Chapter Text
The first time Shane Hollander discovered his designation, it had been right before the World Junior Hockey Championships. He had a girlfriend at the time, one who was already out as a sub, and she had politely asked Shane if she could kneel in front of him for a little bit. It was normal--subs needed subspace, or to slip into a submissive space, the same way they needed breathing.
Shane’s throat had closed with something uncomfortably close to nausea, but he blamed it on nerves from the upcoming championship. Agreeing made his tongue heavy. He had watched her kneel, then had gotten up five minutes in, a cloudy sort of fog billowing into his brain while watching her. He convinced himself it was because he was finally presenting as a Dom, a Switch at worst, that it was the feeling of connecting with his other half for the first time. He imagined himself grabbing her hair and giving orders the way a Dom would. He imagined his own collar around her throat.
That night, he threw up twice, took a cold shower, and sat down with his parents.
“I think I’m a sub,” Shane shifted nervously in his seat, blurting out the words. His hair was a mess, and his parents paused their evening chatter to take in the news. Shane had good parents; it had gone over nicely, albeit awkwardly, all except the fact that it now had to be marked down on his records.
He knew the league had blanket provisions for designations, but hockey was a Dom sport. Doms were aggressive. Doms were arrogant. Doms dominated in the same way they breathed, the same way the sky was blue, the same way subs submitted: naturally. The only “acceptable” position for subs was in the goal. Goalies deflected, protected, were given head pats at the end of every game. Nobody checked goalies. It was a safe position--or, at least, as safe as integrating into a “Dom’s game” could be.
Shane Hollander wasn’t a goalie, and he wouldn’t lose his favorite sport, his lifeline, over his designation. Accepting the fact that he was a sub was the easy part, something that he wrangled with until it settled neatly in his box of things about himself that he deemed uncomfortably manageable. He broke up with his girlfriend out of convenience. He filed a release form with the league to keep his designation private. He knelt on the floor, alone in his room, and let his mind drift off if only to keep the nausea away.
He would get through it. He always did.
──── ⋅ ────
The first time Ilya Rozanov discovered his designation, his coach’s son had been sucking him off under his practice rink’s bleachers. He had his head tipped back, exhaling heavily, and with that exhale came a sudden, involuntarily sharpening of his senses. Everything around him went heavy with intensity, and his words came out rougher, his movements startlingly direct.
He had kept Sasha there a little longer just to watch him kneel, long after his cum had dried on the other boy’s face. His breaths were shallow puffs, and every time his focus drifted off, it was immediately brought back by the sheer fact that there was another person kneeling in front of him. It felt good; it felt better than good. It felt euphoric.
No one around him had seemed relatively surprised. If anything, Domming was expected of him. Seeing the cocky and arrogant Ilya Rozanov kneeling at the dinner table with a collar around his throat, silent and blank, would have caused disgrace to his family, natural or not.
When he had filled out the extra form that his junior league had started adding into paperwork around the time most people started presenting, Ilya had checked off the ‘DOM’ designation box with a short flick of his wrist. His father had seen. His father didn’t say anything except a small, short nod. It wasn’t approval, it was expectation, and Ilya accepted it the same way he accepted that he was attracted to men, with no shame and all intensity.
Ilya Rozanov was determined to be the best. He wasn’t just determined, he knew. Doming, he decided, would be easy work.
──── ⋅ ────
Draft night had been a wreck. Shane had been a wreck. He had been messy and uncoordinated, standing on the edges of the group of young draft picks. He had barely spoken to anyone, that foggy, half-hazed headspace fraying the edges of his mind.
Standing next to Ilya Rozanov had been hell. Everything about him screamed Dom, screamed effortless, and Shane had grown more than a little obsessed. And hateful, because fuck that guy. Every time the media forced the two together, Shane felt dizzy, and today, Shane had been forced around Ilya for hours. He convinced himself it was bitter hate. The state of Shane had caused his own mother to pull him aside before they split apart to their respective hotel rooms.
“Shane, honey, I’m worried,” She murmured quietly, searching his expression. She knew that Shane kept his designation to himself, that no one else in the league knew and that was how he’d like to keep it, so she rarely prodded on his health. Tonight, though, Shane was especially unmoored. His mother’s delicate, silver sub collar seemed to flash at him insultingly. His stomach turned.
“I’m fine. Just--a lot,” Shane shrugged her off, already stripping off his suit jacket and tugging out his keycard to his private room. He knew he was less than okay, but slipping in a distracted headspace without anyone to guide him was Sub Don’ts 101. He'd just have to deal with it.
