Archive of Our Own

Berlin, Germany

His puppy is so beautiful.

He gets all flustered and squirmy whenever Shane tells him that, but it’s true. Ilya is handsome but also beautiful and oftentimes pretty, with his long lashes and soft curls that wind around his ears and down the back of his neck. He’s handsome when he’s in his post-game suit, tie knotted around his neck and broad shoulders filling out the scratchy fabric. 

He’s especially beautiful like this, sitting so, so patiently for his sir on the hotel bed. Shane had told him to sit down—to wait—while he finished shaving in the bathroom. Ilya’s eyes are wide as he watches Shane through the door, becoming more restless by the second. It’s like when you tell a dog to sit, holding a treat right by its nose, and the longer you wait, the more the dog squirms. Restless, knowing that the reward is coming as long as he’s good for a little while longer. 

“Mr. Hollander?” comes Ilya’s voice from the bedroom. 

“Yes, Ilya?” Shane calls out, tapping his razor against the rim of the sink.

“What time do we have to leave?” He asks. The thing is, Ilya knows the answer. Shane has explained to him multiple times that they need to be out of the hotel at 11:30 to catch the U5 to get to the club. Ilya is well aware of this fact, but Shane knows he asks stupid questions just to hear him talk. Shane can indulge him a little bit, he supposes. Tonight is supposed to be fun, so he has little interest in truly punishing his puppy. 

“We need to leave by eleven thirty, Ilya. I thought I told you this.” Shane watches the shaving cream slide off his razor and swirl down the drain. While he waits for a response, he leans closer to the mirror and drags the blade around the curve of his lip.  

“M’sorry, sir. I wanted to check again.” Ilya pauses. “Just in case.”

Shane rinses away the excess shaving cream off his face, his skin smooth under his fingers. 

“In case what?” Shane is egging him on now. He can’t really help himself, not when Ilya makes it so easy. 

“In case you, um, changed your mind.”

Aw, how sweet. Ilya is always so considerate. Shane is by no means a partier, but he’s had this night planned ever since Ilya had asked, bashfully, if they could maybe take a trip to Berlin. He would have to be doubled over with a mysterious illness to even think about cancelling at the last minute. 

“I won’t change my mind. Just sit there and be patient, okay?”

He receives a muffled yessir in response. Shane continues his routine; he rubs his aftershave lotion–the scent that pairs with his cologne–into his cheeks and neck, then spritzes his cologne on his neck and wrists. He knows the effect his scent has on Ilya–he’ll sniff the air like a dog whenever Shane walks by after freshening up. He smiles to himself as he slips his shirt over his head: just a tight black tee, but the neckline is low enough to show the glint of the silver chain around his neck. Next comes the watch, a simple Tissot with a silver bracelet. 

Shane steps out of the bathroom. Ilya is in the same place he left him, restlessly pulling at the hem of his briefs. His wide eyes drag from Shane’s face down his torso, back up again, and then one more time down to his crotch. He gapes like a fish, clearly trying to search for something to say. 

“Mr. Hollander, you look so good,” He croaks, voice cracking at the end. Shane watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“Thank you, Ilya,” Shane responds, feeling pleased with himself. He steps forward, forcing himself between Ilya’s knees. Ilya spreads his legs willingly, letting Shane slot himself against him and the edge of the bed. He cups Ilya’s face in his hands. His pretty blue eyes shine with anticipation, eagerly awaiting whatever Mr. Hollander wants to give him.

“My sweet puppy,” Shane coos. Ilya melts in his grip, his lids growing heavy at the sudden praise. “Waiting so patiently for me. Saying things to make me blush.”

Shane tilts his head down while tipping Ilya’s up so he can capture his lips in a kiss. He keeps it chaste, even though Ilya tries to slip his tongue inside. Shane can’t rile him up yet–they have a long night ahead of them. Or, he could give Ilya a quick orgasm to stave off his neediness…the thought is tempting, but making him wait is even more tempting.

“I have a gift for you.” 

Ilya gives him a confused look. Shane gives him a kiss on the forehead before turning to his suitcase. Nestled underneath his pants is a non-descript, silk drawstring bag. Ilya watches him intently as he opens the bag, gently pulling out the garment inside. 

“Oh,” Ilya breathes as it's revealed. In his hands, Shane holds a harness; it’s made of real leather, stained a navy blue, with gold hardware that matches the material of Ilya’s necklace. It’s sturdy, but still lightweight enough that it won’t irritate his skin. 

“It’s very nice, isn’t it?” Shane rubs his thumb over one of the straps, relishing in the softness of the leather. 

“Mr. Hollander, oh, thank you.” Ilya is nearly vibrating with excitement. Shane has seen videos of dogs balancing a treat on their muzzle, waiting patiently until their owner says release to eat it. This is Ilya’s balancing act; his treat is so close, but yet he waits for Shane to give him his command. 

“You’re welcome, puppy. Let me help you put it on.”

Ilya waits patiently as Shane instructs him how to put the harness on. He wiggles his head into it, like putting on a t-shirt, and Shane helps adjust the shoulder straps, asking if it’s too tight or too loose around his armpits. 

“Move your arms around, Ilya. Tell me if anything chafes,” Shane orders, stepping back to watch as Ilya rotates his shoulders in circles. 

“It is comfortable, sir.” 

Ilya looks beautiful. The leather straps frame his pecs, making them appear bigger than usual. The dark blue contrasts with his pale skin, and the gold of the rings glint under the light the same way his necklace does. 

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane whispers tenderly. He smooths his hands down the younger man’s flank, feeling the hard muscle underneath. 

