Archive of Our Own

The first time it happens, Shane’s kneeling on the floor, the plush rug in Rozanov's room keeping his knees from bruising. His head is comfortably pillowed on Rozanov's thighs, and the fingers carefully running through his hair at the moment are enough to distract him from the drying saliva and cum on his chin.

He’s feeling a little fuzzy, like all of his issues are blurring at the edges and fading away, and the only thing that matters at the moment is sitting here on his knees in the quiet. His own straining erection forgotten in favor of having had Rozanov in his mouth. Although without the distracting weight on his tongue now his own problem is making itself known. Slowly he starts shifting his hips just a bit, still not fully back enough to be moving with intention, but just enough to cause a whine to leak from his mouth.

Out the slight corner of his eye Shane sees movement as Rozanov reached for the top drawer of his bedside table. Shane goes back to closing his eyes as he expects the quiet shnick sound of the bottle of lube that he knows is kept there, opening next. But instead of that telltale sound, it stays quiet. Just as Shane starts to push against the fog clouding his mind to open his eyes to see what’s up, he feels something press against his cheeks. Rozavon keeps his thumb in place right over the weird sensation and starts slowly rubbing the pad of his finger on his skin.

“What’re you doin’” Shane tries to say, though with his face still firmly planted against Rozanov's bare thigh and with the way his head still isn't fully screwed back on, he figures it probably comes out as nothing but a jumble of words.

“Speak up Hollander,” Rozanov says, moving the hand that was rubbing his cheek to the back of his head. His long fingers curl into Shane’s hair pulling just enough to drag Shane’s head off his thighs and into an upright position.

The gesture pulls a small groan out of Shane. He almost forgets about what had just happened and slides back into that warm fuzzy space his brain was so close to collapsing into, but then Rozanov's hand makes its way back to his face again, and Shane is reminded of the weird sensation on his cheek that’s beginning to itch.

“I said,” he starts, blinking a few times to focus on Rozanov’s face. The small smirk plastered there makes Shane start to drift back down to earth, unsure of what the fuck he’s up to. “What were you doing? There’s something on my face.”

Shane moves the hand that was previously clutching his thigh up to the exact spot that he felt Rozanov place something on, but before he can touch the spot himself Rozanov snatches his wrist away and drags it back down to his own thigh.

He tuts his tongue at him, the sound sharp and disapproving, like Shane’s a child who’s just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. The look on his face only makes it worse, amused, knowing, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“No, no, Hollander—do not touch it.”

And just like that, Shane is fully back in his body.

“The fuck do you mean don’t touch it?” His muscles wound tight again, annoyance coursing hot through his veins.

Rozanov just continues to smirk, not saying a thing.

Shane lets out a noise of frustration and uses his hands to push himself off of Rozanov's thighs and into a standing position. His pants no longer tight, his hard on having completely left him over whatever the fuck Rozanov was playing at, at the moment.

Shane moves over to Rozanov's en suite to look at himself in the mirror. 

He doesn’t exactly know what he was expecting, but it sure wasn’t a sticker in the shape of a star with the words “good job” printed inside of it.

“The fuck is this?” Shane calls out into the room, his hand coming up to pick at the sticker's edges.

When Rozanov responds he sounds closer, Shane shifted slightly to see he’d gotten off of the bed and instead was leaning against the bathroom door opening.

“It's a sticker Hollander,” Rozanov says, arms crossed over his chest and it takes all of Shane’s willpower to keep the annoyance in his face directed at Rozanov and not looking down at where his arms are pulling tight across his chest.

“Do you need glasses to see it better?”

Shane huffs in exasperation before moving to turn around, mirroring Rozanov's stance and hitting him with a look.

“I know it’s a sticker asshole, why is it on my face?”

Rozanov pushes against the wall and stalks over to where Shane is standing, back leaning against the bathroom counter. Hands make their way to Shane’s hips and the next thing he knows he’s being turned around to face the mirror. One of Rozanov's hands stays clutched tightly at Shane’s hip while the other makes its way up to his face. Secretly Shane hopes that bruises in the shape of finger prints will be left there long after Rozanov lets go.

The other hand comes to hold onto Shane’s chin, Rozanov tightening his grip, moving Shane’s face to the right so the sticker is on full display in the dimly lit bathroom mirror.

“You did a good job, no?” Rozanov whispers against the shell of Shane’s ear. A shiver wracks through Shane’s body at the sensation and he can feel himself getting hard again, just from the tight hold Rozanov has on him and the way the words wash over him. The idea of bruises being left and the solid heat of Rozanov’s body pressed against his own being enough for all of the blood in Shane’s body to start running south.

The hand previously at his hip snakes itself past the waistband of his sweats and underwear. The rough callous off Rozanov's hand causes lighting to shoot through his body, as he wraps his long fingers around Shane. It’s dry. Just on the edge of painful, but the tight hold still firm on his chin, and the look Rozanov gives him through the mirror, is enough to smother any protest before it can form. Shane swallows jaw locked in place, the words dying quiet in his throat.

“Good boys should get told that they are good,” Rozanov whispers hotly as he noses his way down Shane’s neck.

Shane can’t help the whine that comes out of his mouth in response to that. Slowly he closes his eyes, letting his head loll back against Rozanov's shoulder as he takes in the sensation’s overwhelming his body. Rozanov's hand slowly working over him, grip loose as he restlessly teases Shane. Fingers softly touching the head of his cock on the upstrock but never gripping any tighter. His mouth and tongue a searing heat as they leave kisses and a trail of saliva down Shane’s neck. He almost wants to ask him to leave a bruise. Fuck everyone else who has something to say. Fuck their teams. Right here, right now there’s nothing more that Shane Hollander wants then for Ilya rozanov to wrap his lips around burning flesh and suck so hard that even seven years from now, when all of the cells in his body have been replaced there will still be evidence of the mark that Rozanov left.

That for eternity Ilya Rozanov will be a part of his body.

Suddenly the hand around his dick stops moving and the warm sensation against the side of his throat leaves.

“Open your eyes, Hollander,” Rozanov demands softly. The hand that was beginning to wander down his chest is back up to gripping his chin, slightly shaking his head.

Slowly Shane opens his eyes, and he's mildly embarrassed by what he sees in the mirror. There’s an ever growing wet spot forming at the front of his sweatpants from where he’s leaked all the way through from his underwear as a result of Rozanov's hands, and as he moves his eyes up he sees the shiny patches of skin on his throat, absolutely covered in saliva. The last thing he sees are his eyes. Pupils blown wide and tears brimming just at the edge. He looks completley fucked out.

