Chapter Text
I wish I could have known that
Look in your eyes would echo in mine
And go back
Out of my mind, across the line
When was the last time I felt like this?
Dark desire and tainted bliss.
Dangerous- Sleep Token
September 2018- Shane
I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t do this.
Someone is going to find out.
Shane’s anxious thoughts repeat on a loop, his heartbeat drumming incessantly in his ears as he parks his car in an industrial complex far on the outskirts of Boston. He pretends not to notice his hands shaking on the steering wheel.
He tried not to think about what would happen if people found out hockey’s golden boy was actually a sexual deviant. He’s no longer Canada’s golden boy, since he got traded this summer from Montreal to the freaking Boston Bears after the Voyageur’s last two seasons ended before they could get to the playoffs. He may not even be the golden boy anymore, as even Shane can acknowledge he wasn’t the best player in the league after his injury. He clenched his left hand in anger at the thought, then slowly opened it, still hoping after two years that somehow the pins and needles feeling would go away. Either way, it probably doesn’t matter if his image sinks further and further down in the public’s opinion. He’s already disappointed everyone as it is. There are plenty of younger, more talented players to keep the media’s attention if anything comes out. Hell, Montreal had traded him for some draft picks and an up and coming hotshot. Practically a wish and a dream, even though Shane had won them two fucking Cups in the almost decade he had spent with the team who drafted him. Apparently management thought his best years were behind him already. He would just have to prove them wrong.
It did help his anxiety somewhat that Sanctum had done a rigorous background check and made Shane sign a million pages for his new membership which included a, frankly, terrifying NDA even his mother would be proud of. Yuna Hollander: his mother, agent, and manager of practically his whole life. She was feared in boardrooms across all of North America for her hard negotiating tactics and take-no-shit attitude when it came to her son. She would probably have an aneurysm if she knew about this part of himself, probably spout some bullshit about how his image couldn’t take anymore hits. Well, fuck that. He had done everything right his whole career in Montreal, and it still didn’t matter. He was traded away like he was nothing. His mom had been immediately furious at the news, whereas he still hadn’t processed it fully. Probably wouldn’t until he was standing in the rink tomorrow in a different jersey. He wondered if his mom would abandon her lifelong team and buy his new jersey, his Boston Bears jersey.
Shit, no stop thinking about your mother while you’re about to go into a freaking sex dungeon. Jesus. Fuck, I’ll have to drop a fifty in the swear jar the next time I go over to Hayden’s house.
Shane took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled. His hands finally steadied and he unbuckled his seat belt. Adjusting his hat low on his face despite it being 10 pm, he grabbed his kit bag and exits his Jeep Cherokee, closing the door with a thump. He walked slowly through the parking lot despite the hot, muggy atmosphere, trying not to run in the other direction back to his car. He was Shane freaking Hollander. He could go into the high-end, members-only BDSM club and have a good time. Well maybe a good time was a stretch but he could certainly exist inside the club and observe from the edge of the room. Yeah, that sounds much more realistic. He probably didn’t even need to bring his bag, there’s no way he would do any kind of pickup play the first time he checks out Sanctum. But it never hurts to be prepared.
His free hand fidgeted with his black t-shirt and jacket before using the keycard at the inconspicuous entrance. It opened to a lobby with what he could only call “mood lighting” from several lamps, illuminating a velvet couches and chaise, some tasteful artwork, as well as a fancy looking desk where an objectively pretty blonde lady sat.
“Hello, sir. Can I have you sign in here and get your ID?” she asked after Shane stood in the doorway for a moment too long.
“Oh, yeah, of course, totally,” Shane rushed out as he dug in the pocket of his tight black jeans for his wallet “here you go”.
“Thank you, just a minute,” the receptionist responded, typing into her computer with her long red nails.
Those have to be fake right? Shane thought as he signed the form without really reading it. He had already basically signed his life away when he joined the club and his anxiety was making the words blur together too much to understand what it said anyway.
“Okay, great I’ve got you checked in, Mr. Hollander,” Shane tried not to jump when she said his name, feeling entirely too seen. Boston wasn’t like Montreal, he told himself. They don’t care about hockey the way Canadians do. She probably doesn’t even know you, he chastised himself and then realized she was still speaking.
