Chapter Text
The collar is dark and heavy around Luca’s pale neck. It’s only their Chapter’s traditional collar for ceremonies and Cliff will offer him one that is more suited to Luca’s tastes later– something more delicate and soft like his new sub.
The tag with the Club’s crest is fastened just under the delicate bump of Luca’s Adam’s apple. Ilya can see it move each time he swallows. It glints in the low light of the room, but it’s not what’s blinding Ilya with its brilliance.
Luca is smiling. Beaming would probably be the best word for it, for the way his cheeks shine and he shows all his teeth. Ilya is helpless but to smile back. Luca takes it as permission to approach.
He’s had a soft spot for Luca since the moment the sub joined Ottawa’s Chapter of the Mastigery—since before he was even assigned to be Luca’s trainer. It was impossible not to sink into the sweet, yielding submissiveness that he exuded.
He must have been far too lenient with him because Luca is looking right into Ilya’s eyes. Though, perhaps, the excitement of the day has made him forget his manners.
“Don’t look so happy to see me go.”
It’s giddy and teasing, but edged with the hurt that Ilya knows Luca is trying very bravely to mask. Ilya pretends not to notice it.
“Congratulations,” he says politely. And then, more pointedly, “Cliff is a wonderful Dom, he will treat you well.”
Luca’s smile is a little thinner than before, but no less genuine. Ilya sees the understanding and forgiveness in his blue eyes, though the hurt reflects and lingers there.
He’ll be fine, Ilya tells himself. Cliff is a wonderful Dom, one that would be far more suited to Luca’s style of submission than Ilya.
When he gave himself away, he did so entirely. His sweetness would turn syrupy and melt him into something far too pliant for Ilya’s preference. Luca enjoyed being something of a living doll: a plastic state of mind and a limp body for his Dom to control.
It was the reason he gave Luca weeks ago when he’d hinted at wanting to be collared by Ilya one too many times for the Dom to let it slide. It was not the first time he’d turned down a sub and it was not the first time he used the excuse of incompatibility.
It was the reason, but not the reason.
Luca finally breaks his eye contact to bow his head. “Thank you for everything.”
Ilya smirks. He knows Luca is laying it on a little thicker than necessary, knowing Cliff is watching him like a hawk from somewhere in the room. There are goosebumps rising on Luca’s arms–perhaps he already feels those possessive eyes boring into him.
“It was an honor,” Ilya says and hopes Luca can feel the truth of it. “Now go. Before your Dom comes over here and kills me.”
Luca laughs. “Yes, sir.”
Luca crosses the room and into Cliff’s waiting arms. The Dom whispers something in his newly collared partner's ear that has his glowing cheeks turning an even more violent shade of red.
Ilya leaves, satisfied that he’s, once again, done his job and done it well.
Except he gets home and he doesn’t feel the satisfaction of a job well done. He feels tired, mostly, but also completely restless. A glass of whiskey stands between him and a dreamless sleep but he sips it slowly, delaying the next day as much as possible.
In the morning, he’ll be calling Wiebe and asking to be relinquished of his duties as a sub trainer.
It’s not a decision that he’s taken lightly. In fact, it was four subs ago that the thought first crossed his mind. It’s been years of indecision until Luca was his final straw.
Not every sub grew attached to Ilya. While their relationship was sexual in nature and it was far easier to develop romantic feelings after such intimacy, Ilya prided himself on keeping his work with subs as professional and separate as possible from his personal relationship to them.
But, inevitably, there are times a sub is not aware of that necessary divide between personal and pleasure. Luca had obviously grown quite attached to Ilya and Ilya felt that perhaps he had failed Luca by not realizing it sooner and putting an end to their arrangement.
Ilya had felt just as awkward and regretful as Luca did in the moments after he’d rejected Luca’s collar. He spent the next week wrestling with his guilt and ultimately lost, seeing Luca’s crestfallen expression every time he closed his eyes.
He’ll be fine, he reminds himself again. Tonight, Luca had already been all heart eyed and heavy lidded around Cliff and hadn’t even spared a second glance to Ilya before he left.
But Ilya doesn’t know if he’ll be fine. The house is quiet without the constant sound of Luca’s stereo and Ilya hears every bit of the silence echoing, reminding him that he’s not just alone but also lonely.
