Chapter Text
The problem wasn’t that the sex was bad. It was never bad.
Shane sat on the edge of the bed in their Montreal apartment, the sweat cooling on his skin as the heavy, familiar ache in his muscles provided a temporary anchor to the world. Beside him, Ilya was a warm, solid presence, his breathing slowly leveling out into the rhythmic pull of sleep.
They’d used the cuffs tonight. Ilya had been rough—his hands possessive, his weight a grounding force that usually silenced the white noise of Shane’s anxiety for at least an hour. But tonight, the hum was still there, vibrating just beneath his ribs.
Shane looked at the metal restraints lying discarded on the duvet. They were familiar. They were safe. He knew exactly how much give they had; knew that if he asked, Ilya would let him up instantly. He knew the man beside him saw him as Shane Hollander: his partner, an equal.
And that was exactly the problem.
"You are quiet," Ilya murmured, his voice thick with post-coital laziness. He reached out, his fingers tracing the faint, blooming red marks the neoprene had left on Shane’s wrists. "Did I do something?"
"No," Shane said, though his voice felt thin in the quiet room. He turned, catching the soft blue of Ilya’s eyes in the lamplight. "It was good, Ilya. It’s always good. I just..."
He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the dresser where a small, black bag sat—the one containing the spreader bar they’d only used twice. Even then, it felt like a performance. A 'spiced up' version of a Tuesday night.
"You want more." It wasn't a question. Ilya sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, his gaze sharpening as he read the rigid tension in Shane’s shoulders.
"I want to not be me for a while," Shane confessed, the words tumbling out before he could overthink them. "When we do this—even when you’re rough—I’m still the one driving. I’m still the Captain of the Montreal Metros, just... in handcuffs."
He looked at his wrists, the pink chafe already beginning to fade. "It feels like a costume I can take off at any second. I’m always the one setting the pace. I’m the one who says 'yes' or 'more.' I want to reach a point where my 'yes' doesn't matter because you’ve already decided for me."
Ilya stayed silent, his large frame silhouetted against the dim glow of the city through the window. He was a powerhouse of a man, built for collisions and grit, yet with Shane, there was always a hidden layer of restraint. A carefulness. It was the natural fear of a man who knew exactly how much damage he could do if he truly let go.
"You want me to take it," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a low, rougher register. "Not because I am stronger, but because you are giving me the key to the door."
"I'm giving you everything," Shane whispered. He moved closer, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thrum of a heart that never seemed to rattle. "I want to be overstimulated. I want to panic. I want to try to fight you and have you just... handle it. I want to wake up the next morning and know that for those hours, I was completely yours."
Ilya’s hands came up, hovering for a heartbeat before settling heavily on Shane’s shoulders. The grip was firm, the kind of pressure that reminded Shane he was pinned even when he wasn't restrained.
"It is a dangerous thing you ask, котенок," Ilya murmured. "To play with fear. You think you want to lose control, but when the breath is short and the mind is screaming, that is when you will want Shane Hollander back. And I… I do not like the thought of seeing you truly scared of me."
"That's why it has to be a character," Shane argued, looking up with a desperate kind of clarity. "Don't be Ilya. Be a thief. Be someone who doesn't know me—someone who doesn't care if I'm tired or if I have a game on Thursday. Use that control. Take the power I’m giving you and actually use it."
Ilya’s thumb traced the line of Shane’s jaw, a slow, possessive movement that felt like a brand. He was processing the weight of the request—the psychological burden of being the one to dismantle the Golden Boy.
"You want to be a prize," Ilya realized, his eyes darkening as the gravity in the room shifted. "A thing to be found and kept."
"Yes."
Ilya reached for his phone, the harsh blue light cutting through the amber warmth of the bedroom. He opened a blank note, his expression shifting into the focused mask he wore when analyzing game tape.
"If I am this man," Ilya began, "I need to know where the lines are. Because once the 'thief' is in the room, Ilya Rozanov does not exist to protect you from himself."
Shane shivered, the cold clinicality of it more arousing than any sweet talk. He sat back on his heels, his naked skin prickling in the sudden draft.
"No lasting marks above the collar," Shane said, his voice regaining its professional steadiness. "I have a press conference on Monday. And nothing that breaks the skin. Bruises are... fine. Expected."
Ilya’s thumb tapped the screen. "Bruises are fair game. What about the tools? The spreader bar. The cuffs. The toys."
"Use them all," Shane whispered. "I want to be restricted. I want to be open. And I want... I want to be overstimulated, Ilya. I want you to use the vibrator and the dildo until I’m literally begging you to stop, and then I want you to keep going anyway."
Ilya’s gaze snapped up, his pupils blown wide. "You want me to ignore your 'no'?"
"Only the 'no' that’s part of the play," Shane clarified, leaning in until their chests brushed. "We use the traffic light system. Red is the only thing that stops the clock. If I say 'no' or 'stop', that’s just the prey talking. You ignore it. You use it to fuel the scene. But if I say 'Red'..."
"Everything stops," Ilya finished, his jaw tight. "The lights come on. I am Ilya again."
"Exactly." Shane reached out, his hand covering Ilya’s on the phone. "But I don't want to use it. I want to see how far you can push me before I even think about it. I want to be bad. I want you to punish me for trying to run. I want the intruder to treat me like a piece of property he found and decided to keep."