Deep down, in a place tucked away behind his heart, a small, traitorous piece of Shane preens at it all. At the way Rozanov can strip him down to nothing but this—soft, pliable, reduced to a mushy heap capable of doing nothing except taking whatever Rozanov is willing to give. It unsettles him how easily it happens, how quickly his edges blur, how natural it feels to let go and sink into it.

“Look at you,” Rozanov says, the thumb of the hand still gripping his chin moving to prod at Shane’s lips. As if it’s instinct Shane lets his mouth drop open, sucking Rozanov's thumb into his mouth.

“My perfect boy.”

The words cause Shane to let out a moan around the finger in his mouth, sucking on it harder, slightly letting his teeth graze against the knuckle.

“Say it,” Rozanov mumbles as he begins to move his thumb, softly petting Shane’s tongue. “Say you did a good job”

“I- I did a good job,” Shane eventually mumbles out, the words garbled as they’re said around Rozanov's finger.

“At what?” 

Shane lets out a confused noise that leads into a whine as Rozanov's hand, still firmly in his sweats, starts moving again, this time with a bruising grip around Shane’s cock.

Eventually he repeats himself.

“I asked a question Hollander, what did you do to get a sticker?”

“I don’t-“ Shane starts, struggling to think. The sensation of Rozanov's hand wrapped around his dick and his thumb still in his mouth all becoming too much and causing his brain to shut down. He feels tears slipping from his eyes as he gets closer and closer to the edge. 

“I- I don’t know,” he finally lets out, hips starting to move to meet each stroke of Rozanov's hand.

“Yes you do,” Rozanov says as he pulls his thumb out of Shane’s mouth. He begins to whine at the loss but rozanovs coos at him, quitting his noises. He moves his hand up over to where the sticker still lays untouched on his skin. Slowly Rozanov caresses it with the thumb that was just in Shane’s mouth. The sticker slowly becoming wet from the saliva still coating the thumb that was currently rubbing on it. 

“You want to cum?” Rozanov asked him and Shane began to pant harder, wet breaths leaving his open mouth as he nodded his head.

“Then be a good boy and tell me.”

The fog clouding his brain was making it hard to think but there was nothing Shane wanted more than to be good, to be good for Rozanov. He wracked his brain, fighting against the feeling that wanted to take over to think about everything he’d done earlier.

“I stayed on my knees like you told me to,” Shane said, remembering the first thing Rozanov told him to do that night once they’d made it up to the bedroom 

Rozanov let out an affirmative hum and looked at him expectantly.

“What else?”

“I kept you in my mouth,” Shane mumbled out. The concentration he had a loose grip on slacking even further as Rozanov's hand moved to lightly hold his throat, fingers wrapping around it but never squeezing.

“I- I used my tongue and did that thing you like,” Shane hears it in his voice, the way the words trip over each other, slurring into a tangled mess that barely resembles language anymore. “Then I stayed still even after you finished.”

Slowly Shane opened his eyes not having realized he ever closed them. Through the haze of tears he can see Rozanov smile at him, something small and intimate and just a little bit proud.

“Good job,” he mumbled, hand finally moving faster just how Shane liked. “My perfect boy, telling me how good he is.”

Shane whined, hands wrapping around Rozanov's arm.

“What does my good boy want now huh? Use your words.”

The noise Shane let out was pathetic, and it took all of his willpower to whisper out what he wanted.

“Wanna come,” he whined out. “Please.”

“So perfect just for me,” Rozanov spoke softly.

He shifted, lifting his head from where it had fallen against Shane’s shoulder and bringing it closer to his ear. The movement was deliberate as if he needed the closeness to steady himself as well.

“Come for me,” he whispered.

And Shane did exactly that, his body falling over the edge with the simple command of Rozanov's voice. He spilled hotly all over Rozanov's hand, trembling against the bathroom counter, Rozanov's strong arms the only thing keeping him upright.

All the strings in his body had been cut loose, every ounce of tension slipping away at once. Right on the edge of collapse, before he could fully give in and let himself sink into that warm, hazy space where thinking stopped and effort no longer mattered he felt Rozanov lick a broad line over his cheek. Right across that stupid little sticker.

“My baby,” he murmured, the words brushing Shane’s ear as he nuzzled into his hair. Warmth bloomed instantly, slow and all-encompassing, wrapping itself around Shane until it felt like something he could live off of for the next year, enough to keep him steady long after the moment had passed.

——

The next time it happens, Shane is one annoying, taunting little word away from strangling Rozanov right on the ice.

It’d been many months since they last saw each other and the only thing that was keeping Shane afloat was the increasingly frequent phone sex he and Rozanov were having.

That, and the little texts sent in between the moments of pure heat. The ones where Rozanov would send a clip from an interview he’d seen and had to mock Shane for how stiff and robotic he sounded. Or the ones where Shane fired back with a meticulous, play-by-play breakdown of Rozanov’s last game, every misstep cataloged, every mistake dissected.

Or maybe it was the quieter ones. The pictures Rozanov sent of a dog he’d passed on the street because it was cute and Shane might smile. The snapshots of the bland, carefully measured meals the team dietitian insisted on, sent along with a half-serious note about how Shane might like the recipe.

But those were nothing.

They meant nothing.

Or that’s what Shane told himself anyway, and he said it often enough that it almost started to sound true.

Because he and Rozanov were nothing. Sex was what they had and it would always be that way until this thing eventually ended. And Shane would continue to beat that logic into his head for however long it took for his heart to start catching up. 

And until then, Shane would pretend.

He would skate harder, train longer, bury himself in routines and rules and the comfort of repetition. He would answer the texts with the right amount of sarcasm, never too fast, never too eager. He would tell himself that whatever fluttered in his chest was nothing more than habit, that it would fade if he ignored it long enough.

And when it didn’t, when the quiet moments stretched too wide and Rozanov’s name settled too easily on his thoughts, Shane would clench his jaw and keep going anyway. Because wanting was dangerous, and admitting it would mean acknowledging that nothing had already grown roots.

Yet despite all of it, he couldn’t deny the way his heart began to race as he pulled on his gear in the home locker room. He told himself it was just the usual pregame nerves. The quickening pulse had nothing to do with the anticipation of seeing Rozanov again after so long. Nothing at all.

Still, the thought lingered, uninvited, as he laced his skates, adjusted his pads, and tied the final knot. 

He forced himself to focus. To force all those thoughts out of his mind and luckily by the time he stepped onto the rink, the locker room’s warmth fading behind him, he shoved every other thought aside. The ice stretched out before him, pristine and endless, and for now, that was all that mattered, the glide, the speed, and the control beneath his skates.