“-color wristband would you like this evening? Red is for ‘allow me to approach first’, yellow for ‘ask first’, and green for ‘open to interaction’”.
“Uh, I’ll do yellow tonight, thanks,” Shane said, chewing on his lip. He held his left arm out to the lady who wrapped the paper band around his wrist and then instantly regretted it as he felt the paper brush against his skin. The pins and needles in his left hand began buzzing angrily like a swarm of hornets, like even the softest touch would send them up his arm until that too was useless. He clenched his fist, his teeth grinding already.
“Alright, you’re all set! Have a good evening,” The receptionist responded and pushed a button that made a soft beeping sound. The door behind her opened and Shane stepped into the club.
It was vastly different from when he had toured during the day last week. Now, the lights were low and the bass was thumping, people in various states of undress milled around the bar area. The main stage had a St. Andrews' cross featured prominently and it looked like a scene was being set up which piqued his interest. There were people kneeling on cushions below their Doms and Dommes on couches in the lounge area, some wearing lingerie or leather, and a few even wearing nothing but their birthday suit, all somehow looking so at ease. His eyes caught on a woman with a collar and he swallowed hard, trying to forget what that particular sensation felt like. He turned his eyes away from them, trying to swallow his jealousy. Staff weaved through the members inconspicuously, picking up glasses and refilling waters. There were strobe lights going off and oh my god was that a giant hamster wheel? That definitely had not been here last week.
Shane rubbed his left wrist and flexed his fingers as he took in the sights, heading towards the locker room to drop off his bag. He wasn’t going to change; his dark jeans and black t-shirt were appropriate for someone who wasn’t planning to play. After his bag was secure, he headed to the bar and was pleased to find out they had ginger ale - his favorite brand too. He took the glass and stood by the edge of the room waiting for whatever big scene would go on at the main stage, glad to have something to do with his hands that wasn’t picking at his cuticles or tearing out his hair for once.
His body was definitely in flight or fight mode but Shane gritted his teeth and tried not to fidget. He could be good, even if it was only for himself. Discipline was his favorite method of self flagellation, after all. It had been two years since he last engaged in BDSM and although that relationship had ended rather traumatically, Shane refused to bury that part of himself any longer. New city, new Shane. Or, was it the old Shane coming back out? He would have to ask his therapist about that, but she would be proud he actually showed up here at all. Shane shook his head to clear his thoughts when he saw movement on the stage.
A gorgeous woman with dark brown skin and curly red hair appeared, completely nude and utterly confident in her body as she stalked towards the cross. Something about her looked familiar, Shane thought as he watched her kneel with her back straight, head down, and palms up on her knees. He knew how meditative that position could be, how his mind would slowly empty out like a drain had been pulled in a bathtub full of water. He missed it so fucking much.
Fuck, swear jar again, Shane sighed, staring down at his ginger ale. He looked up when he felt, rather than heard, the man arrive on stage. Shane sucked in a breath, the swear jar debt increasing exponentially the longer Shane stared at the blonde, curly haired, Greek god of a man standing there looking absolutely sinful in low rise, dark wash jeans and a tight black tank top that showed off every one of his muscles. Not only did he recognize him, he knew him personally, professionally, and biblically.
Ilya Rozanov.
The man who took his virginity, who showed him who he could become when he allowed himself to submit. The man whom he had ghosted for the last four years and actively avoided eye contact with at face offs. The man he is still in love with. The man who is now his captain. Fuck.
The fight or flight instinct was definitely leaning towards flight right now but he was trying to rationalize with his brain. He was standing in a dark corner, wearing dark clothes. With the stage lights up there, Rozanov probably couldn’t see much and Shane could slip out when the scene was finished. If he took off now, Rozanov would probably see him running for the door. Shane relaxed a little against the wall as he watched the Dom on stage unpack his kit onto a nearby table, not even acknowledging or touching the sub waiting at his feet.
Oh that must be Svetlana, Shane realized after a beat. He had seen pictures of her on Rozanov’s Instagram when he definitely wasn’t cyber-stalking him on lonely nights. It looked like the scene would be focused on impact based on the toys appearing on the table. Shane shifted on his feet. He could do this. It was just one scene. He wouldn’t even pretend it was him on the cross. He was just an observer, after all.
