aftershock shudder. In that moment, Shane Hollander—pink-lipped, eyes dark with satisfaction, wiping Ilya’s release from his chin—was the most devastatingly sexy thing Ilya had ever seen.

He kinda died a little.

Shane leaned forward, stroking Ilya's cheek. Ilya needed to kiss him so, so badly. “Okay?” Shane whispered, his voice ruined. 

Ilya could only nod, the movement jerky. More than okay. Utterly, completely undone.

Shane’s expression softened further, his thumb tracing the line of Ilya’s jaw. Then, with a practical shift in his demeanor, he began checking his work. His fingers gently probed the silk around Ilya’s wrists, testing the tension. “Arms still okay? Not too tight? Can you feel your fingers?”

Ilya nodded again, flexing his hands to demonstrate.

Shane’s gaze moved to the muzzle, his eyes searching Ilya’s. “And this? Still comfortable?” He carefully ran a fingertip along the edge where the leather met Ilya’s cheek.

Ilya gave a third, emphatic nod, his eyes burning with a plea that had nothing to do with discomfort. Please, more. Please, anything.

Shane seemed to understand. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Good. Just need a minute to recover, hm?” he murmured, though they both knew Ilya didn’t need a minute. He needed Shane, in any way Shane would give himself.

With careful, deliberate movements, Shane adjusted their positions. He shifted the pillows, then gently guided Ilya to slide a few inches down the headboard, tilting his head back just so. Ilya went pliant, letting himself be arranged, his pulse kicking up again with bewildered anticipation.

“I did my research, you know,” Shane said conversationally, his hands smoothing over Ilya’s chest. “This model. It’s safe. Padded. Breathable.” He said it like he was discussing hockey equipment, but his eyes were gleaming with intent as he shuffled forward on his knees, moving to straddle Ilya’s chest.

Understanding crashed into Ilya, bright and shocking. Oh fuck. Shane wasn’t going to ride his cock. Not yet.

He was going to ride his face.

Shane’s lovely, flushed hole was right there, hovering an inch above the padded leather that covered Ilya’s mouth. Already slick, glistening with lube, a bead trailed down, catching the low light before sliding off the curve of him. Ilya’s eyes locked onto it, hunger sharp and feral, and he groaned low in his throat—muzzled, frustrated.

When the fuck had Shane even prepped himself? 

The scent of him, musky and intimate, filled Ilya’s senses. He could feel the heat radiating from him. So near. An impossible, tormenting distance.

A desperate, muffled whine tore from Ilya’s throat. He bucked his hips, his body arching in a futile attempt to close that cruel, tiny gap. He needed to taste, to lick, to devour.

“Shhh, Ilya,” Shane tutted, his voice suddenly firm. One hand fisted in Ilya’s hair, holding his head still against the pillows. The other braced on the headboard. “Be. Still.”

The command, delivered in that wrecked, authoritative whisper, momentarily paralyzed him. Shane used the moment to settle his weight, his thighs caging Ilya’s head, and began to move.

It was a slow, rocking grind at first, the soft, hot skin of his perineum and balls dragging over the smooth leather muzzle. Ilya stared up, eyes wide and then, as Shane found a rhythm, beginning to glare. He was trapped in the most frustrating heaven ever. Shane’s panting breaths turned to low, bitten-off moans above him. The beautiful, clenched muscle he ached to breach and soothe was right there, taunting him, using him for friction.

Ilya’s world narrowed to the sight, the smell, the maddening nearness. His arms strained uselessly against the silk, every instinct screaming at him to grab, to lift, to take. His mouth opened reflexively under the muzzle, jaw aching with the need to bite, kiss, taste—anything. But all he could do was lie there and take it, feel the ghost of Shane's slick heat grind against the leather and not him. The sweet, teasing drag of skin just out of reach was driving him insane, his body coiled so tight he was shaking with it.

