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One of the first ways Shane describes Ilya is that he is so like fierce and and asshole on the ice but when they are together he is still very forceful but also so so gentle with him and this is one of my favorite scenes because you can really see it in just the stroke of his hand over Shane’s head. Also damn just laying zonked out god I wish that were me lucky girl Shane
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Im 3 days late but i really wanted to see them chilling on their wedding day… i imagine they'd host a more private party in the palace after the official ceremony for their friends and family and they're just hanging off each other at any given moment obviously
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I subscribe to the belief that both Ilya and Shane play better after getting it on with each other. I also have seen a lot of the before and after posts of Shane before and after a dick appointment, so I think perhaps this is something that is picked up on at least by the Centaurs after enough games. I'm not saying it's extremely obvious, but once they have gotten to know Shane well enough and seen him enough times before and then after the morning practice or whatever it is, where he and Ilya disappear for Ilya's "nap", they catch on. He is an intense guy when it comes to hockey and before the "nap" he is a little more uptight and a little more stressed, whereas after he is like actually chill and relaxed, still focused, but not as intimidating. This means that maybe some teammates learn not to mention problems or ask certain questions until after they come back from their “nap” lol, and any new staff or rookies also learn this lesson. I think a similar subtly clockable shift occurs in Ilya like the week leading up to a weekend (or whatever the pro hockey version of a weekend is) and then the monday morning after a weekend when they have had at least 2 days of uninterrupted time together.
Anyway, here is my inspired writing for this lol
Zane Boodram was extremely functional at fuck-o-clock on a Tuesday morning and a very seasoned alternate captain on a professional hockey team, which was why he was shuffling vaguely through the hallway sipping coffee in a not-quite human state that he was positive would reach human status by the time he got all his practice gear on and started warming up. He needn't have feared about waking up, though, because he received the fright of his life and the most effective wakeup call he'd had in a while as he entered the locker room only to be instantly assaulted with a very loud, very stressed greeting from the new equipment manager who was very suddenly 2 inches in front of his face. "Mr. Boodram! Sorry, sorry," said Kelsey.
Zane was very much man enough to acknowledge the pitch at which he had screamed, but he cleared his throat anyway and said in a much more normal, deeper tone, "Kelsey, what the fuck."
"Sorry," she repeated, "I'm just having a bit of a crisis and I'm so relieved it's you that's here first and not well, you know who."
"Rozie and Hollywood?" He inferred, still a little confused. He got that most people were still a little starstruck by them especially for the first little bit of knowing them, but they were both very nice and respectful, especially to staff members, he didn't get why she seemed to scared.
"Yeah, there's an issue and I don't know if I can fix it, and I don't want to let them down or stress them out before a game"
"What's wrong?" He asked, maneuvering around her to start putting his stuff away in his locker.
"Well, you know how we just got back from that road stretch? Mr. Hollander's primary game helmet is missing after I unpacked everything from the road storage. I have the identical backup one from storage, but what if it messes up his whole game?" She explained and it sounded like she was gearing up for a proper spiral, so Bood took the chance to interrupt slightly.
"Okay, well do have any feelers out for tracking down the main helmet?"
Kelsey nodded, "Yes, I sent a message to the bus driver, to the assistant equipment staff that went with us, but it was Kyle and he is off now and the one working today is Sam, and neither of them have responded yet. I also sent a message to the equipment staff that I know from Pittsburgh where we came from, but I don't know when they will see it or get back to me. Oh my god, I'm going to cost us this game, I'm going to get fired, I'm never going to work in this industry again."
Zane sipped his coffee, "Bro, chill, this stuff happens. I agree maybe we wait to get a realistic understanding of where the helmet is and what the timeline for getting it back is before we start raising a huge fuss about it to anyone, but especially if we have an identical backup, then I feel like no one is going to be too upset or freaked out. Besides, if you need to wait for some answers anyway, just wait and tell after-practice Shane, then you know he'll probably be fine. I mean, he wouldn't be like mean to you, regardless, you know that right?"
She looks extremely confused, which Zane has no idea what he said that was so confusing, he is about to ask her, when she asks, "after-practice Shane?"
Oh right, she is pretty new, isn't she? Yeah, you know, hmmm, how do I explain after-practice Shane?"
They hear a laugh and it is Barrett walking in behind them, probably extra-early because he car-pooled with Harris who had to get an early start on media for the day. "Lol, why are we explaining after-practice Shane? Are they really not here first?"
"No, I was surprised too, they'll probably be here soon. There's a small equipment mystery, not too dramatic, there is a backup, we won't have answers until 8 or 9 when several bus services and other offices open up for the day." Bood fills him in.