He finishes his drink and finds his bed waiting for him, empty.
Ilya doesn’t understand the saying that the grass is always greener on the other side. Why are you looking at someone else's grass? Why are you not tending to your own, taking the time to turn the soil, to plant the seed, to nurture it?
Doesn’t it feel better to work the land with your own hands and reap the benefits instead of finding something elsewhere?
It was the reason Ilya had grown successful as a professional Dom. Not every Dom takes on the role of a trainer, of course. Most of them finish their training with their sub trainers and move on, looking to collar their own sub instead.
Ilya’s sub trainer had seen something in him that was more than just yearning to become someone’s Master. Something that was both boon and bane: the fact that Ilya loved a challenge.
His trainer had been sweet and obedient– a proper sub. She was significantly older than Ilya was when he joined the Mastigery and had lost her Master a year prior to a long sickness.
She taught Ilya how to ask someone to kneel, how to drop them into subspace, and how to coax them out of it. He learned aftercare from her and the importance of consent.
In the end, he’d asked to collar her. She wasn’t old enough that taking a second Master would be out of the question and Ilya would have been a young, less experienced Master, sure, but it would have been so easy.
And Ilya liked it easy. Or, he liked the idea of ‘easy’.
“Oh, Ilyusha,” she had laughed, and kissed his cheek.
When Ilya wasn’t ‘sir’, she always called him that. Ilya hadn’t been Ilyusha in a long time–not since before he left Russia. Not since the only other person to call him that had died. It was a comfort–she was a comfort. Ilya had craved comfort for so long, so badly, that he thought it would be easy to find it in her arms.
“You would be far too bored with me.”
Ilya frowned. “Your age is no problem for me.”
His English was still rocky at the time. He’d been just shy of twenty and less than two years into his Canadian citizenship. When she ran her hand down his cheek, the sweet, chemical smell from the acetone of her manicure reminded him of home and Ilya leaned into it greedily.
“I didn’t think it was. I think you would be bored with me. We want things from each other that we can’t give. I want a caregiver–”
“I could be care giver,” Ilya argued. “I would take very good care of you.”
She echoed her previous statement with an eyebrow raised, “But you would be bored. You won’t want a submissive that just gives up control so easily and needs to be cared for twenty-four seven. That’s not the kind of Dom you are and that’s okay, darling.”
There was a sting of rejection. Ilya was young and he had more pride and ego than he knew what to do with yet, but he swallowed them down along with the realization that she was right.
No two Doms and no two subs were the same. They were still people with their own opinions and experiences that shaped their preferences, and Ilya just so happened to prefer earning—taking submission than having it be given freely.
He often wished his trainer would fight him a little for it. That she would test his boundaries and his limits of control so that Ilya could feel the sweet sting of his hand across her backside or around her throat.
The thought scared him. That wasn’t the Dom he wanted to be, but it was the Dom he was. Denying it would only be more dangerous. And he knew any sub wearing his collar would be subjected to his desires, so perhaps it was best not to collar a sub at all.
And he hasn’t. For six years he hasn’t. He’s kept his resolve to not collar anyone and while he’s not the only Dom trainer to ever retire; he’s the first in his Chapter to do so for reasons other than finding a sub of his own.
For six years, he was the Dom called when there was a particularly difficult sub. A new sub is like undeveloped land and Ilya sees the potential of what could bloom, if only there was time spent turning the soil and planting the seeds.
He helped subs find the things that would send them into subspace, the state a submissive transcends to during scenes. Because every sub is different, so are the methods needed to get them there.
Ilya’s trainer had seen both his temperament, patience and need to command control, and she’d urged him to use it to help subs who were often left behind for greener pastures.
After he’d graduated from his course, Grandmaster Wiebe had taken him under his wing; by the time he was twenty-six, Ilya had successfully trained and matched a dozen subs with new Masters.
He was done with all of that now. Something that used to satisfy his baser urges was now wearing him down and every sub that left his home was another reminder that he’d never have one to stay.
There was still that ache, though.
The desire to take, to claim, to own.
He’s been dodging Wiebe’s calls all day. He expected the Grandmaster to reach out eventually, but it has only been a few months since Ilya had stepped down from his position as trainer.