——

Despite the fact that Shane thought they played a good game Boston just barely eked out a win against them with the final score ringing out at 2-3. The adrenaline was slowly starting to seep out of his system and Shane could feel bruises beginning to form right where Rozanov pressed him hard against the boards earlier. The drop of energy was starting to weigh on him and all Shane wanted was to shed his gear and take a shower.

Wanting to be back in the locker room as fast as possible Shane clenched his jaw and skated back over to center ice to shake the hands of the Boston’s players left. Moving through the line up was essentially a blur until he came face to face with Rozanov.  

“Too bad you were so slow today Hollander,” Rozanov said as he reached his hand out to Shane to shake.

“Fuck you asshole.”

Rozanov smirks as he pulls his hand away, the reason for that look becoming increasingly clear when Shane looks down at his own hand and sees something he’d forgotten about in the last few months.

A sticker.

A stupid fucking sticker in the shape of a ribbon with the words “good try!” Printed under it.

Rozanov gets close to the side of Shane’s face as he begins to skate away. With the distance and the annoyed look on Shane’s face anyone would think this was typical Rozanov behavior, spouting some insult right as he’s leaving the ice.

Instead he whispers.

“I think it is you who will be getting fucked, No?”

And then he’s gone like he never said a word, and Shane is clenching his jaw so hard he’s scared he may crack a tooth.

Embarrassingly he can feel his cock start to twitch, whether it was the words that had just slipped from Rozanov’s mouth, or the memories that the stupid sticker dragged up from somewhere deep in his mind, Shane refused to acknowledge it. He doesn’t even know how Rozanov was able to keep that stupid fucking stciker on him for the whole game waiting for this moment.

Quickly he makes his way off the ice and stalks off over to the locker room, the place rowdy and loud despite the slight sting left from the earlier loss. Shane strips off his gear and he definitely does not rip off the sticker from the back of his hand and place it onto his bag. Because that would be crazy and Shane Hollander is not crazy.

Shane glances at his phone, shooting his mom a quick text saying he’ll call her later when a message from ‘Lily’ comes through.

Lily: Maybe if you are a good boy tonight you can get a star instead

The noise Shane’s phone makes as it clatters onto the locker room floor is deafening in the sudden quiet. He freezes, hand halfway to it, every nerve on edge.

Hayden peeks over from where he’d just shrugged off his shirt, towel slung over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“You good, buddy?” he asks, voice casual but tinged with curiosity.

Shane swallows hard, forcing his heart to slow, forcing his pulse back under control. “Yeah,” he mutters, bending to pick it up. “Just… uh, dropped it.”

Hayden looks at him weirdly for a moment but ultimately must decide that Shane’s just being Shane and shrugs his shoulders, making his way over to the showers.

Shane sinks down onto the bench in front of his locker and picks up his phone. Sadly the screen is fully intact and he can still see Rozanov's message in all its glory. He resolutely puts the phone away and makes for his towel. Stashing all thoughts of Rozanov away for the next few hours.

And definitely does not think about the possibility of getting another sticker tonight.

——

The moment the door slams closed behind Rozanov Shane gets shoved against the opposite wall, hands in his hair as his mouth is overtaken by the taste of cigarette smoke. 

He hates how much he loves it.

Rozanov licks further into his mouth and it takes all of Shane’s strength to stay standing and not melt straight onto the floor. His hands move up, burying themselves in those insanely soft curls and lightly pulls, basking in the noise it drags out of Rozanov's mouth.

Rozanov begins to shift one of his legs, and Shane’s thighs fall apart allowing his thigh to press right up against where Shane wants him most. Shane’s barely kissing back at this point, brain fully shut down and doing nothing more but panting into Rozanov's mouth. The taste and feel of him is intoxicating and Shane is slowly getting drunk on it.

Slowly Rozanov begins to pull away, just enough to where their eyes can meet but lips are still almost touching. One of the hands that was in Shane’s hair moves down to wrap around his throat. The touch is feather light, nothing more than a gentle hold, and part of Shane wants to do nothing more than to wrap his own hand around Rozanov's and just squeeze.

“Always so easy,” Rozanov mutters. The thumb from the hand still wrapped around his throat moving up to swipe over Shane’s bottom lip, the pad of his finger getting coated in the spit still there.

“Not easy,” Shane says back, voice barely above a whisper, and even he knows it’s a lie.

Rozanov pushes his thumb past Shane’s lips, and instantly he’s got his lips wrapped around him, tongue licking at the pad of his thumb.

The raised eyebrow and smirk on Rozanov's face in response says more than words ever actually could.

“It’s okay,” he says, grip strengthening just a bit, slightly moving Shane’s head side to side. 

“I know you’re easy only for me. My perfect boy.”

Shane couldn’t have stopped the moan from coming out of his mouth if he tried.

Slowly he starts sucking on the thumb still placed in his mouth, bitting on the fingers edge as rozanov starts thrusting it in and out.

“Fuck,” Rozanov hissed. His other hand moving down to Shane’s chest, pinching a nipple between his thumb and finger before squeezing the whole thing. 

“Look at you,” he says, continuing to lower until he’s squeezing Shane’s dick. “My baby, such a good boy.”

Tears spring to Shane’s eyes and he can’t help the little wonton thrusts his hips begin to make. His hands move to wrap around Rozanov's wrist, not wanting his fingers to leave his mouth.

“Always needing something to suck on.”

“Please,” Shane mumbled.

“Louder Hollander, I cannot hear you,” Rozanov pushes his thumb down onto Shane’s tongue forcing his jaw to open wider. Slowly he begins to pull it away, a string of spit still connecting the two of them. Eventually it breaks and Rozanov rubs the spit into his cheek, the tacky feeling mixed with the callousness of Rozanov's thumb causing a flutter of feelings to flood through Shane’s stomach.

“Now try again,” Rozanov says in a stern voice. “Please what?”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a second, willing whatever scraps of sense are left in his brain to gather themselves. He inhales, slow and deliberate, trying to steady the storm of heat and tension coiling in his chest. When he finally opens them, he meets Rozanov’s gaze again, sharp, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore.

“I want another star, please.”

Shane doesn’t even realize how much he wanted exactly that until the words spill out of his mouth, completely unbidden. His pulse kicks up again, harder this time, as if the very air between them thickens with the weight of his confession. The words feel heavier than he expected, he wants to pull them back, to swallow them down and bury them with everything else he’s tried to ignore.

His eyes flicker to Rozanov’s, and something shifts.

“Fuck,” Rozanov groaned out before once again crushing his mouth against his. Shane could barely keep up, feeling as if Rozanov was trying to push his way into his body through his mouth. Merging the two of them into one soul.

Rozanov began to pull away not long after, but kept his face close looking Shane in the eye.