“Does it—do I look good, Mr. Hollander?” His eyes are pleading. 

“Come look.”

Shane takes Ilya’s hand and guides him to the full length mirror by the door. He sees Ilya mouth wow as he studies the harness, staring at the way the leather crosses over his chest and under his arms. Shane stands behind him and rests his hands on the sharp lines of Ilya’s hips. He glances down, eyeing the outline of Ilya’s erection in his briefs. 

“Puppy,” Shane scolds, making a soft tsk sound. 

“You know I cannot help it, sir. Your hands, and—oh, you smell really good.” Ilya leans back and twists his head so he can nose at Shane’s neck. Right where he put his cologne. 

“I can’t help you with that.” Shane doesn’t even finish his sentence before Ilya releases a pitiful whine. “We’ll be late. Calm yourself down and get dressed. I put your clothes on the chair.” 

Pouting, Ilya pulls away from him, following his directions. Shane goes to check his phone, just to give himself something to do other than watch Ilya get dressed. He opens his Google Maps, triple checking the timing of the train, then plugs it into the charger just in case. 

“Mr. Hollander? Should I leave it open like this?” 

Shane looks up; Ilya has left most of the buttons of his silk shirt open, revealing the leather harness underneath. It’s tantalizing, arresting, the way that the fabric just barely conceals his nipples from Shane’s gaze. He’s sure his face reveals everything he’s feeling. How badly he wants Ilya, how much he wants to abandon their plans and ravage him right now. 

“Yes,” Shane rasps. “It looks very nice like that.”  The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches in a self-satisfied smirk. This boy. 

“Put your pants on. We’re leaving soon.” Shane tries to hide the waver in his voice; it’s going to be fine. No one here knows or cares about what some NHL stars are doing in their free time. The whole point of these clubs is to offer a private, judgement-free zone where people can get high and dance and fuck. Everyone who enters gets both phone cameras—front and back—taped over. Shane has absolutely nothing to worry about, but there’s still the nagging thought that this is the night they’re found out.

“Thank you for taking me on this trip, sir,” Ilya says as he slips on his shoes. “I’m, uh—“ he smiles brightly. “I am excited. To go out with you.” 

All of Shane’s worries wash away. He knows they still need to be careful, but Ilya’s earnestness eases the pounding of his heart. His puppy, always wanting. 

“Of course,” Shane says softly. He slips his phone and wallet into his pocket, checking his watch. 11:15. “Let’s go.” Shane swats Ilya on the ass as he heads to the door. 

Obediently at his heels, Ilya follows.

***

Shane has never been anywhere quite like this. 

He’s been to Berlin once before, for one of his teammate’s bachelor parties. Okay, bachelor trip is really the word he should use. They’d gone clubbing, but wherever they went must have been meant for tourists. Because the club he brings Ilya to is like entering another dimension.

The building, an old East German warehouse, thrums with music. Shane can feel the steady beat of the bass through the cinderblock floors. The dark hallways twist and turn, and Shane thinks they’re on their third set of stairs when the music starts to grow louder, and the cramped hallway gives way to the bar and the entrance to the dancefloor. 

“You want a drink?” Shane has to lean in close to Ilya to be heard over the music, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. He knows the answer. He needs a drink before he tries to dance.

“Yessir,” Ilya replies, tensing when Shane rests his hand on his lower back. 

Shane makes Ilya order their drinks. He likes watching Ilya perform for strangers, charming them with his easy smile and good looks. None of them know, Shane thinks. None of them know how he behaves for me. 

He takes a moment to glance around the room. The clientele here is not really what he was expecting. There’s people in obvious kink gear—lots of leather, like the pieces he’s purchased for Ilya. Some of them wear little to no clothing, others are swamped in avant-grade fabrics. It’s all very openly queer, he thinks. He feels out of place; he can command most of the rooms he’s in, but here he feels lost. 

Shane focuses his attention on Ilya instead; the younger man has to push his way through a crowd of people to reach the bar top. Shane watches him from afar as he leans forward, the hem of his top dipping open, giving the bartender that sweet smile of his. He says something, probably a joke about not speaking German, and she laughs. He holds up two fingers, mouthing the number. Because yes, that’s what they are here–a pair. Shane isn’t waiting until he’s done to go and get his own. Two drinks. One for Shane, one for Ilya. 

Ilya is giddy, chewing on his lip as he approaches Shane. He’s got two shot glasses in his hands and two beer bottles precariously tucked under his arm. Shane is struck by the reminder of the harness—he had nearly forgotten about it, too focused on familiarizing himself with the space he’s in. But he can see it clearly now, can spot the thick leather on the bare skin of Ilya’s chest. Shane’s dick throbs against his zipper. 

“Already pushing your luck?” Ilya sets the bottles down on the oil drum-turned-table next to Shane. 

“It is special night, sir!” Ilya shouts, handing Shane one of the shot glasses. Shane takes it, because who is he to deny his boy? “Do a shot with me, Mr. Hollander.”

Ilya clinks their glasses together before throwing his head back and downing the liquor. Shane follows, the vodka burning his throat as it goes down. He needs it, he reminds himself. Ilya reaches out and grazes his fingers over the curve of Shane’s hip. His face has gone from teasing to tender; it’s his I want to kiss you but I can’t look. 

“And then I got you a beer. With lemonade.” Ilya nudges the bottle towards him. Shane grabs it with gratitude, taking a sip to try and get rid of the lingering vodka taste. Ilya watches him like a hawk, openly staring at the way Shane’s lips wrap around the lip of the bottle, the condensation rolling off the glass and onto his fingers. Ilya is always watching him. Watching and waiting for his next move, if he’ll order Ilya to sit or speak or maybe roll over. He likes how Ilya clings onto his every word, his eyes wide and sparkling. 