He watched, almost cross-eyed with concentration and frustration, as Shane’s body opened and clenched with each rocking motion. His own cock, which had softened only moments before, thickened and hardened against his stomach with shocking speed, a painful, weeping testament to his agonized arousal. Every breath was torture. Every twitch of Shane’s hips another spark on dry tinder. He was starving for it, vibrating with the effort not to scream. His heart pounded in his ears, a steady drumbeat of mine, mine, mine—and still, all he could do was watch.

Just as Ilya was certain he’d lose his fucking mind, Shane slowed. With a wet, obscene sound, he lifted himself off, shuffling back to collapse onto Ilya’s heaving chest. He was breathless, a fine sheen of sweat on his collarbones, his freckled face flushed with pleasure.

“That was… nice,” Shane panted, a wicked, mocking glint in his eyes. He tapped the leather over Ilya’s mouth. “But maybe… your actual mouth is better.”

Ilya’s glare could have melted steel. A furious, indignant sound rumbled in his chest.

Shane just laughed, breathless and bright, and tapped Ilya’s cheek condescendingly. “Don’t give me that look. You love it.”

Then, with a grace that stole the last of Ilya’s coherent thought, Shane shifted again. He rose up on his knees, positioned himself right above Ilya's cock, and began to sink down.

The world dissolved into a white-hot singularity of sensation. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The slick, tight, overwhelming heat of Shane taking him in, sheathing him completely, blotted out every ounce of frustration, every whine, every thought. Ilya’s head fell back, a strangled, blissful cry trapped behind the muzzle as Shane began to move.

Shane rode him like he owned him—because he did.

Each drop of his hips was measured, deliberate, devastating. The slick heat of him wrapped tight around Ilya’s cock, drawing him in over and over until Ilya thought he might sob from the sheer perfection of it. Shane moved, unhurried, slow enough to ruin him, deep enough to remind him exactly who he belonged to. And Ilya, bound and gagged, could only take it.

And he did. He took it like the good boy he was.

His body arched instinctively into each thrust, as much as Shane would allow, trying to meet the rhythm, to give Shane whatever he wanted. His thighs trembled with the effort of not coming too fast, of not ending this too soon. Sweat trickled down his temples. His eyes never left Shane.

Because Shane was gorgeous—fucking radiant, lit from within by pleasure and power. Freckles flushed deep, curls damp with sweat, his thighs flexing with control and strength. He rode like a man claiming his due, like he knew exactly how beautiful he looked doing it. Ilya’s mind struggled to hold on to the moment, to anything, overwhelmed by the strobing bursts of sensation and the overwhelming need to give Shane everything.

He could feel each clench of Shane’s body like it was coded into his bones. The way he tightened just so when he ground down. The flutter of muscle around him when Shane moaned low in his throat. Every movement sung of Shane’s exquisite control over Ilya, his ability to use Ilya’s body for his own pleasure while unraveling Ilya completely.

And Ilya loved it. He lived for it.

Every inch of him screamed to please, to serve, to be good. For him. For this.

His cock throbbed deep inside Shane, snug and aching, as Shane leaned forward, one hand braced on Ilya’s bound shoulder, the other splayed across his own stomach as he rode harder now—chasing it. Owning it. Owning him.

And Ilya, helpless beneath him, couldn’t do anything but give in. And he’d never wanted anything more.

Shane was getting close, Ilya could tell. His rhythm faltered, just barely, hips stuttering as he rode him faster, harder, greedier.

“You’re so good for me,” Shane gasped, eyes locked to Ilya’s. “My good boy. Perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect. Always take me so well, always make me feel so—God, Ilya—I love you. I love you so fucking much. You’re mine, and I’ll never—”

That did it.

Ilya let out a loud, broken whine through the muzzle, his back arching as the orgasm slammed into him like a freight train. It tore through him with dizzying force, white-hot and endless. His muscles strained against the ropes as he came, cock pulsing deep inside Shane, thick ropes of it spilling into Shane. Every nerve in his body sang with the need to move, to clutch Shane close, to worship him.

And above him, like a vision, like a dream, Shane didn’t stop. He was already fisting himself furiously, still grinding down on Ilya’s cock with a tight, gasping moan.