“You want another sticker?” He asked, hand now shoving past the waistband of Shane’s pants to wrap firmly around his cock. He didn’t move just kept his hand there.

Shane nodded his head, eyes lidded as he looked at Rozanov.

“Yes please.”

Rozanov hummed in thought tilting his head to the side. “What have you done to deserve a star Hollander?”

The words caused Shane to pause and pull up a blank. 

What had he done to deserve a star?

He lost today’s game, making little stupid mistakes he knows he shouldn’t have made. That definitely didn’t deserve a star for that.

And then here in this building he bought just for this, Shane didn’t do much better. He’d barely even touched Rozanov so far besides a hand in his hair, and lips on his that barely worked, instead all attention was on him.

Shane hadn’t done anything to deserve the star.

“Nothing,” he eventually mumbled out, finally verbalizing an answer to Rozanov's previous question. Tears started threatening to fall and Shane could feel himself starting to fall deeper and deeper.

Rozanov must’ve sensed something going on because immediately both hands moved to cup Shane’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes, catching the few stray tears that began to fall.

“My perfect baby so honest,” Ilya said, moving in to tenderly kiss Shane’s forehead and that only made the tears want to drop more.

“How about you earn it now, yes?”

Shane nodded his head wanting nothing more.

Rozanov smiled at him. “So eager,” he said, one hand now moving to the top of Shane’s head to scratch at his scalp and push down slightly. “Get on your knees, Hollander, and show me how good you are.”

Immediately Shane sank down to his knees and shoved his face into Rozanov's crotch, hands coming up to hold Rozanov's muscled thighs from behind. He took a second to just sit there, allowing the sensations to flood over him, breathing him in and mouthing at the bulge in the sweats his face was currently buried in.

This was exactly what Shane needed.

He didn’t need Rozanov to say something hollow about how he played well, or how he’d tried his best, or how he’d get a star just for showing up. Those words didn’t mean anything

No, what Shane needed—what he craved—was this. 

An order. 

A chance to prove himself, too show why he should get that stupid fucking star. He wanted to earn it.

Slowly he let his tongue peek out, wetting rozanov over the fabric of his sweats, hands slowly moving up and teasing at the waistband.

“That’s it,” Rozanov murmured, eyes dark and heavy as he looked down at Shane. “My good boy.”

Shane keened out a whine over the praise leaving Rozanov's lips. The words washed over him as he pulled the sweats down and finally got his mouth fully around Rozanov. The heavy weight on his tongue grounding him and calming his brain instantly. All of a sudden nothing mattered anymore. Right now the stupid mistake he made during the second period didn’t matter, the way he skated just a little too slow during the last seconds didn’t matter, even the inherent embarrassment of handing all of his control over to Rozanov didn’t matter.

All that mattered was being good.

Shane sank down further, moving to sit on his heels as his hands moved to wrap around one of Rozanov's thighs, anchoring him further to his spot on the floor.

“That’s it малыш,” Rozanov said as his hand moved down to Shane’s face, his thumb rubbing the side of his mouth where spit was slowly starting to leak out.

“So messy, drooling all over yourself.”

All Shane could do in response was nod, the motion causing more spit to slowly leak out, a sticky trail making its way past his chin and slowly falling over his throat.

Rozanov let out a quiet tsk as his hand followed the rivulets path, his hand more so spreading the spit around further instead of wiping it up, hand eventually coming to rest heavily across his throat.

“P’ea’s,” Shane mumbled out, mouth still filled full with Rozanov’s dick but unwilling to let him go to speak up.

“What was that sweetheart?” Rozanov answered back, clearing his throat at the end over the breathy tone. 

He went to move his hand up, likely to pull Shane off of his cock and have him repeat himself. Shane couldn’t have that. Instead Shane quickly moved his own hand to cover the one Rozanov still had covering the area of his throat. He held the wrist there in a tight hold, not wanting it to leave.

Rozanov lifted a single brow at the movement but didn’t say anything else, waiting him out. Shane didn’t know what to say. He felt fully fucked out, head tipping over into that floaty space he craved so deeply. He knew what he wanted, he wanted Rozanov's hand to stay there and actually squeeze. To keep the air from floating into his lungs for just a second. He wanted to feel it, to understand the power those hands held.

But words were falling him at the moment. Each time he tried to grasp onto the one he needed they slipped through his finger like sand, just out of reach.

Instead Shane slowly loosened his grip around Rozanov's wrist and shifted his hand up to fully cover Rozanovs where it still laid, both light and heavy across his throat. He moved his eyes to look up, eyelashes clumped with tears and fluttering against the feeling as he squeezed, the movement quick but enough to catch Rozanov's attention.

“Fuck,” Rozanov groaned out, his voice catching on the words.

“This is what you want Hollander?”

Shane nodded his head, or tried to at least, his clouded brain not keeping up with his movements. He could feel the tears that were previously building up behind his eyes start to fall. Shane moved his hand back down to Rozanov's thighs, basically hugging the built muscle to his body as he began to shift his hips more, searching for any sort of friction that would help move him closer to the edge.

“It’s okay моя любовь,” Rozanov said as one hand moved up to wipe the tears falling below his eyes. “I will give you what you want.

At that moment Rozanov shifted one of his legs between Shane’s thighs, and the delicious friction it provided was so strong Shane let an involuntary groan. He shoved himself closer, trying to relieve the pressure even more but pushed himself too far. All of a sudden a light gag echoed out into the room, as Shane shoved himself even further onto Rozanov’s dick. More tears sprung to his eyes, from both the relief he was finally getting and from the sudden push of Rozanov further into the back of his throat.

Shane loved every second of it.

“So beautiful,” Rozanov whispered out into the room. Nothing but the noises of Shane’s mouth echoing throughout the four walls.

“Sucking my cock so well.”

Those words caused the fire inside Shane to grow stronger and stronger, till the tips of the flame were licking at the surface of his skin. All he could do was let out a garbled noise, as spit slowed past his lips and he circled his tongue around the head of Rozanov's cock. His hips moved frantically as he came close to falling over that cliff, shamelessly grinding onto Rozanov's leg.

“Like a desperate little puppy,” Rozanov cooed out. “humping my leg”

Just as Shane was about to cry out, to ask Rozanov to do something, the hand that’s been closed around his throat all this time finally squeezed. It was light, airflow barely being constricted but it was enough to send Shane fully hurtling down into a place where he could let go of everything.

He came suddenly with a long drawn out moan, sucking harder on Rozanov's cock as a wet spot formed on the front of his sweats.

“Fuck Hollander,” Rozanov groaned out above him as Shane could feel him begin to spill down his throat. 