Shane makes Ilya wait while they both finish their beers. He’s clearly wanting to go dance, looking between Shane and the dark corner that leads to the dance floor. He forces Ilya to make idle small talk, asking him questions he doesn’t really care to know the answer to. He mostly wants to make Ilya be patient for a little while longer, so he knows that tonight is on Shane’s terms, not his. 

“Go get me another one, Ilya,” he orders once he’s drained his bottle. His puppy’s face wavers, almost crumbling in disappointment. Shane can’t help his lips quirking up in a cruel smirk; he knows how badly Ilya wants to dance with him. He wants to dance with Ilya too, desperately, but he can’t know that. 

“But—“

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. I told you to go get us another round,” Shane says smoothly. For a moment, it seems as if Ilya is going to bite back; his lips purse in frustrated determination, like he’s preparing a bratty remark. He keeps it inside though, and slinks off to the bar again. 

Ilya’s fidgeting when he returns with their beers. Shane takes his, but doesn’t drink from it just yet. Ilya is pulling at the label of his own bottle, thumbing the peeling corner as his gaze flits around the room.

“Ilya,” Shane hums. Ilya stares at him with wide eyes. “You clearly want something. Be a good boy and ask me.” 

The tip of his tongue peeks out between his pretty pink lips, wetting the flesh. 

“Mr. Hollander, can we go dance? Please?” 

Shane sucks on his tongue, pretending to consider the request. He imagines Ilya’s hard body pressed against him, grinding to the beat of the music, big hands wandering across Shane’s chest. He wonders if he’ll get a glimpse of the storied partyboy Ilya Rozanov and his prowess for picking up girls during nights out. He won’t actually be doing any of that, of course, as long as he’s within eyesight of Shane.

“Thank you for asking. Fine,” Shane sighs. “Bring your drink.” Ilya’s face lights up and his shoulders slump, releasing the tension he was holding.  

Anchoring them together, Ilya slips a finger through one of Shane’s belt loops and pulls him close as they head to the main room of the club. Shane has to stifle a cough when he’s met with a thick wall of fog, seeping out of an unseen machine. The room is packed, filled with hot, sweaty bodies. He can barely see two feet in front of him; the only light source is the pulsing strobe that cuts through the smoke. The music is even louder here, and he thinks he can see the DJ behind a set of metal bars, but it’s hard to focus when the bass makes his teeth rattle. Searching for a comfortable spot, Ilya drags him along as they push through the crowd.

“Mr. Hollander,” Ilya purrs in Shane’s ear after spinning him around, pressing his half-hard bulge against the crease of Shane’s ass. His free hand wraps around to rest on Shane’s hip, the beer bottle hanging lazily in his grip. “Dance with me.”

He’s being bold–Ilya is eager to please in private, getting all teary eyed and pouty when Shane teases him. But it seems like being in public, being around other people, gives Ilya the confidence to push Shane’s buttons. 

The tip of Ilya’s nose bumps against the skin behind Shane’s ear. He sways back and forth, not in time with the beat at all, slipping his thumb underneath the hem of Shane’s shirt and resting it against his warm skin. Shane is vividly reminded of all those months ago, when Ilya admitted that all he wanted to do was touch him, to feel Shane’s body against his. His sweet puppy, craving proximity over anything else. 

Shane takes a sip of his drink. “This doesn’t seem like dancing to me.”

“You have never been clubbing before, sir?” Ilya’s lips graze his neck. “Dancing is loose term.”

Shane lets Ilya have his fun for a little while. He doesn’t scold him when he grinds his erection against the meat of Shane’s backside, doesn’t snap at him when he swipes his tongue over a bead of sweat that runs down the back of Shane’s neck.

What he does make Ilya do, however, is go between the dance floor and the bar to get more alcohol. A sick, twisted part of him wants to keep feeding Ilya drinks, forcing him to get all sweet and silly. It’s wrong, really; he should make sure Ilya is of sound mind while they're out in a foreign city. 

But Ilya is his puppy, and he can do what he wants with him. 

“S’good, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya slurs after doing another shot Shane has bought him. “Fruity.” His curls are messy, slick with sweat, and his cheeks are flushed a bright red. 

“Do you want to dance some more?” Shane asks softly, checking in. Ilya just giggles. 

“Yessir,” He purrs, then his face drops into something more serious. “Unless you do not want to.”

“I’m always happy to dance with you, puppy.”

Ilya beams and drags Shane back around the corner.

This time, Shane faces Ilya; he drapes his arms over the younger man’s shoulders like he’s seen the WAGs do countless times to his teammates. With enough liquor, Ilya somehow gets even more handsy than before. He shoves his hands underneath Shane’s shirt, groping at the muscles of his broad back. He’s still hard, erection pressing against Shane’s, riled up from the night filled with touches. Now, Shane can be the one to lean in close, pressing his lips to the shell of Ilya’s ear. 

“My boy,” he breathes. Ilya releases a shuddering breath. “All you want to do is touch me, hm?”

Ilya groans, hips stuttering once, then twice. 

“Yes. You are so handsome, Mr. Hollander. I just want to feel you.” His fingers flit over the dimples on Shane’s lower back. He’s already warm, but the admission makes Shane burn hotter. 

“Touching and humping, that’s all you’re good for.” Shane tugs at the curls on the crown of Ilya’s head. “You’ve been rubbing up against me all night, puppy. In public.” 

“M’sorry,” Ilya whines, breathing heavily. “I could not help myself.” 