Shane’s hotel room was sparse, the exact type of impersonal minimalism he despised. He waited until he heard his mother had left into the room straight across from him before he exhaled heavily, slumping back against the doorframe. Familiar nausea turned in his gut, and he had barely gotten his tie off before he was retching into the toilet.
Panting, he slumped back against the cold tile, a sudden surge of hatred swelling up alongside the bile. Everyone else had it so easy, so simple. Half of his graduating class had already learned the basics of scene before Shane had even kissed another person. The league’s paperwork mocked him with every turn, but he knew it was better this way. He knew how Doms acted; he had been in enough locker rooms to know that the casual dehumanization of subs would be replaced with his name if it got out.
Of course, there were other out subs in Major League Hockey, the MHL. Eric, a New York Admirals goalie, had been out for quite a few years--but Shane knew how that man was treated. Besides, he was a goalie, the one place subs were allowed. Shane heard enough slurs thrown onto the ice to recognize when he was in an unsafe environment. It was better to stay with a release form as his armor, even if that did mean…
Well. Shane stared at the bile in the toilet before flushing it down, wiping his face with a cold cloth. He knew there was nothing wrong with being a sub, that it happened naturally, but he hated the idea of kneeling in front of someone, no matter how much the idea of having someone’s hand in his hair appealed. Too many factors that he wouldn’t be able to control were thrown into play when Shane dropped into subspace--not that he had actually done that before, but it was the idea of losing control that terrified him.
Shane pulled himself from the bathroom, tossing on shorts and an athletic shirt, grabbing his phone and heading down the elevator. Exercise always helped clear away the fog in his head, even on the especially bad days. Sure, he got sicker the more time he spent ignoring his needs, but he’d make it up in little ways, like making his parents dinner, or kneeling until his knees bled.
Shuddering at the idea of someone walking into him like that, he threw himself on the treadmill. He barely heard the door open behind him, too focused on clearing the fraying edges of his mind, staring into the empty night out the window.
Someone got onto the treadmill beside him, and he glanced to the side, noticing a familiar curly mop of blond hair. He swallowed down an antagonized groan, his stomach giving a violent lurch. Ilya Rozanov. The man he had been purposefully avoiding all day because of how astronomically difficult his control over his designation became in the sheer presence of the other man.
Everything just got ten times harder. Shane let out a frustrated sigh, trying to ignore him, trying more to ignore himself.
The treadmill became a competition, and Shane knew he was going to lose when his mind decided to summon the illicit fantasy of him dropping to his knees right there in the gym, right in front of Ilya Rozanov and God and Everyone. He stumbled off, slamming the emergency stop button before dry heaving into a trash can in the corner.
Beautiful. Losing, receiving second place, and throwing up in front of the very man he lost to. Shane’s night just kept getting better.
“Is ok?” Ilya’s voice sounded behind him, and Shane pulled himself up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He nodded jerkily, avoiding the other man’s eyes. A sub move, he realized too late, meeting Ilya’s expression head on instead. The other man had a quizzical expression on his face, and he studied Shane for a moment before extending his water bottle. “Here. You need.”
It took Shane a moment to process the broken Russian in his disoriented state, but he shook his head mutely, sitting down on the edge of an exercise mat. Ilya took a seat across from him, spraying a stream of water into his mouth before extending it yet again. Before Shane could protest, the other man grabbed Shane’s hand, pressing his knuckles down, forcing Shane’s fingers to wrap around the bottle. He pushed it back firmly.
Shane’s mouth went dry. His entire head went foggy, relief flooding his system so strongly that he almost let out an embarrassing noise. He stared at the water bottle for a good minute before glancing back up, then spraying a stream into his mouth. The water soothed his dry throat, but it did nothing for the fog slowly creeping into his space.
For once, Shane Hollander did not want to fight it, and that was a very dangerous sentiment.
“Thanks,” Shane croaked out, clearing his throat and staring at the mat as he passed it back. He realized Ilya had been staring at him the entire time, and he frowned, a bit of clarity forcing his head up.
Ilya Rozanov was Russian, and where Shane was not one to judge, he knew how they treated people like him there. Subs forced into subspace at mealtimes, often leading into subdrop. Handfed. Collars that shocked. Doms raised on the crueler parts of Domspace. There were laws there, not very good ones, ones Shane was worried reflected on Ilya's character. Ilya could ruin his life if he put the pieces together, and Shane was wary until proven otherwise that it would not be done in a kind manner.
“You are sick,” Ilya said slowly, enunciating every word. He sprayed another stream of water into his mouth, and Shane couldn’t help but stare at the way his throat moved. He felt hypnotized, trapped in Ilya’s stare, and the other man put the bottle down. “Have you scene before, Shane Hollander?”