“Ilya, Ilya, fuck, yes—”

Shane came hard, thick streaks painting Ilya’s abs, his own body shuddering as he collapsed forward with a breathless cry, bracing his hands against Ilya’s chest before just dropping onto him entirely, spent and trembling.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing—fast, uneven, wrecked.

“Holy fuck,” Shane muttered against Ilya’s shoulder, face buried in his skin, hair damp and clinging. “Give me a minute. I’ll untie you. I swear.”

Ilya couldn’t speak. Could barely think. He blinked up at the ceiling like he’d been born anew, a man rebuilt from bone-deep pleasure and Shane’s voice in his ear. He was floating, limbs heavy, nerves sparking.

He shifted his head as much as the muzzle and position allowed, just enough to nuzzle his chin into Shane’s hair. It wasn’t perfect, not quite, but it was close enough.

He made a soft, contented noise—half sigh, half hum—and let his eyes slip shut. He’d wait. He’d wait forever, if it meant Shane stayed right here.

Eventually, Shane stirred with a groan. “I gotta… the circulation,” he mumbled, voice thick and sated. He pushed himself up, limbs trembling slightly, and fumbled for the knot at Ilya’s wrists.

Ilya watched through half-lidded eyes as Shane’s clever, gentle fingers worked. The release of the taut silk was a shock—a flood of sensation as blood rushed back into his hand, prickling and sharp. He flexed his fingers slowly, then his wrist, rolling his shoulder with a deep, satisfying crack. Ilya brought his freed hands up, marveling at the return of his autonomy. His first, instinctive move was to settle them on Shane’s bare hips, thumbs stroking the divots there, a silent I’m here.

“Okay,” Shane whispered, shifting to kneel beside him. His eyes were soft, dark pools of concern and lingering heat as his hands went to the buckles of the muzzle. “This next.”

The leather straps fell away. Ilya worked his jaw, wincing at the dull ache in the muscles, stretching it open and shut. The freedom was immense. He could speak. He could taste.

“You okay?” Shane asked softly, his palm coming up to cradle Ilya’s cheek, his thumb sweeping over the skin where the leather had pressed.

The touch, the question, the sheer, overwhelming love in Shane’s eyes—it was too much.

Ilya surged up, one hand tangling in Shane’s damp hair, the other cupping the back of his neck, and crashed their mouths together.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, grateful, and starving. A raw, open-mouthed kiss that poured every unsaid thing into the space between them. He had missed this—missed the softness of Shane’s lips, the taste of him, the shared breath, the answering pressure. Shane. Shane. Shane.

Shane made a soft, startled sound against his lips—mphm—before melting completely into the kiss. His hands came up to frame Ilya’s face, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world, kissing him back with a tenderness that made Ilya’s chest ache.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and foreheads pressed together, the world had righted itself on its axis.

“So,” Shane murmured, his lips brushing Ilya’s with each word. “Was that… was all of that okay?”

Ilya’s voice, when it came, was a wrecked, rasping thing, raw from disuse and emotion. “Perfect.” He cleared his throat, nuzzling his nose against Shane’s. “Was perfect. I love you so much.”

They simply breathed together in the quiet dimness of their bedroom, skin cooling, hearts slowing. Ilya’s mind drifted back over the entire evening—the way Shane had taken him apart with such deliberate, worshipful care. Shane had mapped his body like it was a holy land, had spoken every scar and strength into something cherished. He had torn Ilya down to his very foundations with tenderness, and in doing so, had rebuilt him stronger.

He had needed this. Needed to be rendered helpless, to be seen so completely, to be praised so thoroughly for simply existing. And Shane, his brilliant, intuitive, impossible Shane, had known. He always gave him exactly what he needed, even when Ilya himself didn’t know what it was.

“Thank you,” Ilya whispered into the space between their mouths, the words too small for the gratitude that filled him.

Shane just kissed him again, softly, a silent you’re welcome, a silent always. And in that kiss, Ilya knew he was home.