“Clearly,” Shane hums. He turns his hips so his thigh is angled in between Ilya’s legs. The younger man gasps, the sound overtaken by the blasting music. Shane wishes he could have heard it. 

“Naughty,” He purrs into Ilya’s ear. His cock drags down against the hard length of Shane’s thigh; if anyone glances over, it’ll just look like they’re dancing. 

“Oh—“

“Should I punish you when we get back to the hotel?” 

“No,” Ilya whimpers. His eyes—pupils blown wide—flick around the room nervously. “No, please, I’ll be good.”

“Maybe I’ll make you watch while I fuck myself on my fingers.” Shane cannot believe the words that are coming out of his mouth while he’s surrounded by people. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the anonymity, or maybe it’s just Ilya.

“No, please—“

“Or I could lock your pathetic dick up. I brought the cage with me. Or maybe I can find a nice, young gentleman here who will give me what I want. You’d have to stay out of the room, though. No dogs on the bed.”  

“Sir!” A fat, wet tear rolls down Ilya’s cheek. Poor puppy. “I’m sorry, please don’t, I promise I’ll behave.”

“Alright.” Shane chews on the word, as if he’s not equally as hard in his pants. “Let’s get out of here, then.” 

***

“Mr Hollander.” 

Shane glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirked upward. Ilya is on the hotel bed, completely nude except for the leather harness across his chest. His thick cock strains against his stomach, flushed red and weeping. His hands are clenched at his sides, avoiding any contact with his own skin.

He looks pretty. Handsome. Beautiful. 

“What?” Shane asks, trying to sound impartial. 

“You–” Ilya’s voice cracks. He swallows thickly, throat convulsing around the words he’s searching for. “You are very handsome.”

Shane glances down at himself. He’s shed his sweaty, gross clothes from the club, leaving him only in his boxers. 

“Thank you, Ilya. You are being good for me.” Ilya glances to the side, bashful from the praise. Shane is overcome with the sudden need to kiss him, to press his body against Ilya’s and kiss his sweet boy silly. 

He crawls onto the bed, slinking over Ilya, and crashes his lips against his. Ilya moans, the sound garbled against Shane’s mouth, as he desperately grabs onto Shane’s shoulders. Shane can feel the heat of Ilya’s bare cock against his stomach, the flesh sliding up as Ilya tries to rut his hips forward. 

“Puppy,” Shane breathes with a smile once he pulls away. “Feeling a little sweet?”

Ilya whines, nuzzling into Shane’s hand where it cups his cheek. 

“Feeling a little…” he says something in Russian. “...drunk.” 

Shane can’t help but laugh, which makes Ilya snort too. 

“You kept buying me drinks!” 

“Which was very nice of me, wasn’t it?” 

“Mhm. Thank you, sir.” Ilya chases Shane’s lips again, but misses, smearing his mouth against Shane’s cheek. “Smell good.” 

Shane does not smell good. Neither of them do; their skin is soaked with sweat, both their own and from the bodies they were pressed against. For Ilya, that seems to add to the experience. He noses at Shane’s neck again. 

“I want…” Ilya’s breath puffs against his skin. His puppy, always wanting. He’s gotten comfortable enough in the time they’ve been together to use his words and just ask Shane for what he wants. Even if Shane won’t give it to him. 

“Yeah?” He presses when Ilya trails off, gaze dropping to Shane’s lips. 

“I want you to fuck my throat, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane curses under his breath and his dick throbs in his boxers. This boy is going to kill him one day, just with his words. With a simple request, paired with pouted pink lips and blue eyes shiny with tears. 

“Such naughty ideas, puppy,” he scolds, but he keeps his tone light. “You want me to fuck this pretty mouth?” Shane swipes his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip, which is shiny with spit. “Let you go all stupid?”

“Wan’to make you feel good, sir,” Ilya slurs around Shane’s thumb. 

“You always do.” Shane lets the digit slip out. “Lay on your stomach.”

Ilya scrambles to obey after Shane slides off the bed. He can hear his breath catch as his cock comes into contact with the soft white sheets. His delts flex as he rests on his forearms, tilting his chin upwards. Shane removes his boxers, folding them neatly and putting them to the side. 

“Oh,” Ilya exhales, staring at Shane’s bare cock. Every time, he looks at it like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. “So pretty, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane smoothes his hand over Ilya’s curls. The younger man’s tongue peeks out from between his lips, waiting patiently. Ilya never lies about wanting to make him feel good–he’s always eager to please, excited by any opportunity to get his mouth on Shane’s dick or hole. 

“My sweet Ilya.” Shane maneuvers his hips to teasingly bump the head of his cock against Ilya’s tongue. “If you can’t breathe, tap my thigh. Got it?”
“Yessir,” Ilya replies, his gaze never leaving Shane’s length. “I want to, um, taste you. Very badly.”

“How badly?” Shane asks, just to be difficult. 

“So much,” Ilya whispers. His bottom lip starts to quiver slightly, a tiny movement that gives away everything that the younger man is feeling. “I want–I need your cock, sir, have been thinking about it all night. About it in my mouth. I just–” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I want you to feel good.”

“Good boy.” Shane wraps one hand around the base of his cock, and Ilya seems to get the message, since he opens his mouth obediently. “You think you can take it all?”

“Uhuh,” Ilya garbles, trilling happily when Shane slides the first inch of his dick across his tongue.

Shane’s not small. He knows this, but he also knows that Ilya loves sucking cock, so he can handle it. Ilya relaxes his jaw, his eyelashes fluttering as he takes Shane deeper. His mouth is warm and wet and tight, and Shane is vividly aware of how turned on he actually is. Ilya attempts to pull back, trying to find a rhythm, but Shane keeps his grip on his hair firm. 