The music overhead changed. The beat thrummed against the inside of his head, so loud he could feel it in his teeth. The lyrics were in a foreign language, but he still recognized the song. It was one that played during the stolen hours lying in a bed what felt like a lifetime ago. He tried not to make a face as he realized that this playlist obviously belonged to Rozanov.
It made his knees ache to drop to the floor, to take and take and take and take until his M-, no his Dom decided he had enough. Then carefully put him back together again and send him on his way like nothing happened between them. But that wasn’t his life anymore.
Rozanov circled the woman a few times slowly, his mouth moving but Shane was too far away to hear what he said, if it was even in English. Svetlana was Russian-American, her father was a Russian hall of famer Bears player, so she almost certainly spoke Russian too. Whatever he said, she rose gracefully to her feet and approached the cross. The Dom ran his hands along her body before lifting one arm and securing it to the top part of the cross, then the other. He pressed a hand to her back so she bent slightly forward and left her legs unrestricted but kicked gently at her ankles for her to spread them wider. Shane realized Rozanov was barefooted and was embarrassed when his mouth watered.
Rozanov kissed her cheek before he stepped back to admire his blank canvas, nodding as she held her position even though she couldn’t see him. The approval raced through Shane’s body like electricity, like water given to a man dying of thirst. Calm yourself Shane, he thought to himself as he tried to force down his rising erection.
He paused to look at her just long enough to make Shane shift his weight anxiously against the wall, although Svetlana seemed content to stay completely still for the entire night. Another win for the perfect sub, Shane thought bitterly, rubbing at his wrist. Rozanov stepped close to her again, running his hands along her back, ass, and thighs before starting to warm up the skin with quick, light taps. He increased the intensity until the smacks were echoing through the room over the sound of the music. When he stepped back suddenly, Shane could see them both breathing a little harder, her skin showing the slightest hint of pink. Shane knew how those calloused hands felt on his body, how their roughness contrasted with the gentle strokes on his ass between hits. How the rugged skin rasped across his blooming bruises, whispering of the hard work and dedication needed to procure them. He didn’t think he could ever make it work with someone whose hands were smooth.
Shane watched as Rozanov picked up a simple black paddle and tried to ignore his own ass clenching in response. He might just grind his teeth to dust by the end of the night. Good thing he had decent insurance through the MLH, even if he had no idea how it worked in America.
Shane watched him work her over systematically with the paddle, then the riding crop, then his hands before starting the cycle over again. He watched her dance on her toes trying to escape the thin cane that looked like it fucking hurt. He winced as the nightstick hit the crease between her ass cheeks and her thighs. He wished it was him on that cross, all that wonderful pain sinking into his skin until he was floating above it all. It was beautiful the way Rozanov moved through the different waves, knowing when to push and when to give her a break. Alternating between equipment that stings like a bee or thuds all the way down into your bones. Checking in every so often, always keeping his hands on her when he does. He knew from experience Rozanov was whispering affirmations in her ear about how well she was taking it, how pretty her tears were, how great her ass looked with his bruises.
Shane thought he was controlling his jealousy well enough watching the scene with his rival- turned lover AND rival- turned just rival again until Rozanov pulled out a long leather flogger, and then a second matching one. Oh man, Shane thought miserably, I’ve always wanted to try Florentine flogging. We never had the time or space.
The steady sound of leather thwacks against skin pulled Shane from his thoughts. God, he looked so good, completely in control and somehow completely in time with the beat of the music. He was such a fucking overachiever. Shane wanted to lick the sweat off him.
Wait, no stop that you don’t want to do that Shane chastised himself, he’s your Captain and you blew your shot when you ran away from the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Well, maybe the best thing was a stretch but it was certainly a damn good thing.
Shane somehow misses most of the flogging portion of the scene while lost in his thoughts, much to his disappointment. He watches as Rozanov unclips her from the cross, covers her with a blanket that was set on the table, and then picks her up bridal style because she was a tiny little thing, unlike himself. Rozanov left the stage, disappearing from view, as if the last hour had just been a figment of Shane’s overactive mind in an exquisite exercise to torture him. He looks down at the drink he has only taken a few sips of and wonders if he should break his no alcohol rule. The pre-season doesn’t officially start until tomorrow anyway. There is a chasm of longing deep in his chest and he doesn’t want to think about what, or who, exactly he is missing.