He swallowed what he could and let the rest spill out from the corner of his lips. Future Shane would be disgusted, but the current Shane was so fucking blissed out of his mind he couldn’t even care about all the sensations covering his face. Instead he slowly let Rozanov slip out of his mouth, burying his face into his crotch and breathing in.  Whatever tethered him to his body had been fully cut by Rozanov and he could feel the fucked out smile covering his face as he let out a content whine as he shut his eyes and let the static noise take over.

After that time moved by sluggishly, Shane floating around as Rozanov took care of him. It felt like hours before Shane felt as if he was back in his own body, face clean of all bodily fluids and his ruined sweats swapped out for a clean pair of underwear.

Hands were running through his hair and it took him a moment to register that he was lying on Rozanov's chest, his heartbeat soothing him into an almost trance as he pushed into the hands still tuning through the slightly damp strands.

“You are like a cat,” Rozanov hummed, his fingers grazing gently over Shane’s scalp, the touch light but somehow grounding.

“No, I’m not,” Shane grumbled, instinctively pulling away just a little, but the motion was half-hearted.

Rozanov smirked and pulled him back, as if he’d expected the denial. “You are purring,” he teased, voice low, amused.

He clenched his jaw and shot Rozanov a look, but even he couldn’t deny it.

Sue him, it felt good. The gentle pressure of Rozanov’s fingers was enough to make everything else fall away, the noise, the tension, even his own thoughts. It was too easy to give in to the warmth of it, too simple to let that moment stretch just a little longer.

“Fuck off,” Shane mumbled back, the words spoken into the muscle of rozanovs chest where is face was pushed into.

“Ah, so you are back,” Rozanov teased, the words rumbling through his chest, a smirk clear in his voice.

Shane’s hand shot out in response, pinching the skin over Rozanov’s ribs. It was a reflex, but it made its mark. Rozanov’s breath caught, and a little yelp slipped past his lips.

“Ouch, Hollander,” Rozanov muttered, rubbing the spot Shane had just pinched, his fingers brushing over the tender skin.

“This is thanks I get?”

“Thanks for what,” Shane let out as a grumble, shifting around so he could bury his face further into Rozanov's neck, savoring the moment before they would inevitably both have to get up.

He’s refusing to admit to himself that some part inside of him is aching over the idea of Rozanov having to leave after that.

He’s also refusing to acknowledge the slight whine he lets out as rozanov moves to sit up, essentially dislodging him from his spot. Based on the smirk that graces Rozanov’s face, the noise did not go unheard.

“One,” he starts to say as he holds up a single finger. “Giving you amazing orgasm, hands free.”

Even through his slightly still foggy brain Shane knew that technically wasn’t correct.

“Fuck off, I did not come untouched.”

“My hands were not on your dick, yes? So hands free.”

Shane is about to protest further because that is not what fucking happened, but Rozanov pushes on, moving his hand to now hold up two fingers.

“Two, I even give you stickers you begged for” he says, pointedly moving the other hand not currently counting to pat Shane the side of the face.

God he hated him.

“Asshole, I didn’t beg for anything,” Shane said, moving to sit up further now against the headboard.

He made sure their shoulders were still touching, not being able to handle too much distance at the moment.

“Please Ilya, please give me a Star,” Rozanov moaned out loud. Voice mockingly high pitched and breathy.

Shane could feel unwanted heat rise to his face over the notion of him calling Rozanov by his first name. He wonders whether it was an accident or not, that Rozanov didn't even catch his own slip up. Shane decidedly didn't bring it up either.

Instead of acknowledging the slip, Shane crossed his arms over his chest and shoved his shoulder into Ilya’s, the motion sharp and purposeful. His brain slowly started to come back online, the fog of heat and lingering tension starting to clear.

“Fuck you, I do not sound like that.”

“Ah, so you are not denying begging then?”

The only response Shane had to that was a frustrated groan and a pillow thrown against Rozanov's face.

Rozanov laughs as he throws it back at him, swinging his legs over the left side of the bed and pushing himself up into standing. He stretches his arms out above his head and Shane can’t even deny the way his eyes follow the movement. Rozanov catches the look but for some reason chooses mercy and doesn’t mention it.

Instead he rounds the bed and moves to stand in front of him. Shane shifts so his feet are planted on the floor and opens his legs to allow Rozanov to step between them.

“Is okay,” he begins to say as his hands make their way to hold his face, thumbs rubbing matching little circles on each cheek. “Since you were a good boy, I decided to give them to you.”

It is at that moment that Shane feels it, The same sensation he felt all those months ago. Slowly, he lifts a hand to his face, his fingers tracing the edges of the sticker as it begins to peel away from his skin.

He blushes red, the heat radiating off of his cheeks feeling as if it is strong enough to melt the stickers themselves clean off. He doesn’t know what’s causing it more, the stickers themselves or the words leaving Rozanov's mouth.

Shane watches as Rozanov reaches for the bedside table where his phone has laid doormat for the past few hours and enters in Shane’s passcode. In hindsight 2424 may not be the strongest code. Rozanov moves over to swipe open the camera app and points the lens at Shane.

“What’re you doing,” he says panic lacing his words as he reaches out for his phone.

“Relax,” Rozanov says in a placating voice as he moves the phone out of Shane’s reach. “Just showing you how pretty you look in the stars you begged for.”

“Once again I did not-“

Rozanov waves him off as he begins to turn the phone around, deciding the picture was satisfactory enough.

“Yes, yes you did not beg Hollander. Just asked many, many times.”

Shane should really say something back, maybe about how Rozanov is an asshole and that he doesn’t care about some stupid sticker. But instead he’s frozen looking at the image lighting up his phone.

The Shane on the screen is a mess. Hairs sticking up everywhere, red cheeks making his freckles stand out even more than usual, and what he’s pretty sure to be a little patch of tried out spit crusting under the corner of his mouth. But what really sticks out are the four little golden stars placed on his cheeks, two on each side.

They’re different than the last two were. No cartoony little face or some phrase saying ‘good job’. No these are small, and shiny, like two little constellations placed atop his freckles.

His whole body goes hot. The idea of being good lighting him up. Being so good, Rozanov gave him exactly what he asked for and more.

His silence must be taken for annoyance because suddenly the picture is gone and Rozanov’s finger is hovering over the little trash icon.

“See? Gone now,” he says as he begins to pull on the clothes he originally arrived in. Shane’s tempted to offer him one of his own shirts but pushes down the stupid idea and instead begins to pick at his lip. The skin dry and cracked from earlier when his mouth needed something to do and the obvious choice was to tear into his own skin. A familiar sting opens up a little more of the flesh, sending a quick wave of relief through him, even as the metallic taste of blood touches his tongue. It’s a fleeting comfort.