“No, puppy. You’re just a hole right now. Stay put.”

Ilya whines around Shane’s length, which sends a jolt of pleasure up his gut. He starts to move his hips slowly, thrusting shallowly as Ilya gets used to the intrusion. Shane knows the feeling intimately; he loves having Ilya’s cock in his mouth, loves the way his lips stretch to accommodate the length. He and Ilya are more similar than not, he thinks. 

“Ilya,” Shane coos, voice breaking off into a moan when Ilya’s nose presses against his pubic bone. His throat convulses as he swallows around Shane’s length, taking deep, heaving breaths through his nose. “That’s it. You’re doing so good.” 

Shane jerks his hips tentatively. When Ilya takes him with little resistance, he tries to set a steady pace. He lets his eyes flutter closed; as much as he’d love to watch his Ilya, he’s just a hole right now. Something warm and wet for Shane to fuck into. He thrusts in and out, groaning at the tight heat, curling his body over Ilya’s head and bracing his arms on his waist. The position forces his cock even deeper, and for a second he thinks Ilya’s going to tap out, but the younger man just stays put. 

“So good,” Shane moans. His puppy, willing to take a beating as long as he can make Shane feel good. “Oh Ilya, fuck, your mouth.” 

Belatedly, Shane thinks that he’s going to bruise his lower back. A vision of Ilya with blotted, purple bruises along his soft skin, in the shape of Shane’s hands, appears in his mind. Worn and spent, throat freshly fucked. Torn apart and put back together again by Mr. Hollander, his sir. 

Tap tap. Ilya hand weakly smacks against the side of Shane’s thigh. Shane is yanked from the vision, and he pulls out as fast as he can. Ilya turns his head to the side and coughs, a nasty wet sound, before sucking in a shuddering breath. 

“Breathe, baby.” The pet name slips out accidentally, rolling off of Shane’s tongue like its second nature. He cringes briefly before reaching down to rub at Ilya’s broad back; he’ll say anything if it shows Ilya that he never means to hurt him. Not again. 

“M’Hollanr,” Ilya tries to say, voice rough and scratchy. He can’t continue, because he’s racked with another shaky cough. 

“You okay?” Shane asks, his hand never once leaving Ilya’s skin. Ilya nods, panting. “Let’s take a breather. I’ll get you some water.” 

“No, am fine, keep going.” Ilya tries to grab Shane’s wrist, but he snatches his arm away.

“No, Ilya,” Shane says sternly, but softens when he sees the look on his face. “You were perfect. But I want you to take a second to calm down.”

Shane doesn’t let Ilya protest before he goes to fill up one of the hotel glasses with water. His sweet Ilya, happy to choke.

By the time Shane gets back, Ilya has rolled over onto his back, his cock still hard and leaking against his stomach. Ever complaint, he sits up as Shane approaches, dutifully taking the glass of water and taking a few sips. Shane watches him intently as he focuses his effort on hydrating. 

“Very good, Ilya,” Shane praises once he finishes, taking the glass from him and placing it on the nightstand. Ilya sits patiently, waiting for Shane’s next move, but he keeps glancing between Shane’s eyes and his lips. 

Shane tuts, climbing onto the bed and situating himself so he’s straddling Ilya. The younger man groans as Shane’s cock brushes against his own. Shane kisses him, because there’s not much else that he loves more in this world than feeling his puppy go soft and pliant underneath him. Ilya tries to kiss back sloppily, but he keeps breathing soft little moans into Shane’s parted lips. So Shane just takes the wheel, cupping the back of Ilya’s head and licking into his mouth until he’s satisfied. 

“You wanna fuck me, puppy?” Shane asks when he pulls away, breathless. Ilya’s mouth hangs open dumbly as he nods. He makes no movements, makes no attempt to help Shane get up. He just stares at Shane’s chest like a horny teenager.

Shane feigns annoyance and rolls his eyes, sliding off of Ilya’s lap so he can grab their bottle of lube. Still, Ilya doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at Shane, thoughtful eyes tracking his every movement. His lips stay parted in wonder, like a dumb dog. 

“Get up,” Shane snaps and Ilya scrambles. They swap places; Ilya, at the end of the bed, and Shane, sat on the center of the mattress. He makes a show of the moment before he decides to spread his legs. He rolls his head, stretching out his neck, then rubs at his shoulder, massaging a non-existent knot. Ilya stands and stares, wetting his lips instead of speaking. Shane sighs, parting his legs and planting his feet on the bed.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” He huffs as he coats two of his fingers in lube.

“Nooo, Mr. Hollander, I can help,” Ilya whines, suddenly knocked out of his trance, reaching out so he can grip onto the meat of Shane’s thigh. “Let me help you, please, I promise I will do a good job.” His heavy cock bobs between his legs as he shuffles closer to the edge of the bed. 

“I don’t know, Ilya,” Shane sighs, circling his hole with the tips of his wet fingers. “You say you can, but then you can’t focus on anything other than your own dick.” It’s a semi-truth; Ilya can open him up just fine, maybe a little on the rougher side, but he’s not that clumsy. 

“S’not fair,” Ilya whines, frustrated. His eyes are glued to Shane’s spread legs, stuck on the space between them. 

“That’s the thing, sweet boy. Life isn’t fair.” Shane grunts as he slips one finger inside himself. Ilya whimpers like a kicked puppy, his grip tightening around Shane’s thigh. He takes it upon himself to push his legs wider, forcing Shane to sink deeper onto the intrusion. 