"Ahh, alright," Troy, looks thoughtful for a minute, then turns to Kelsey, "Look, you know how Hollander and Rosanov are a little intense about hockey? That's why you're worried, right?"
Kelsey nods.
"Well, both of them, especially Holly, will be a lot more relaxed after their usual after-practice, pre-game 'nap'." Troy puts a lot of emphasis on nap, implying that maybe he doesn't just mean sleeping.
Both Troy and Zane are treated to a face journey as understanding dawns on Kelsey about what they mean.
"Oh!" She says, with a laugh that is amused, embarrassed, and also somewhat horrified. "Right, well, yeah, maybe, I'll go-um make a couple calls, I won't even know the full situation until then anyway. Sorry, you guys need to change and stuff, I'll get out of here."
Both men laugh as she retreats, extremely pink in the face. "Is it that big of a problem?" Barrett checks curiously.
"No, no, not really," Bood confirms. "Someone should also probably tell her not to try to hold up post-game Ilya unless it's absolutely necessary at some point." Barrett cracks up again.
You are Shane Hollander, and you don't know you're autistic.
At age 26, you don't even know yet how different you are from most people. Your unexamined assumption is that everyone works as hard as you do to get through a regular day. When moments arise that provide evidence to the contrary, you chalk it up to the fact that you care more than other people. And while it's true that you are an exceptionally dedicated person, that's not what makes it hard. Your brain is what makes it hard, but you don't know that.
On a macro level you try to hide the effort it takes to interpret other people's behavior and to downplay the fact that you are always, at least a little bit, thinking about hockey. On a micro level your brain is working overtime to process every bit of sensory information it receives, and you aren't even aware it's happening. You have low latent inhibition, although you've never heard that term. It means the ability to tune out irrelevant sensory information, such as the sensation of clothing on your skin. You've learned to live with it, and the tag in your shirt doesn't bother you exactly, but you're unaware of how many resources your brain is using to make it not bother you. You're unaware of how many resources it's using to sort out the barrage of sights and sounds present in the most mundane of settings. You're unaware how hard it's working just to push through the most basic tasks of figuring out that the car stereo is too loud and the air conditioning is too cold, not the other way around, and when you sometimes turn down the volume because you don't like the air blowing in your face, that's just something to laugh off.
You do like the cold. You've always loved the ice. As a child you loved the way it seemed to generate its own breeze and the way your skin stuck to it, and even though people told you to stop so you learned to stop, secretly you still love it as an adult, that sensation of peeling yourself free and the way your skin stretches. You love every sensation of the rink. It's like it's clearing the cobwebs from your brain. Your gear feels like a cocoon. In another life you wouldn't have liked the feeling of sweat but you're too used to it now to notice. Your brain works hard to tune it out. A hot shower after a game is almost as good as sex.
You love sex. Sex, like hockey, is one of the only times the voice in your head is quiet. You don't like sex with the right type of person, but you've finally accepted that it's something you can't change. You carried that weight for a long time, the shame of feeling good when you weren't supposed to. Now there's a relief like you've never known, allowing yourself to feel good about having sex with a man. You sink into the sensations. They take you over.
You love the sensation of your boyfriend's stubble, that gentle scrape that feels like beautiful sparks in your brain. You rub your face all over it on purpose over and over until your skin is red. Your mom asks you about it. She touches the inflamed places, and her fingertips do not feel good. Your brain works hard to come up with an excuse. It's a reaction to new shaving cream. You lie so much for someone who's not very good at it.
You love it when your boyfriend lays all his weight on you. You love it when he hugs you tightly, and you keep demanding he hold you tighter. He teases you about wanting to be crushed. He doesn't want to hurt you. Once when you were seven years old you squeezed your way in between your mattress and your box spring because you loved the weight covering every inch of your body. Your mom didn't like that, she actually screamed when she found you, so you didn't do it again.
You like smells. You like the smell of your dad's cooking, maybe even more than the taste. You like the smell of sunscreen and boat fuel. You used to breathe in deep at gas stations until your parents told you it was bad for you. You like the smell of your boyfriend's sweat. You like the smell of your own sweat, but you wouldn't ever admit it, because you know that's weird. You like the smell of semen and you know that's even weirder. It's pungent and makes you gag, but you like to gag; you like the strain in your throat and the tears in your eyes. You used to suck a dildo and pretend it was the dick of that man you weren't supposed to love having sex with. You don't do it anymore because it's never as good as the real thing and it doesn't settle your mind the right way.