He’s spent his whole life, being in competition after competition winning countless medals and trophies. Shane Hollander is no stranger to being rewarded, and yet here he is frozen solid after seeing those little stickers plastered on his face.

Stickers that are there because Rozanov thinks he was good.

It’s not like he made a game winning score or led his team to victory in a fifth round play off game. He doesn’t think he should be feeling as proud as he is right now but he can’t help it.

He’s preening under Rozanov’s approval and wants nothing more than for Rozanov to continue telling him how good he is, how he’s Rozanov’s perfect boy.

But he can’t, because this isn’t what they do. 

As he looks up and tries to focus his thoughts on anything other than Rozanov whispering good boy to him, he sees that Rozanov is now once again fully dressed.

“Goodbye Hollander,” Rozanov says as he moves close and dips down just for a second to press a kiss to Shane’s lips. The touch is soft and sweet and Shane can’t help but want more.

For once he lets himself indulge just a bit.

He moves a hand into Rozanov’s hair to keep him there savoring the feel of silky strands running through his fingers. He doesn’t open his mouth further, doesn’t try to deepen the kiss. Instead he just stays there relishing in the almost innocent press of lips against lips.

Eventually Rozanov pulls away. Shane watches as he brushes a thumb against his lips, the spot where a bit of Shane’s own blood from his nervous little habit had transferred over.

Rozanov smirks down at the tiny pinpricks of red and sucks the blood of his thumb into his mouth, and Shane almost gets fully hard once again right there. He can’t leave any marks, no matter how much he wants to. It’s a line they won’t cross. This almost makes up for it. A piece of him, so deeply intertwined, a part of his very DNA, swallowed down by Rozanov himself, as if Shane has marked him from the inside.

Neither of them move, and Shane feels like he’s seconds away from doing something stupid like crying and begging for Rozanov to stay.

“I don’t see you leaving,” he says instead.

“And people call me the asshole, clearly it is you.”

Rozanov begins to walk out making his way over to the front door. Shane stands on shaken legs and follows him out of the room but decidedly strays over to the kitchen counter instead of following rozanov over to the door, knowing this would never end if he did.

“Fuck off.”

“Where did good boy Shane Hollander go?” Rozanov whined out.

“Goodbye asshole.”

Shane flipped Rozanov off and stalked over back to the bedroom, trusting Rozanov to lock up after himself with the key Shane stupidly entrusted him with months ago.

He could hear his annoyingly perfect laugh as the lock of the door clicked shut and he breathed in for the first time in what felt like hours.

He paddled around the room, gathering all the things he’d brought with him, packing them up as he prepared to head back home, his real home. That’s when his eyes fell on his phone, still lying on the nightstand.

Quickly he swiped onto his recently deleted pictures and opened up the first picture that was there. 

Shane never really thought much about how he looked. He cared about his hygiene and making sure others took him seriously but that was as far as it went. Now though looking at this image, of his fucked out face, red and blotchy and the physical manifestation of Rozanovs praise in the form of four little stars, Shane could almost see the appeal. See maybe a bit of what Rozanov sees.

Without even thinking about it his fingers hit the recover button and he immediately adds it to a locked folder.

He was so utterly fucked.

——

By the time those stickers show up again, many months have passed. Rozanov has solidly, undeniably become Ilya, and Shane has, maybe reluctantly, accepted the fact that he enjoys the feeling of being “good” for Ilya just a little too much.

It’s not just the stickers anymore, not just the teasing or the tiny acknowledgments. It’s the way Ilya notices, the way he waits, the way his approval lingers just long enough to make Shane feel like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be… and god, maybe he’s starting to like that more than he should.

It’d be one thing if it was just sex.

He could handle feeling a little extra hot every time Ilya told him he took his cock so well, or that he was doing so good.

He’d turn as red as a fucking tomato but whatever he could handle it.

But what he couldn't handle was wanting so desperately to be good for Ilya outside of sex, waiting for even the tiniest bit of praise like a dog waiting for a bone from its owner.

It was disgusting really.

And the only thing to blame were those stupid fucking stickers.

Shane thought that it’d just be a random two time thing, a way for Ilya to mess with him and tease him about his behavior. After he’d gotten it once more he told himself that it was out of his system and he never wanted to see those things again. Really it was borderline humiliating and Shane could do without that.

At least that’s what he told himself until yesterday night when all this started.

It was the first time they were seeing each other in person again since the cottage and everything that happened there. The season had just started up again and Montreal had just finished playing Boston yesterday, this one ending in a win for Montreal. 

Shane should’ve been on a plane back to Montreal at that moment, but the game led into a long weekend with a break in practice the next day. So instead Shane was taking advantage of this time and was spending an extra day with “Lily” or at least that’s what he told Hayden and JJ when they asked why he changed his return flight.

The extra ribbing from those two was worth it to have woken up in Ilya's arms last night, which is really when all of Shane’s problems started.

It was two in the morning based on the time illuminating from his phone and he really needed some water. Usually he had a bottle he brought everywhere, even when he went to meet up with Ilya but stupidly he’d forgotten it at home. He doesn’t even know how, this was the exact reason he had a packing routine so that things like this would not happen.

But he did, meaning he’d have to go downstairs instead, so after what felt like an eternity of trying to extract himself from Ilya's arms without completely waking him up, Shane finally made it downstairs. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and moved over to the fridge, sometimes still forgetting he can’t drink water straight from the tap like back at home.

After emptying the cup, washing it, and setting it carefully back in its rightful spot, Shane started to make his way back up the stairs, already missing the warmth of Ilya wrapped around him, the lingering pressure of his presence like a quiet echo against his skin.

But something caught his eye in the living room, and he froze. There, in the corner of the coffee table, sat a small booklet. Even in the dim light, with only slivers of moonlight spilling across the floor, Shane could make out the words scrawled across its cover: “Reward Stickers.”

And so he made a quick detour, be lining for the table instead, the warmth of the bed could wait.

He thumbed it open and was immediately met with a page of ‘good job’ and ‘you tried!’ stickers with a single one missing. Shane knew the exact one, knew the colors of its ribbon and the shape of its words, his eyes beginning to twitch over the memory of receiving that one. He very much ignored the fact that it was still firmly placed onto his duffle bag.

The next few pages were all still fairly full until he came to the last few. These pages were filled with nothing but stars, from the plain small glittery ones, to the large ones covered in encouraging phrases. He very vividly remembers receiving every one of those missing stickers. From the first one that Ilya ever pressed against his check, that almost made Shane cum again then and there. To the small ones that littered his cheeks the last time the stickers came out. The photo of himself with them on still safely secured in a locked folder on his phone, a picture he hates to admit he opens up to fairly frequently.