Ilya stands pathetically still as Shane fucks himself open on his fingers. He watches in awe as his fingers pump in and out of his hole, twisting and stretching his rim. Shane’s not particularly interested in taking his time; as much he loves forcing Ilya to wait, to behave, he would really like his cock to fill him up, not his own measly fingers. He makes a soft noise–half sigh, half moan–when he lightly grazes his prostate. Ilya whines and his hips move in an aborted little thrust. 

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Shane huffs out, a vulgar squelching sound coming from between his legs. 

“No sir,” Ilya breathes. “I just want to fuck you.”
“I know, puppy. All you ever want to do is fuck and hump.”

Ilya screws his eyes shut, sniveling.  “Not true, Mr. Hollander.”

“I think that’s very true, Ilya.” Shane lets his fingers slip out. “You’ve been hard all night. You only ever think about the next place you can stick this big dick.”

Shane nudges the bottom of Ilya’s length with his foot. The younger man sobs, jutting his hips forward to chase the fleeting contact. 

“Sir, please let me fuck you. I promise to make it good for you.”

Shane lowers himself against the mattress and spreads his legs wider, pulling on the back of his thighs to give Ilya an even better view of his hole. It’s a dirty trick, but he relishes in the gasp it pulls from Ilya’s throat. 

“Fine.”

Not a second passes before Ilya is scrambling to coat his dick in lube. It’s too much, making an awfully wet noise as he drags his hand down his hard length. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hollander, thank you.” He nudges his hips forward, slotting the hot tip of his cock between Shane’s cheeks. “Oh, fuck. Pretty.” His hands are shaking, one coming down to rest on the curve of Shane’s hip, the other wrapping around himself, keeping him in place. Shane feels himself clench and his abs flex as he fights the urge to fuck himself down onto Ilya. 

A warbled, desperate moan escapes his lips when Ilya starts to press into him. It’s the best dick he’s ever taken, the best he’ll ever take. Because of the rushed prep job, his rim stings as it stretches to accommodate Ilya’s length, the pain tingeing the edges of his pleasure. Ilya slots into him perfectly, recarving his rightful place inside. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks quietly when his balls rest against Shane’s ass, face serious. 

“Holy fuck,” Shane swears, chest heaving as he takes in a shaky breath. “Oh my god, Ilya, s’good.”

Ilya’s grins. He looks so pleased with himself, like it's the best praise he’s ever received in his life. Forget the Calder, forget the Cup. Shane thinks Ilya would be happy for the rest of his life if he could stay right where he is. Ilya, the tease, gives his hips a little wiggle, pulling out ever so slightly and staying there. Shane taps his heel against the small of Ilya’s back, forcing his hips to move, to press his length even deeper inside.  

“Come on, stud,” He huffs. “Fuck me.” 

Ilya’s whole body shivers. Never one to disobey his owner, he starts rolling his hips, pulling all the way out of Shane before fucking back inside. Shane sighs happily, lips quivering in a satisfied smile.

Ilya has gotten better at fucking Shane. Sometimes he’ll still get so overwhelmed he can’t help but lazily rut into him, draping his heavy body over Shane’s while he chases his own pleasure. Shane’s done a good job at training that out of him–maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks. What hasn’t changed, though, is the face of desperate awe that Ilya wears each time he gets his dick inside Shane. It’s like he’s utterly mesmerized by the sight of his own length inside of Shane. 

Wow, Ilya mouths, pupils blown wide as he stares between Shane’s thighs. He finally reaches a steady rhythm, a constant string of thrusts that make Shane’s whole body tingle. 

“Ilya,” Shane moans, because what else is there to say? Only Ilya–his sweet puppy, his good boy–can make him feel this way. 

“Mr. Hollander,” Ilya replies. His crucifix swings with each thrust, the golden metal clinking against the hardware of the harness. His muscles bulge as he holds down Shane’s hips, pinning him to the hotel mattress. “Feels...” His vice breaks off in a loud moan. 

“Use your–ah–words, puppy.” 

“Sir, I can’t,” Ilya pants between his own soft grunts. “S’too much.”

“Ilya,” Shane scolds, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist, pulling him close. “Speak.”

Ilya’s lower lip starts to quiver and his thrusts falter.

“Perfect,” He weeps. “It feels–oh, Mr. Hollander, you are perfect.”

Too much. Shane reaches up and hooks his fingers through the golden ring at the center of his chest; he uses the harness to pull Ilya down, crashing his lips against his own. Ilya groans, surprised, and fucks into Shane harder. They’re not really kissing, just smearing their mouths against one another, but Shane is too blissed out to care. He threads his fingers through Ilya’s thick curls, tugging at the soft strands. 

Ilya cranes his neck so he can mouth at Shane’s neck. He knows better not to leave marks–no chewing, puppy–but he still likes to lave his tongue over Shane’s pulse point whenever he can. Ilya slides his hands over Shane’s abs while he slobbers on his skin, brushing his erection. Shane tilts his head to the side and moans; he can’t come yet, he doesn’t want to, but Ilya keeps nailing his prostate. He’s panting in Shane’s ear, huffing with each thrust, muttering strings of words in Russian. 

“Such a good boy, such a sweet boy.” Scrambling for purchase, Shane drags his nails down Ilya’s broad back. Ilya lets out a garbled moan and speeds up his thrusts, his breath hot against Shane’s neck. 

“Mr. Hollander, I am, um, I am clo-ose.”

“Yeah?” Shane tightens his thighs around Ilya’s waist. “Fuck, you can’t come yet. Not before I do.”