So there's your sense organs, your eyes and nose and ears and tongue and skin, but there's also your vestibular system (you've always loved getting dizzy) and there's also proprioception (you don't know that word but you love to lift heavy things and you love to push and pull and when you were a kid you used to stomp your feet really hard on asphalt to feel it ricochet up your bones), and there's the difference between hot and cold, between pressure and pain, and there's the sense of time (witness how a sixty-second shift on the ice can feel like twenty minutes but a three-hour game passes in a blink), and your brain is working harder than an average brain on all of these things, powering you through the day, using up so many resources, and you
are so
fucking
tired, sometimes, but you believe it's because you are hard worker. (You are. It's true.)
And on days where your brain has worked overtime, and it's running out of things to give, the system begins to malfunction. You don't know that's what's happening. All you know is the lights in the locker room are too bright and your teammates are louder than usual, and the sweat is bothering you after all, and fuck do these guys stink, and the shower is too hot and feels like tiny needles. In an unconscious effort to limit input you walk with your head down so you only see the floor. You don't hear it right away when people speak to you because your ability to process speech has been drained to almost nothing. When someone does succeed in getting your attention, your response is sluggish, your facial expressions jerky as you try to pull up the socially acceptable one. You learned a long, long time ago that hugging your knees to your chest and rocking back and forth was not okay even though it smoothed out the wrinkles in your head, so the option doesn't even cross your mind now, in your mid-twenties. You are not that different from everyone else, you just care more, and you're not happy with how you played tonight. No one can understand what it's like to be you, but that's because you're the best. It's a lonely place to be.
You need your boyfriend. You need him to hold you tightly. He has the power to squeeze every bad feeling right out of you. You want to lay your head on his chest and feel the rumble of his voice. He is hours away from you right now and you won't see him for a few more weeks.
With tremendous effort, monumental effort, you finish out the night and make it home without anyone noticing something's wrong with you.
You're not like everyone else, but you think it's just because you're the best hockey player alive, so of course living feels a little different.
idk if y'all are familiar with the concept of a renaissance faire that has a beer stand where you can pay to get publicly dommed by the bar wench. but.
(1.5k words)
shane has no idea why they're even fucking here. some bullshit about turkey legs and sexy women's jousting, maybe.
he trails reluctantly behind his college teammates as they trudge down the dirt path, narrowly avoiding bumping into dozens of renfaire goers in various stages of costume undress and drunkenness. this is not a jock environment. shane is dressed in plain clothes, and has no clue how to react to all the vendors putting on vaguely medieval european accents. he is overall entirely out of his element.
they approach the bar, which is more like a cozy beer booth decorated with fake vines and nautical chains. hayden and jj jump in line. this is good. maybe if he gets a beer in him, this whole experience will suck a little less.
jj nudges him in the ribs hard and directs his attention to the guy dressed like a pirate buying a beer at the front of the line. the woman behind the bar, in a blouse and corset that greatly accentuates her chest, coos something vaguely encouraging at the guy and guides his hands upwards to grip the looped metal chains hanging from the ceiling of the booth.
with the guy's hands held above his head, shane watches incredulously as she holds his face gently by the chin and proceeds to pour the beer directly into his open mouth. a couple cheers from the group surrounding him seem to indicate that this is normal? she praises him in that silly fake renfaire accent, gradually guiding the cup upwards until the guy has finished the beer. he releases his hands from the chains and steps back, flushed and laughing with the woman and his friends.
shane feels vaguely dizzy at the display. his eyes dart nonsensically to the menu, which lists the prices for beer and a few non-alcoholic drinks. at the bottom of the menu it lists the raised price of the "bar wench/bar rake special." shane blinks hard.
the line moves. "that's fucking hilarious," hayden says, and shane nods absently and tries to ignore the stirring in his gut. he doesn't see jj and hayden exchange a mischievous look over his head.
too soon, they're at the front of the line. shane turns to see if his teammates want to order together or separately, but he's shoved up against the front of the bar before he can get a word in.
"he'll take the bar rake!" jj jeers, slapping the bills down on the counter. hayden shakes shane's shoulders from behind as if hyping him up. the wench barely bats an eye at the obnoxious display of mild bullying. she takes one look at shane's tomato red face and gives him an endeared pet on the head.