He thought he was over it, that he'd gotten the need for these stupid little sticky pieces of vinyl out of his system.

Clearly not.

He wanted every single one to reside on his skin. Each one pressed to a chosen spot by Ilya's calloused hands, and each one accompanied with a whisper of words.

He wanted one not only when he took Ilya in so good that the man behind him was fighting off moans, but he also wanted one when he made Ilya breakfast just how he liked it.

He wanted them all.

And Shane did not not know how to deal with that.

Which brought him to his current problem.

Him and Ilya were sat on the couch together, each with a ham and cheese sandwich in front of them as they enjoyed the rarity of getting to spend time together. Or well Shane had a sandwich in front of him, Ilya finished his own around ten minutes ago.

“Shane,” Ilya spoke louder than needed, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

“What?”

“Have been trying to talk to you for hours”

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled lightly as he shoved Ilya's shoulders with his own. “It has not been that long.”

“One minute is basically a whole hour if it is me that you are ignoring.”

Shane shook his head and diverted his eyes back to the movie they were watching, at least he thought it was a movie.

“You're not hungry?”

“Huh?” Shane questioned, slightly turning his head to look at Ilya.

Ilya who was now relaxed into the back of the couch, arm splayed over the tops of the cushions where Shane’s head laid close. He gestured with an arm over to Shane’s plate where more than half of the sandwich still resided untouched.

“I’m eating it,” Shane answered back defensively, reaching over to pick his sandwich off the plate.

Ilya shifted one of his hands from where it had fallen onto Shane’s shoulder to pat at his head instead.

“Good boy.”

In an instant Shane could feel heat rising to his cheeks. It took all of his self control to keep his eyes trained on the tv and not to not immediately latch them onto Ilya. Instead he took a bite of his food and repeated until the whole thing was gone.

Finally he took a glance over to Ilya and saw a smirk gracing his lips.

That fucking asshole

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?” Ilya responded back trying to act all innocent but Shane would not fall for it.

“Calling me that”

“Calling you what Shane?”

“God I hate you.”

“Hmm no,” Ilya said, shifting closer to where his mouth was just centimeters away from Shane’s ear. “You love me.”

“Not anymore I don’t,” Shane grumbled, trying to disguise the shiver that ran through his body as a result of those words.

His eyes flickered over to the corner of the coffee table, right where that little taunting book laid yesterday, though it was gone by morning when Shane had come down to make him and Ilya breakfast.

But based on the way that Ilya's eyes tracked his own he knew exactly what Shane was looking for.

Something you want, Shane?” Ilya asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up with amusement.

“No,” Shane said quickly, trying to sound casual, but the catch in his voice betrayed him.

“Liar,” Ilya said softly, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

“What is it then?” Shane said defiantly as he moved out of Ilya's reach, back against the arm rest of the couch. “Since you clearly seem to think I want something.”

“I know you want something,” Ilya responded back, all too cocky.

Shane quirked an eyebrow in response but stayed resolutely silent, one of his legs curling out of their crossed position and laying it across Ilya.

Ilya’s gaze flicked down to the leg draped over his thighs, slow and deliberate, like he wanted Shane to know he’d noticed every inch of the movement. A corner of his mouth tugged up. He leaned over across the other side of the couch where a little end table sat. For a moment the only noise in the room was Ilya rummaging through it until he found what he was looking for and pulled back. There in his hands was the aforementioned sticker book and Shane could feel his eyes widen just a stretch at its presence.

“Careful,” Ilya said lightly. “You’re making the answer very clear, Hollander.”

Shane scoffed, but he didn’t move his leg. If anything, his heel pressed in a fraction harder, a challenge disguised as laziness. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at Rozanov but there’s nothing here I want.”

“Ah see that is lie, because I am here and you are always desperate for me.”

Shane groaned and let his eyes close and his head fall back, just to disguise the mix of annoyance and terrible fondness that had taken over his face. “Now that’s a lie.”

It’s every bit of the truth

“Uh uh, good boys do not lie and you are a good boy are you not Shane?”

Shane lifted his head, shooting Ilya a glare so sharp it could’ve been lethal. If looks could kill, Ilya would be six feet under by now. But of course, Ilya didn’t flinch. He just kept watching him, smirk firmly in place, eyes glittering with amusement, while his free hand, the one not holding the sticker book, continued tracing slow, almost soothing circles along Shane’s leg.

This was insane. Humiliating. Shane could practically feel his pride shrinking under that steady gaze. There was no way he was going to answer that ridiculous question—he wasn’t some puppy begging for a treat. Not him.

His resolve did not last long and with his jaw tight and teeth clenched so hard it hurt, he spoke the words he’d been trying to avoid. “Yes.”

A real smile filled with satisfaction then took over the smirk on Ilya's face and he opened the sticker book and carefully peeled out a little round smiley face. He then brought his hand down to where the other was still firmly on his shin and placed the sticker right there.

“Good job.”

Okay so maybe the embarrassment of answering that question was worth it. Ilya did not need to know that though.

“I don’t need a fucking sticker.” Shane huffed.

“But you are like a little puppy. I can see your tail wagging.”

Shane shot him a look, jaw tight, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “I am not wagging anything.”

Ilya grinned wider, leaning back like he’d already won, as if there was something to win. “You are. Emotionally. Spiritually. If you had a tail, it’d be knocking over furniture.”

“This is so fucking stupid,” Shane said as he stood up from the couch and grabbed their two empty plates, making his way over to the kitchen. He’d really hope Ilya could not see the blush that was continuing to bloom over his face like this.

He moved over to the sink and methodically washed the plates and then moved them over the rack to dry. That’s when he heard Ilya get up off the couch and suddenly he was behind him instead. His arms moved to circle around Shane’s waist, the bare skin against bare skin blooming warmth inside of him.

“Thank you, moya lyubov,” Ilya whispered, his voice low and warm, as he pressed a quick, soft kiss to Shane’s shoulder. At the same time, he slipped a tiny sticker onto Shane’s hip, right at the waistband of his shorts—a little trophy with ‘WOW’ emblazoned across it.

Shane groaned and turned around in Ilya's hold, hands falling further to hold on tight to his hips. Shane crossed his arms over his chest, and did everything in his power to try and make the look on his face serious and not as if he was on the verge of melting into Ilya's touch.

He wanted to protest. He wanted to pull away. But all he could do was stand there, caught between embarrassment and the absurdly satisfying thrill of being noticed in exactly the way only Ilya knew how to notice him.

“I don’t need to be fucking praised for doing the dishes.”

“No but you want it.”

“No I don’t.”