Ilya sobs, burying his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. His hips lose their rhythm, and he’s barely even moving enough to properly fuck his cock into him. Shane can feel hot tears against his skin. 

“You’re pathetic, Ilya. Crying because you have to last for more than two minutes? Good grief.”

“M’sorry, Mr. Hollander, I did not mean it.” Ilya sniffles, dragging his lips along the sharp line of Shane’s jaw. “I can do it. I promise.”

“That’s okay, sweet thing.” Shane strokes the back of Ilya’s neck. “Get me there, okay?”

Ilya nods, eyebrows creasing with newfound determination. He peels his body off of Shane’s, and he pouts at the loss of contact, but Ilya grabs him by the calves and throws both of Shane’s legs over his shoulders. 

“Shit,” Shane hisses as Ilya’s cock sinks impossibly deeper. His body rocks back and forth with each steady thrust. Ilya, focused on his new task–making Mr. Hollander come before he does–spits in his hand and wraps it around Shane’s weeping dick. Shane grunts as he’s engulfed in pleasure, clenching down around Ilya’s length. 

“Oh, so tight.” Ilya’s mouth hangs open as he fucks Shane fast and hard, gripping onto his legs to keep him still. “Sir?”

“Hm?” Shane can’t think, can’t speak. His lids are heavy as his entire body buzzes with pure pleasure. 

“When you come, I–ah, Mr. Hollander, will you come on my face?”

Shane’s heart stops beating. They’re going to have to call the front desk to have them bring up an AED, because Ilya is going to kill him.

“Holy shit, Ilya, you need to pull out, I’m not going to last–”

Shane bites his lip at the sudden emptiness when Ilya hastily pulls out, but is immediately rewarded by the sight of Ilya on his knees at the foot of the bed. So obedient, waiting so patiently for his sir. Shane’s legs wobble as he slides off the bed, and Ilya reaches out to steady him by the hips. Such a gentleman. 

Ilya peppers kisses up Shane’s thighs while wrapping one hand around his length. He looks up at Shane through his thick lashes, big doe eyes wide with anticipation as he starts to pump his hand. 

“Please, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya whispers, swiping his tongue across his lower lip. He twists his wrist, which forces a soft moan out of Shane. “I want it. I want you.”

Shane feels a roiling pleasure stir in his gut. His sweet puppy, on his knees on a hotel room floor, begging for his cum. A dream come true–Shane’s personal fantasy, materialized and wrapped up in a pretty blue ribbon. 

Shane tries to say Ilya’s name as he comes, but it comes out as a low groan instead. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut as his face is painted in cum; it streaks over his cheeks, his chin, and the bridge of his nose. He’s stunning. Precious and compliant. It makes Shane’s heart swell three sizes as he reaches the end of his orgasm. 

“My beautiful boy,” Shane coos, smoothing Ilya’s curls off of his forehead. “So good for me.”

Ilya whines softly at the touch. He’s still hard, leaking between his thighs. 

“Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” Ilya chokes out. “Please, sir. Please help me.”

Shane swipes his fingers through the cum on Ilya’s face, gathering it up as best he can. 

“Get up,” he orders, using his clean hand to grab Ilya by the bicep and yank him up off of the floor. He stumbles, grabbing onto Shane’s shoulders to steady himself. The sound he makes when Shane wraps his slick palm around his length is pitiful, a strangled moan that comes deep from his chest.

“Take what you need,” Shane purrs, twisting his wrist. “Fuck my fist, puppy.”

Ilya’s grip tightens around his shoulders. He shamelessly begins humping into his tight grasp, desperately panting as he chases his own pleasure. He’s trying to get out Shane’s name, but all it sounds like is a jumbled mess of moans. 

“Good boy. Such a good boy, Ilya.” The younger man sobs, trying to lean in for a kiss, but he’s too far gone. His lips smear across Shane’s cheek, wet and warm. His cock is burning hot, rock hard from the night of endless teasing. 

“Sir, uh–” Ilya’s voice breaks off into a particularly punched out moan. “I am so close.”

“Yeah? You want to come?” Shane breathes. Ilya nods with fervor, brows creased in concentration. “Come for me, sweet puppy.”

Ilya is silent, body going taught as he reaches his orgasm. In Shane’s hand, he twitches once, twice, before coating Shane’s fingers in his cum. Shane works him through it, savoring the babbled Mr. Hollanders and sirs that tumble out of his mouth. 

“That’s it,” Shane murmurs as Ilya rides out the final jolts of pleasure. Ilya’s hands roam everywhere, down Shane’s shoulders to his biceps, down over his pecs, down his abs. He softens in Shane’s hand shortly after and Shane drops his spent cock and brings his hand up between them. He doesn’t even have to say it; obediently, Ilya licks sweetly at the cum covering his hand, lapping up their combined spend. Ilya and Mr. Hollander, intertwined as one. 

“Thank you for cleaning up your mess.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya replies with sincerity. 

Shane presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. 

“Go lay down on the bed. I’ll be back to clean you up,” he says softly. Ilya gives him a lazy smile before twisting out of his arms, climbing onto the bed and sinking into the plush mattress. 

Shane gets himself situated in the bathroom as quickly as possible. He washes his hands first, scrubbing under his nails to get rid of the grime he knows is there. He fills a glass with cold water, then drenches one of the white hotel washcloths in warm water. 

Ilya is still smiling when he walks back into the bedroom. His eyes shine as he watches Shane approach, going limp at his touch when Shane starts to wipe his face with the cloth.

“Too hot?” 

“No, is good.” Ilya hums, pleased, as the warm cloth smooths over his skin, his eyelashes clumping together from the dampness. Shane spends a little more time than he needs to cleaning Ilya up, just so he can keep his chin grasped gently in his fingers. 