He swallows hard and wonders if he will ever come back to Sanctum now that he knows there will always be a risk of running into Rozanov. It would be a shame, because he paid a lot of money to jump the waiting list and pre-paid for the next 12 months in the hopes it would encourage him to go out more and meet people. Shane can’t believe he was stupid enough to think Rozanov wouldn’t be a member here. He’s not sure how long he’s disassociated, staring into his glass of ginger ale, but the ice is mostly melted when he hears a familiar, deep, and slightly less heavily accented voice than the last time he heard it say:
“The answer to playing better hockey will not be found in lukewarm ginger ale”.
“Fuck you,” he responded out of instinct and old habits, the words escaping from lips feeling oceans away. He still felt his face and ears turning pink, even as he tried to press his hazy consciousness back into the shape of his body. He forced himself to drag his gaze up from Rozanov’s tennis shoes - when did he put on shoes? - slowly up towards his face. His eyes lock onto Rozanov’s wrist where a green paper bracelet dangles. Of course he would choose green. He always loved attention, and after that scene he certainly would get plenty. The question remains why he chose to come over to Shane’s dark corner, as if gravity still pulled them towards each other, even after all these years. Even when Rozanov has shown time and again that Shane meant- means- nothing to him. That much was certainly proven in Vegas. His eyes continued up strong arms, broad shoulders, then he jumped for some reason once he got to Rozanov’s face, despite knowing exactly who was standing there the whole time.
Rozanov smirked, with seemingly endless patience waiting for Shane’s gaze to get to his face. He never rushed Shane for some reason, which he appreciated or did until Rozanov opened his mouth. “Do not be surprised to see me, I know you watched the scene. What did you think? Hot, yes?”
“Sure,” Shane muttered, not quite meeting his eyes. He looks just slightly to Rozanov’s right where he can see the bar. They both knew it was exactly what he was into.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask if you can talk to me?” He said, waving his annoying yellow wristband in Rozanov’s face.
“Mm, you’re right. I’m sorry. Hollander, do you want to go to couch so we can catch up?” Rozanov’s face looked genuinely contrite.
“No- I mean yes we can catch up I guess, but no, we can just stay here,” Shane’s tongue felt like sandpaper, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth so hard he felt the pressure of every syllable he pushed out. He was in enough trouble as it was talking to Rozanov again outside of an arena; he didn’t need to dig his grave any deeper by going to sit on the couch as if they were friends. He tried not to preen under Rozanov’s admission that he was right and filed the sound clip away for future use, definitely not for any private moments in bed or in the shower or anywhere else for that matter.
“Is your first time here?” Rozanov asks, not knowing or caring that Shane would love nothing more than to melt into the wall behind him.
“Yeah, well, at night at least. The tour was during daylight hours and it looks a lot different this way”.
“Does it? What gave it away?” The corners of Rozanov’s mouth twitched up. .
Shane rolled his eyes but played along at this familiar dance, “It might have been the strobe lights, but it was probably the naked people”.
Rozanov fake gasped, “Hollander, you actually noticed naked women?”
“Shut up,” Shane fought back his smile by taking a sip of his ginger ale. He had, in the years following his situationship? D/S dynamic? Tragic love story? with Rozanov, accepted he was gay and most definitely was not into women.
“It is, how do you say? A.. Coincidence we run into each other here,” Rozanov comments lightly after a pause, carefully pronouncing all of the syllables in “coincidence”.
“Fucking serendipitous,” Shane mutters into his drink. Rozanov perked up at the chance to learn a new English word, especially one that sounded as fun as that.
“Sarah dipped who?” Rozanov asked, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“Serendipitous, it’s like.. A lucky accident,” Shane supplies, nonjudgmental as always when Rozanov wasn’t sure of something in English. The assist feels as easy as it does on the ice, falling back into old habits like finally finding the right key to unlock a door.
“Fascinating! I love it,” Rozanov grins, and Shane tries extremely hard to not let his heart melt at the sight. He decided not to respond to this either, because what do you say to your ex-Dom at a BDSM club? Hey, thanks for the orgasms and discipline. Sorry for running away and not communicating about subdrop and ghosting you. Do you want to fuck again? Also, I think I still love you.