"one bar rake, coming right up!"
shane doesn't get the opportunity to question what a 'rake' even means in this context, because suddenly there's a man in front of him. a man shane hadn't noticed when he'd been doing something behind the bar with his back turned, but was absolutely noticing now.
tall, scorching hot, moles dotting his handsome face and dirty blond hair curling behind his ears. a muscular physique visible through a semi-sheer white chemise. stunning pale eyes narrowed like a predator assessing his prey. the rake smirks at him a little viciously and shane can't even muster up a stuttered refusal.
the rake leans over and grabs shane by the wrists, pulling his arms up over his head until his fingertips reach the chains. his touches are rougher than the wench's had looked. shane fumbles until he's gripping them tightly in his sweaty hands. he feels uniquely vulnerable, at this man's mercy. shane has a sinking feeling he's not going to get any.
he's distantly aware that hayden and jj might be catcalling this display right now. he prays they aren't filming this. the wench passes the rake a tall plastic cup of ale. shane watches with wide eyed baited breath as the rake takes a moment to seemingly stare directly into shane's soul. assessing him like a bug under a microscope. fuck. he might be getting hard.
the rake switches the cup to his left hand, and his presumably dominant right hand wraps around shane's throat. not tight enough to restrict his breathing, but a solid grip that makes shane freeze like a statue. the man leans in, murmuring closer to shane's ear.
"open."
fuck. shane is definitely getting hard. his jaw drops with zero hesitation. he barely manages to keep his tongue in his mouth with the way he wants to pant. this is insane. they're in public.
"good boy."
he can pick out the accent as a genuine one, likely slavic. undeniably sultry. shane squeaks, or whines, or makes some other humiliating noise that's a little too loud while he's open mouthed. the rake grins and hums like he's very pleased. the rim of the cup is pressed to shane's pouty bottom lip, and then the cup gets tilted and shane's mouth is flooded with ale he has no choice but to swallow.
it's a heavy pour, shane notices. the cup is filled to the brim and probably counts for two beers. it's a fairly light ale, though, and goes down without too much difficulty.
the stream of liquid isn't steady. the rake, perhaps purposefully, switches between pouring at a thin trickle and flooding shane's throat with a long splash of the drink. keeping him on his toes and prolonging the suspense. shane gasps desperately whenever he is afforded a moment to inhale. he imagines drowning under that hand.
shane is completely hard and dripping into his boxer briefs.
his mouth gets even closer to shane's ear, and the voice drops to a low whisper. quiet enough that nobody in the chattering crowd can hear, fucking hopefully.
"there you go, good little slut. just needed someone to take charge, hm? good thing it was me. i know just how to treat filthy boys like you. mmm, slower. that's it. would you swallow my cock this nice? bet you would love it if i bent you over this bar and took your tight little hole in front of all these people. whore."
shane doesn't have the leverage to nod his head, but he tries to squirm in agreement. a shudder wracks his body. the rake pulls back, and the intense eye contact is intoxicating. shane has maybe never felt this helpless before. he's completely obsessed. he's probably batting his lashes at the man like he hung the moon. drops of ale dribble down his chin.
"messy puppy."
shane almost chokes. the rake shushes him, a patronizing coo that goes straight to shane's cock. the hand wrapped around his throat flexes. the cup is eventually lowered, and shane realizes with a rush that it's now empty.
the man stays firmly in shane's personal space, demanding his full attention.
"all done. what do you say?"
"thank you," shane manages. this earns him a pleased smile. he feels hands around his wrists again, and oh. right, he sort of forgot about his arms. he was holding the chain of his own free will, but this still feels like being untied. shane returns his arms to his sides and clears his throat. he hopes jj forked over enough cash so shane doesn't have to pull his wallet out. he braces himself for the rake to wave him off for the next customer.
"i go on break at 1."
a clear invitation. his voice sounds amused and maybe a bit heated. it also sends reality slamming back into shane like a cannonball. he's tipsy, or maybe just drunk off this man, and rock hard at 11 in the morning. his teammates are waiting for him.
how is he supposed to trudge after them for the next five minutes, let alone two hours, at full mast?
the rake doesn't prompt him for a response. the hand that had once held his throat touches his cheek in something between a pat and a light smack. teasing. he thinks through his soupy brain that he can hear the bar wench giggling.
shane steps away with great reluctance. a quick glance shows that jj and hayden had seemingly gotten bored of humiliating him, and bought beers from a separate line. they sit at a picnic table a few meters away, shooting the shit while they wait for shane to wrap up the most transformative sexual experience of his life.
he lets himself look at the man one more time. he's still being watched. predator eyes flick off to the side with intent. shane tries to follow their direction with a head that feels stuffed with cotton.
a porta potty.
unideal for a risky public hook-up. is that what they're doing? shane is still reeling. shane is still a virgin. the location is disgusting. but if that's the only option...
shane subtly adjusts his black joggers and walks back to his teammates like he's waddling through molasses. he glares at his watch and prays that time starts moving faster.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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You know how many of us joke that Pride month should be followed by Wrath? Well, this year I feel a deep, burning fury towards all who use transgender lives as political propaganda, bargaining chip or something to be debated and decided on without any of us in the room.
We are human beings. You cannot erase us.
Happy Pride. Trans liberation at any cost.
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