Ilya let out a long, slow breath. The natural fear was still there, visible in the slight tremor of his grip, but it was being overtaken by a dark, protective resolve. He understood now. The best way to love Shane Hollander tonight was to become the man Shane was most afraid of.
"And the crying?" Ilya asked quietly. "You always get... loud. If you start to weep, Shane, my instinct is to hold you."
"Don't," Shane commanded. "If I cry, it’s because it’s working. It means the facade is finally cracking. Use the crying. Mock me for it. Tell me how pathetic I look. That’s the only way I’ll actually let go."
Ilya nodded slowly, the final piece of the contract clicking into place. He tucked the phone away and stood up, towering over Shane in the dim light. The warmth was gone from his eyes, replaced by something cold and calculating.
“Ok,” Ilya said, his voice suddenly hard. “Go to the cottage. Set your stage. But remember, Hollander—once I walk through that door, I am not the man who loves you. I am the man who caught you. And I will not give your power back until I am finished with it."
The chill that raced down Shane’s spine wasn't fear—not yet. It was the relief of a man who had finally found someone strong enough to carry his soul for a night so he didn't have to.
"The cottage," Ilya said, the word sounding like a sentence. "Friday night. I will be there by ten. Do not wait up for me, котенок. I prefer my targets to be surprised."
Ilya’s voice was the last thing Shane heard before he turned away, the weight of the promise settling into his bones. It was a contract signed in the dark, a silent agreement that the next time they saw each other, they wouldn't be 'them' at all.
**
Shane didn’t sleep well that week. It was a strange, vibrating kind of insomnia—not the kind born of anxiety, but of a starving anticipation.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the darkness of his bedroom transformed into the doorway of the cottage. He could almost hear the click of a lock that shouldn't be turning. He saw the shadow of a man—broad-shouldered, faceless, and utterly indifferent to Shane’s status—looming in the corner of his vision. He was counting down the minutes until he could stop being the man the world expected him to be.
On Wednesday, during practice, he’d taken a hard hit against the boards. Usually, he would have come up swinging, his competitive fire a localized sun. But as the plexiglass rattled and the cold air of the rink bit into his lungs, all he could think about was the sensation of being overpowered. For a split second, he’d stayed pinned against the boards, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, imagining the heavy weight pinning him was leather instead of hockey gear.
"Hollander? You okay?" Hayden had asked, skating over.
Shane had blinked, the mask sliding back into place with a practiced, mechanical ease. "Fine. Just lost my edge for a second."
He moved through the team meetings like a ghost. He sat in the captain’s chair, leading the power-play drills and answering reporters' questions with the disciplined, media-trained grace that had earned him his reputation.
But underneath the suit, his skin felt too tight. Every time he adjusted his tie, he felt the ghost of a leather glove against his throat, a phantom pressure that made it hard to swallow.
The discipline that usually defined him was starting to feel like a cage. He was tired of being the one with the answers. He was tired of being the one who kept the room together. He found himself staring at the clock during games, not counting down the periods until a win, but counting down the minutes until he could finally stop being the man the world expected him to be.
He avoided Ilya. That was the hardest part. They lived in the same city, shared the same air, but they kept the distance like a holy thing. They didn't text. They didn't call. Every time Shane’s phone buzzed, a jolt of electricity shot straight to his gut, but it was never him. The silence was part of the contract. It was the starving period before the feast.
**
By Thursday night, the craving had turned into a physical ache that localized in the small of his back and the hollow of his throat.
Even the simple act of getting ready for bed felt like a rehearsal. He stood in the shower longer than usual, letting the water scald his shoulders until his skin was pink and sensitive, his mind already drifting to the cottage.
He found himself touching his own wrists, his thumb tracing the blue veins beneath the skin, imagining the heavy, unyielding weight of the neoprene cuffs he’d already stowed in the bottom of his gym bag.
He thought about the spreader bar—the cold, telescoping steel of it—and the way it would force him to stay open and available, stripping away the ability to hide or curl into himself. It was a terrifying thought, and it made his breath hitch in the steam of the bathroom.
It would force him to be honest in a way words never could. It would turn his body into a map that Ilya was authorized to redraft.
He wasn't just going to the cottage to have sex. Sex was something he and Ilya did on Tuesday nights after a win.
This was different.
He was going there to be hollowed out. He was going there to let a 'thief' steal the burden of his own identity—the Captain’s "C," the media-ready smiles, the relentless discipline—leaving nothing behind but the raw, screaming reality of his own body.
He wanted to reach a point of such total overstimulation that "Shane Hollander" ceased to exist, replaced by a pulse, a scent, and a desperate, frantic need to be handled.
**
When Friday finally arrived, the drive to the cottage felt less like a trip and more like an escape. As the skyline of Montreal vanished in his rearview mirror, Shane felt the first true breath of air reach his lungs in days.
He was leaning into the curve of the highway, his foot heavy on the gas, escaping the world where he had to be the captain, the golden boy of hockey, the saint. He was shedding the expectations, the responsibility, and the exhaustion of being a masterpiece everyone wanted to touch but no one dared to break.
He was driving toward a dark room and a man who wouldn't recognize any of it. He was driving toward a man who would only see a prize, and Shane couldn't wait to be stolen.