There was another brief lull in the conversation, neither man saying anything as they breathed in each others’ spaces, existing together again if only for a moment. He still smells the same, Shane thought to himself. Bergamot and citrus, the Dior Homme cologne. The same cologne he had in travel size in a box shoved into the bottom of his closet, only brought out in his most desperate moments of horniness.
Rozanov was the more confident of the two of them, he always had been. It should have been no surprise he was the one to break the ice again. And yet, Shane was still surprised when Rozanov didn’t allow the conversation to die. To take the given exit and go circulate with other members of the club who would certainly be easier to talk to than himself.
“Sooo..” Rozanov dragged out the vowel, blowing out a breath.
Shane quirked an eyebrow up at him, eyes glancing to his face and then back to the bar again. Waiting for whatever crazy nonsense Rozanov would spout this time. This is what they did with each other, pushed forward and then pulled back, like the ocean. Taking turns being brave, saying only part of what they wanted to say. Shane could see when Rozanov decided to commit, his biceps and jaw tensing just the slightest bit like he was bracing himself.
“So, your Dom just lets you walk around a dungeon uncollared?”
Whatever Shane expected Rozanov to say, it definitely wasn’t that. He couldn't help his flinch, feeling the sting of rejection from his last relationship, and from how things had ended so spectacularly with the man standing in front of him. He schooled his features as quickly as he could manage, even if it was far too late. With how closely Rozanov was watching him, there’s no way he missed that. His eyes sank down to his ginger ale, then darted around the room. He shifted on his feet, anxious now and body itching to run from this conversation.
“I’m self-collared,” he forced out of his mouth, somehow, despite his face turning red. It was something he and his therapist had worked on last year to help with his fear of re-engaging with BDSM.
Rozanov’s eyebrows went up to his hairline, “Which means what? You ask yourself to come now?”
“Fuck you, asshole. I have my reasons,” Shane finally met Rozanov’s eyes with a glare.
“What? You never liked to be in charge of yourself before. Is surprising, is all.” Rozanov had his hands up, as if to say he wasn’t a threat. And while physically, maybe not. But emotionally? Shane suddenly felt like he was standing in front of a firing squad.
“Maybe I’ve changed,” Shane snarked back.
“Mm, no I do not think you have,” Rozanov replied easily, taking a step forward to crowd Shane against the wall, “Shane Hollander does not change”.
Shane knew his face looked like a stupid tomato as he felt Rozanov’s fingers curl under his chin, tilting his head up to look at him. Shane tried not to melt into his touch. Tried not to let his eyes glaze over. Tried to hold on to whatever respect he had left of himself to not beg. Beg for what? He wasn’t even sure. Rozanov’s face was uncharacteristically serious, and Shane realized Rozanov was completely blocking him from the view of the club. He swallowed hard and tried to will away his growing erection.
“Shouldn’t you be with your sub?” He snapped back instead of engaging with whatever game Rozanov was trying to play. Oof, did that sound jealous?
Rozanov’s smirk was back again, “No, aftercare is done by her girlfriend so I can come out and listen to everyone tell me how sexy and talented I am”.
“Still an attention whore,” Shane muttered, rolling his eyes. He filed away the information that Svetlana was gay and not dating Rozanov for completely innocent reasons.
“What was that?” Rozanov’s voice sharpened, his eyes catching a dangerous look.
Shane’s body reacted as if no time had passed between them, back straightening, eyes meeting Rozanov’s and repeated more clearly: “Still a-“ Shane cut himself off. He didn’t have to repeat himself for him. There were no rules anymore, no orders to follow. He hadn’t been Rozanov’s submissive since the Vegas shitshow, so he tried not to let the sting of yearning bite through him again. It didn’t matter though, Rozanov saw his reaction to the question. He knew he still had power over Shane, even after all these years. He shook off Rozanov’s touch on his face, needing space to breathe so he didn’t turn into a pile of ash on the floor of the club. Shame burned on his cheeks as his gaze slid away again and his shoulders incrementally rose back towards his ears.
Rozanov’s smile grew like a cat that got the cream as he took a step back, wholly satisfied by Shane’s fucked up brain still waiting at his beck and call. He didn’t have to say anything. But of course he couldn’t leave it alone.
“See you at practice tomorrow,” Rozanov smirks before turning and sauntering away.