Shane’s expression crumpled before he could wrestle it back under control. He cleared his throat, his stomach cramping uncomfortably. “Have I what? Have--scened with someone? What do you mean?”
“You are sub,” Ilya spoke with the water bottle waving, his voice casual. He ignored Shane’s defensive posture, gesturing to the trash can. “Sub get sick when not scene. When no Dom to scene with,” Ilya trailed off, looking Shane up and down, lingering on his collarless throat before continuing. “Is…unhealthy.”
“I’m not—you can’t just say that,” Shane protested, feeling panic well up in his throat. If Rozanov had guessed it so easily, who was to say everyone else couldn’t? The rumors would spread, and Shane’s records would prove that they were not rumors, and a big, fat target would be sprayed across his back. He scrambled up, shaking his head, ignoring the lurch of nausea at the motion.
“Hollander,” Ilya’s hand caught his shoulder. He had stood up too, and Shane hated that he noticed the inches between them. He hated the fact that he was imagining much more the gap would be if he was on his knees with Ilya’s hand in his hair. Shane met Ilya’s expression, swallowing back bile. “I scene with you. Make you not sick. Da?”
Shane felt like his head was splitting open. He felt like crying, which was stupid, and he felt like throwing up, which was pathetic. He was so sick of throwing up. Kneeling alone on an empty cushion could only do so much. Domesticated acts of service in the house with his parents’ pitying eyes only helped so much. But Rozanov was dangerous. A Dom, yes, everyone knew, but a man as well, a man that was his rival. The layers were suffocating, but Shane couldn’t help the word that slipped out.
“Okay,” Shane panted it, his entire body leaning into the touch on his shoulder. It was steadying him so Shane didn’t have to steady himself, and every single aching part of Shane Hollander’s body lit up like an explosive fuse. “Yes. Fine. One time, just so I can—just so I’ll stop being sick.”
Ilya’s hand slid to Shane’s back, nodding, guiding him towards the exit of the gym. Shane followed without protest, his eyes briefly shutting when they reached the elevator. Panic made his heart race, blood rushing to his head. This was so stupid, but Shane was exhausted with trying to fight himself at every turn. All he wanted was relief.
When they had reached Ilya’s room--thankfully, not across from Shane’s parents--he nearly dropped to his knees in relief. But Ilya hadn’t asked him to, so Shane stood right where Ilya placed him, standing by the hotel bed, still sweaty from the treadmill, his cheeks flushed with anticipation.
“You have safeword, Hollander?” Ilya asked, glancing back as he stripped off his workout zip-up, draping it over the armchair. Shane’s throat squeezed up, his knuckles clenching. Was he supposed to know that beforehand? Sensing Shane’s hesitation, Ilya shrugged. “Pick word you not forget when deep.”
Shane swallowed, tongue coming out to wet his lips. “Uh…faceoff?”
If Ilya thought it was a bad, or ironically cliche, choice, he didn’t say so. He just nodded, moving around the armchair to the couch, gesturing for it. “Come here.”
Shane took a few steps around the bed, his legs feeling strangely weak and shaky. Ilya took a seat on the couch, his legs spread, his eyes dark as Shane stepped in front of him. They stood like that for a few seconds, enough time where Shane started overthinking again--what if Ilya had changed his mind--
“Kneel.”
Shane dropped.
Immediately, it was like a surge of dopamine hit his system. The panic fizzled to a dull alarm in the back of his mind, as if he had submerged himself under water. His eyes trained straight up at Ilya’s seated form, the other man gazing at him appraisingly, his lips pressed shut. Kneeling felt good, felt right. The nausea turned non-existent, all his muscles relaxing at once. A small sob of relief choked out of Shane’s throat, his eyes slipping shut.
He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, because as soon as Ilya started carding a hand through his hair, Shane stopped thinking. He let the fuzzy fog he had spent years fighting off engulf him. It was like he was floating through a cloud, every part of his body ignited with pleasure. The ache of his knees against hotel carpet was a welcome feeling. Every breath was a deep puff, sinking back, floating somewhere safe and perfect and good.
“Hollander. Open your eyes.”
Shane opened them slowly, expecting the fog to dissipate. It didn’t. His mind felt blissfully empty, quiet except for whatever Ilya decided to say next.
“You feel good?”
Shane nodded. Yes, he felt amazing.
“Good.”