Ilya leveled him with a look. “What did I say about lying.”

“God this is fucking embarrassing,” Shane groaned as he brought his hands up to his face to cover it. Why did this have to affect him so badly? 

Ilya shifted his hands, gently guiding Shane’s away from his face. He brought them down, letting them rest at Shane’s sides, before lifting one to cradle Shane’s cheek.

“Is not embarrassing,” Ilya said softly, thumb brushing over Shane’s skin. “I like telling you how good you are. You like hearing it. See? Perfect match.”

Shane couldn’t help the small, exasperated huff that escaped him, though the heat rising to his face betrayed his annoyance more than his words ever could. “Fine,” he muttered, tilting his head slightly to avoid the full weight of Ilya’s gaze, “but does it have to come with those fucking stickers?”

Ilya’s grin widened, sharp and mischievous. “Stickers make it better,” he said, voice low, almost teasing. “You do not like them?”

Shaw wanted to say yes. Wanted to say that he hated them and that it was embarrassing to be given a sticker like this. That it was humiliating.

But Ilya said no lying, so instead he just turned his eyes away and refused to look at him.

Ilya must’ve noticed that this was causing some form of conflicting thoughts within him because he didn’t even offer up a teasing comment over how easy Shane just gave out his real thoughts. Instead he just stood there still holding him, one thumb brushing over the sticker he had just earlier placed on his hips.

“Where’d you even get that thing anyway?” Shane asked, squinting at the sticker book.

“From Dollar Store next to the rink,” Ilya said casually. “I needed a new lighter after the game and saw them near the checkout thought, why not?”

Shane raised an eyebrow, not quite satisfied. “Because…?” he prompted, his voice carrying just enough skepticism to make Ilya smirk.

Ilya leaned closer, grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “Because it was there. And because I knew it would drive you crazy. And because you basically come hands free anytime I call you a good boy.”

For that Shane moved to hit Ilya in the chest, which resulted in nothing but a huffed laugh from the man.

“Fuck you.”

“What,” Ilya said innocently, holding up his hands. “Is true. Stickers were originally going to be more of a joke, was hoping they would get you all annoyed and pissed off.”

“Oh so you want me to be pissed at you.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, shit-eating grin on his face. “You are very hot when you look like you want to kill me.”

“You’re insane, did you know that?”

Ilya just shrugged his shoulders in answer before continuing on. “But instead of becoming an angry little kitten, you completely melted, which was even better.

“Now you’re just overexaggerating."

“No you melted in my hands, like goo,” he said, hand moving up to brush through Shane’s hair. “Just a Shane Hollander puddle.”

Shane huffed, leaning into the touch despite himself. “I did not melt. I just wasn’t expecting it, it was weird’

Ilya snorted. “Uh-huh. So weird you then begged for more.”

“Again I didn’t beg,” Shane insisted, though his hands slid to Ilya’s waist anyway.

“Sure,” Ilya said, grinning at him. He tipped his forehead against Shane’s, voice softening just a little. “Just like you are not begging now”

Shane rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I’m definitely not begging right now. Have you taken too many pucks to the head or something?”

Ilya chuckled, low and teasing, before his gaze softened, sharp amusement still dancing in his eyes. “It’s in your eyes,” he murmured, squeezing Shane once, gentle and fond. “They’re begging.”

Ilya moved one of his hands up to hold Shane's chin, squeezing his face just slightly to purse his lips together.

“Admit that you want it Shane.”

Shane shook, though based on the look Ilya was giving him he did it entirely too fondly.

“Fine,” Ilya sighed as he dropped his hands and moved over to the kitchen island. “So stubborn, making me do all this work.

He snatched the book into his hands and thumbed over to one of the first pages. He pulled off a sticker of a ribbon and placed it right above Shane’s peck.

“This one is for playing an okay game yesterday.”

Shane tried to tamper down his smile. “I literally won, asshole.”

Ilya just waved his hands, as if the statement didn’t matter at all and went in search of his next chosen sticker.

A little holographic square with the words “excellent work” was next, placed right onto his neck.

“For amazing blow job yesterday.”

“Really,” Shane said in a deadpan voice as Ilya just smirked and moved on.

This time, he flipped the booklet to the back and peeled off five of the tiny stars, pressing each one onto random spots on Shane’s cheeks. Shane was fighting every urge to grin like a maniac, his heart threatening to betray him with each deliberate placement.

Ilya stepped back slightly, tilting his head to inspect his work, clearly far too satisfied with himself. He traced a finger lightly along one of the stars, as if approving it like a masterpiece.

“And what are those for?” Shane asked, trying to sound serious, though the corners of his mouth twitched despite his best efforts.

“For having the most beautiful freckles,” Ilya said, his voice soft, teasing, but utterly sincere.

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “How can I be rewarded for my freckles?” he asked. “I didn’t do anything…”

“Does not matter,” Ilya said, tilting his head with that infuriatingly smug look. “My rules. Freckles get rewards. End of discussion.”

Shane rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the warmth spreading across his cheeks, partly from the stars, partly from Ilya himself, gave him away.

Ilya leaned closer, brushing a finger lightly over one of the stars on Shane’s cheek. “Ridiculous, maybe. But correct.”

As the time ticked on more and more stickers got placed on every patch of free skin Ilya could get his hands on.

From things such as winning the cup and having the most assists in the league last season, though not the most points which Ilya very clearly made sure to mention. To a sticker for how well he listens when Ilya tells him to let go, for when he makes those noises just like Ilya likes. And all the way to the mundane things such as finishing his sandwich not even an hour ago and making him and Ilya breakfast early this morning.

The whole thing was so insanely overwhelming, Shane was kind of losing his mind. By the end of it all when Ilya had placed his final sticker, a small golden star on the tip of his nose, Shane was maybe at a loss of words not knowing how to process it all. To be loved so much that Ilya could name enough things he did well to fill almost a whole mini sticker book, it was overwhelming in the best way. And it wasn’t just the big things, the things that were expected of him. No, it was everything. Every little move, every small detail, every quiet effort Shane hadn’t even realized mattered.

“There,” Ilya said finally, smoothing the last little star down with his thumb across the bridge of his nose, lingering for just a moment.

“And what’s that one for?” Shane muttered, words tripping over themselves in his mouth. He felt like he was starting to float, drifting just out of reach of his own body under the weight of all this attention. And he welcomed it. Every bit of it.

“Nothing. That one is just because I love you,” Ilya said, moving in to kiss the star over the top of his nose. “So perfect just for me.”

Shane couldn’t not kiss him after all of that. And maybe he’d have to send Ilya out for a little errand later, just to make sure they wouldn’t run out of stickers.