Next, Shane removes the harness. He drags his fingers over the spots where the leather would have dug into Ilya’s skin, making sure there’s no tenderness or irritation. 

“Did it rub anywhere?”

“No sir. It feels fine,” Ilya reports back, matter-of-fact, like he would to his coach or physical therapist. Shane nods, happy with his honesty.

“You have to make sure you take care of your leather when I’m not around, Ilya,” He notes as he carefully puts the harness back in its silk dust bag. He rearranges the clothes in his suitcase to make room for the bag, tucking it underneath his dress shirts.

“I do, Mr. Hollander.” When Shane raises an eyebrow, he pouts. “I promise!”

“If you say so. Drink your water.”

Ilya swipes the glass off of the nightstand and does as he says, downing the entire thing in one gulp. Shane’s not sure how bad of a hangover a young man born and raised in Russia would have, but he grabs two acetaminophen from his bag anyways and leaves them on the nightstand. 

Ilya waits patiently for him to finish before grabbing his wrist and tugging his arm, trying to get him on the bed. Shane huffs out a laugh and slides under the covers next to Ilya. The younger man is on him in an instant; he wraps his arms around Shane’s torso, shoving one leg in between Shane’s thighs. He looks up at Shane through his lashes, the apples of his cheeks round and rosy.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Ilya.” Shane kisses the top of his head. He just can’t help himself. “How are you feeling?”
Ilya says something in Russian and sighs, burying his face between Shane’s pecs. “Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, Ilya,” Shane murmurs as he traces the curve of Ilya’s spine with his fingers. He goes all the way up from his tailbone to his neck, fiddling with the curls there, then all the way back down again. He can feel Ilya relax against him, curling into the touch. “If you don’t feel well in the morning, wake me up so I can help.”

Ilya doesn’t try to argue, just hums in agreement. He nuzzles into the muscles of Shane’s chest, dragging his cheek across Shane’s skin like a cat.

It doesn’t take long before the younger man is asleep in Shane’s arms. He can tell by the way his grip on Shane’s torso weakens and the gentle snores that reverberate against his chest. 

“Goodnight, my boy,” Shane whispers into the quiet room, kissing the crown of Ilya’s head before his own eyes grow heavy. 

Shane falls asleep to the sounds of the city and with his puppy in his arms.

***

“Move to the right a little. The sun looks weird.”

Obediently, Ilya shuffles to the right. The Brandenburg Gate stands tall behind Ilya’s form, the stone pillars towering over the young man. Shane squats down a little to get the entire monument in the frame of his phone camera. Ilya’s lips are pressed in a hard line, hands clasped in front of his waist and legs spread obnoxiously wide. It’s the stupidest pose Shane has ever seen. 

“Smile, Ilya,” Shane calls out. 

“I am smiling!” Ilya insists, and just to be a dick, he smiles extra wide, but it looks more like a grimace. Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, which makes Ilya give him a genuine smile. It’s perfect, and Shane takes the picture. 

“Did you get it?” Ilya shouts from across the plaza. 

Shane looks at the photo. His Ilya–his puppy–is smiling as bright as the sun above him. He looks so…young. Carefree. Like he doesn’t have the entire weight of the hockey world on his shoulders. Shane feels his throat tighten as he taps the three little dots in the corner of the screen, sending the photo to the Hidden album. Aside from emailing it to Ilya after their trip, it’ll stay there, locked behind his passcode and only opened when he’s alone. 

“Yup, you look good,” Shane calls back, pocketing his phone. Ilya smirks, pleased, before jogging back to Shane. 

“Do you know why this is important?” Ilya asks, looking back over his shoulder at the Gate. “I did not pay attention in school. That is why I play hockey.”

“I have no idea. Maybe I should know.” 

Ilya pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. It makes his curls frame his face prettily. There are tons of tourists around them, each posing for their own photos or sightseeing, but Shane can only focus on Ilya. 

“I think it is time for cake,” he announces. 

“Ilya.”

“What? Is cultural!” Ilya smiles again, shuffling on his feet, like he can’t contain his own excitement. He looks around, scanning the clusters of tourists with his attentive gaze. There’s a couple in heavy jackets that pose for a selfie with the Gate. Shane wonders how they haven’t gotten heatstroke yet under the blazing sun.

“Mr. Hollander?” Ilya asks, suddenly sobering. 

“Hm?”

Ilya takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Thank you so much,” he begins, volume lowering with sincerity. “I am–this trip, it makes me so happy. I have never done anything like this before. Going somewhere special with someone, I mean.”

Oh, puppy. Ilya worries his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on it as his gaze flits across Shane’s face. Like he’s waiting for his reaction. 

A beat. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Ilya,” Shane decides to say, because it’s more casual than any of the other confessions that bounce around in his brain. Not that it’s a lie; seeing Ilya taking in the city, staring wide-eyed in wonderment at even the most benign sights, makes all of this worth it. “I’ve been having a lot of fun.”

That makes Ilya brighten. Shane wishes he could have this Ilya forever. Earnest and unburdened, whose only purpose is to take pictures of things he finds pretty and to babble on to Shane about his day. He should be having fun like this all the time, like any other kid his age would. But instead he only gets this–this carelessness, this freedom–two weeks a year. 

And if Shane can be the only one to give it to him, he’s content with his fate. 

“So…cake?” Ilya asks as they start walking towards the entrance to the subway.

“No. Our timeslot for the Stasi Museum is soon.”

“What about a quick beer? That is cultural too.”

“Ilya.”