God, Shane’s entire system lit up. He thought he might have whimpered, but he wasn’t hearing himself right now. Distantly, he felt a warm pressure in his shorts, something he dazedly saw Ilya focus his gaze on, a small smirk on the other man’s expression.
“What…pleases you?” Ilya cupped Shane’s jaw, tasting the English on his tongue. He frowned for a moment, rethinking his words. “What…do you want to do?”
The choice sent something dark and unwelcome through Shane’s head, and he swayed slightly on his knees, biting the inside of his lip. Ilya’s thumb was there to correct the motion, his thumb poking it out with firm discipline. Shane didn’t like making choices, didn’t like thinking, and he got visibly uncomfortable as the moment dragged on.
“You want to suck my cock, Hollander?” Ilya finally amended, giving Shane a simpler option.
“Yes.” Shane’s voice was a million miles away.
“You want it down your throat?”
“Yes.”
“Mm. You want me to tell how good you look while you suck it?” Ilya’s voice was raspier now, and Shane leaned into the words, letting Ilya guide his chin to his hardening bulge. Shane didn’t answer, his cheeks coloring, the mere idea of praise settling hot and heavy in his groin.
Ilya’s hand dragged up Shane’s throat and to his hair as Shane moved to drag down Ilya’s shorts, already mouthing at the damp patch on his boxers. His inexperience didn’t register--he wanted Ilya to feel good, for Ilya to tell him that Shane was good, to do everything correctly like a good sub. He settled back on his haunches, licking, panting, Ilya’s grip tightening in his hair.
“Go, take it out,” Ilya thrusted his hips minutely, letting Shane do the work of pulling his boxers off. Shane leaned back a breath, his gaze dragging over Ilya’s half-hard cock to his expression. It was big. So fucking big. How was he supposed to fit that all into his mouth? “Hollander.” Ilya’s voice made Shane shudder, his lips parting slightly.
Shane stopped thinking. He settled both hands on Ilya’s thighs, strong from the years of hockey, flexing under his grip. His tongue came out to lap over Ilya’s slit, tasting the salt of pre-cum against his tongue, moaning softly at the taste. The noise apparently did something to Ilya, or maybe it was Shane taking his tip into his mouth, but Ilya’s cock started to harden, veins pulsing.
“Good boy,” Ilya’s voice was deeper now, or maybe Shane had dropped too far. Shane’s entire figure shuddered, his cock now painfully hard in his shorts. When he slid a hand off of Rozanov’s thigh to palm at himself, Ilya was there to grab it. He pulled his cock out of Shane’s mouth, making the sub concentrate on him. “I put your hand here,” He pressed Shane’s hand down onto his thigh. “You not move it. Da?”
Shane nodded, panting still, his gaze dragging up to Ilya’s. The way the Dom phrased things made Shane feel like he wasn’t being chided, just corrected. Ilya was showing him exactly how to please, how to be good, and Shane appreciated that. Besides, now he had something to focus on–-Ilya had given him a job: to stay still. Shane wouldn’t move, not an inch.
He took Ilya’s tip back into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks to take him deeper, his throat not yet all the way relaxed. He couldn’t take Ilya all the way, but he tried, pushing back as far as he could, drool and pre-cum mixing together as he sucked. He was sure that his inexperience was clear, but Ilya didn’t complain.
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Every word, every breathy groan from Ilya sent another pulse straight to Shane’s own cock, but his mind fixated hard on the fact that he wasn’t supposed to move. The sheer fact that Ilya was pleased with Shane’s behavior sent even more arousal down, and Shane was sure that his dick was purple by now. He continued to suck, whimpering around Ilya’s cock, feeling the veins pulse around his tongue. He sucked hard, wishing he could move his hands to cup Ilya’s balls, to roll them around in his hands. Maybe nuzzle up into them, have Ilya drag them across his throat so the scent would stick. Maybe Ilya would spit into his hand, slick up his cock, and make Shane suck it off.
Shane was sure that one singular touch to his shorts would send him over. Maybe even just a look there. Every suck to Ilya felt like a pull to himself, and the pressure of his shorts had him whining louder. The vibrations went up straight to Ilya, who gripped Shane’s hair in response, letting out a long string of Russian curses.
That was all the warning Shane got before Ilya was coming down his throat, tugging Shane’s hair instead of pushing him down, making sure Shane wasn’t choking. It took restraint, and Ilya’s veins were popping out as soon as Shane could pull back enough to see.
The cum was salty, but he swallowed on instinct. It was like he could feel it filling him, settling low and heavy in his stomach, something foreign and dangerous that Shane couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to taste. Blearily, he pulled back all the way, slumping on his knees. His hands still lay still on Ilya’s thighs, because Ilya hadn’t said to remove them, and Ilya was a Dom, and Ilya was right.
“So fucking–” Ilya switched back to English before cutting off, his head thrown back on the couch, swallowing down a low noise. He let Shane sit still for a long moment before staring back down, his cock softening against his thigh. “You were good. Such good. Perfect. Could not have asked for better sub.”
While he was speaking, his hand ran through Shane’s hair, mimicking petting motions. Shane’s cock throbbed, and he laid his head on Ilya’s thigh, a bit of cum and drool dragging on his lip. Ilya immediately wiped it off, bringing it to his own mouth to suck it off.
“Mmh,” Ilya’s eyes locked onto Shane’s lap, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his expression. He patted his legs, moving Shane’s hands off. “Come sit. Need pretty boy to finish, yes?”
“Please,” Shane gasped. He was aware of his own arousal, but when Ilya pointed it out, it was like every single nerve ending in his body focused on how hard he was. He rocked on his knees, dragging himself up, nearly falling straight into Ilya’s lap. His legs felt shaky, his thighs trembling.
As soon as Ilya’s hands palmed over Shane’s bulge, he slumped forwards, moaning into Ilya’s neck. He decided that place, the crook, right where he could hide his face, was the perfect spot. He inhaled deeply, the scent of expensive cologne and bergamot musk flooding his nose.
“Please, Rozanov,” His head felt like it was spinning. He’d never been so hard and desperate in his life. “Please. Fuck me, use me, God, just get me off–”
“Shh.” Rozanov mouthed at Shane’s ear as he slipped his hand past Shane’s waistband, using the precum that had leaked there as lube, slicking up the length.
The high noise Shane made was embarrassing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He rocked into Ilya’s hand, moaning Ilya’s name, begging him to finish him, begging for a lot of things he would’ve previously rather died than said aloud. He felt Ilya cup his balls in his hand, and then he was coming faster than he'd meant to, biting down involuntarily into Ilya’s neck. He dug in and stayed, shooting ropes of cum between where they were pressed together, pleasure exploding.
Shane thought he might’ve whited out, the pleasure was so good. Distantly, he thought Rozanov was saying something, but he couldn’t register the words. He slumped over the taller man, his jaw going slack, panting hard.
“...like puppy.”
Shane picked up on that part, but everything else was fuzzy. His now-soft length twitched weakly at the nickname, but he didn’t focus too hard on it, floating far, far away from responsibility, from coherency. He came back to himself in stages. He felt Ilya wiping him down with a warm cloth that smelled of strawberries, felt him drag soft nails through his hair. At one moment, Shane remembered praise for drinking water, but not the actual water itself. It felt like they were laying on a bed, but Shane couldn’t quite tell, too foggy and warm. His eyes slipped shut for a moment.
“Hollander,” Ilya’s voice reached him after a long, long time. Shane blinked, sitting up groggily, expecting to feel the regular wave of nausea he always got when waking up. Instead, he was met with a clear head and Ilya Rozanov’s face.
“Hm.” He grunted.
“You are back?” Ilya’s words were tentative, watching Shane with a heavy intensity, one that made Shane bite his tongue and stare at the wall. He didn’t do well with eye contact, especially not remembering everything they had done. He nodded. “I order service. You eat.”
Shane shook his head, already moving to get up and grab his clothes, but Ilya stopped him with another hand on his arm. Shane felt an unwelcome burst of fire in his stomach at the feeling. “No, Rozanov. I have to go before anyone finds me here.”
Ilya frowned, looking extremely disgruntled at Shane’s flustered movements. Shane grabbed his shorts, searching around for his shirt. He grabbed what he thought was his shirt from a pile at the edge of the bed, hesitating before stepping back.
“You eat–”
“I’ll eat when I get back,” Shane waved his hand distractedly, which was immediately caught by Ilya. Shane was brought forward just a single step, Ilya still startlingly in control of his own strength. Momentarily, Shane remembered how he’d restrained from shoving his head all the way down onto his cock and faltered. Ilya used the momentum to speak.
“You will eat. You will text–” He shoved a crumpled napkin with a phone number into his hand. “--and you sleep. Your head feel… float, you text.”
Shane swallowed, noticing the timbre of Ilya’s voice. Dom voice. He hadn’t picked up on it during the scene, but he did now, and he didn’t know how to feel about it. Ilya probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Regardless, after a moment, Shane nodded wordlessly, tugging his hand back and walking to the edge of the room.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
Shane left with a clear, but heavily confused, mind, a napkin in his pocket, and a strange urge to follow orders.