It wasn’t as if he’d been avoiding the Chapter completely. He’d just seen Wiebe at a function a handful of weeks ago and he’d greeted Ilya warmly before welcoming him inside, even though Ilya was not a titleholder nor a trainee nor in a bonded pair.
A different Grandmaster might have barred Ilya from the community entirely since he was no longer a functioning member of it. Wiebe, thankfully, wasn’t like that.
As one of the youngest Grandmasters in Mastigery history, Wiebe had taken over Ottawa and its band of mismatched misfits and turned it into something good, something safe.
The Chapter wasn’t as esteemed as some of the others, say Boston or Montreal, were, and the city had gotten a reputation of being a less than desirable place for people in the Mastigery to be sent to.
It hadn’t been Ilya’s first choice either, but none of the other Chapters had been ready to accept a foreign Dom with no one to vouch for him. Grandmaster Wiebe had taken the chance on him and Ilya repaid him with six years of service. Now, the city was slowly gaining numbers of partners, which only proved their respectability in the community.
And much of that number was thanks to Ilya’s ability to train the untrainable.
Wiebe could have harbored resentment about his greatest asset stepping away, but he didn’t. Instead, he wished Ilya well and promised he’d always have a place in Ottawa and in their Chapter. He seemed to really understand Ilya’s decision and had, so far, respected it.
But he’d never called Ilya, especially not at this time of night, except for one thing.
“Rozanov,” he greets as soon as Ilya finally picks up.
His voice is warm, but laced with seriousness, and Ilya says nothing. He’s still not sure how to address Wiebe. This had been his Grandmaster for almost a decade and it feels wrong to address him by anything other than his title, even outside the club.
“I’m guessing you know why I’m calling, since you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“I was just not by my phone,” Ilya lies.
“I see,” he says and Ilya can tell he doesn’t believe him.“You can say no, of course, but I’m hoping you’ll at least hear me out. I believe you’ll find it very interesting.”
That piques Ilya’s attention enough to settle into the call. He’d been planning on saying no before Wiebe could even ask, but the Grandmaster’s words stop him. His silence must be taken as permission because Wiebe continues.
“Last night a sub arrived from Montreal–yeah, I know.”
Wiebe can’t see Ilya’s raised eyebrow or his lips parting in shock, but somehow knows they’re there. That is interesting, Ilya begrudgingly admits. Montreal was known for their high society Chapter and Ilya can’t recall a time that they’d sent a member to another city for training.
It wasn’t unheard of for Chapters to trade members to keep an even number of subs and Doms available, but the fact that they were sending an untrained sub and the fact that it was to Ottawa was certainly interesting.
Wiebe continues, predicting Ilya’s next question. “They were pretty desperate to send him away.”
“He is… okay?”
Ilya’s empathy is rooted from understanding. He remembers well how it felt to be turned away from chapter after chapter, so he can imagine how this sub must feel now.
Wiebe’s voice is full of fondness when he answers, “He seems okay. I think his parents live in the area, so he’s not totally alone. He’s hard to read, though.”
“What is wrong with him?”
Ilya cringes a bit at his own question but he doesn’t know how else to word it.
“They said he has an attitude problem.”
Ilya hums. A brat, then. It wouldn’t be the first Ilya had dealt with and he knew that not every Dom was equipped to. Still, he wasn’t the only trainer in Ottawa who was able to do so.
In fact, Ilya preferred not to be matched with brats in general. It was easier to suppress his urges that way. Wiebe knew this, of course, so the fact that he was reaching out to Ilya at all had him carefully pulling apart the phrasing.
“They said? You don’t think so?”
“Not necessarily. He’s… Well, you’d have to see for yourself.”
Ilya considers the offer. It’s a tempting one, surely. His curiosity was always greater than his good sense. And his sense tells him that nothing good could come out of concerning himself with this sub from Montreal who, for some reason, had gone through their team of trainers unsuccessfully–who was classified as a brat but was, perhaps, not one at all?
“I left the Mastigery,“ Ilya says, though his resolve sounds thin even to his own ears.
“Of course. And you know I respect your reasons, but I wouldn’t be calling unless I thought you were the only one who could help him.”
Ilya groans. Wiebe always knew what to say to appeal to Ilya’s sensibilities.
It was the thing that had driven Ilya to the Mastigery in the first place. He’d been desperate for something bigger–he’d left his friends and whatever family he had left in Russia in search of something greater and found it in the Mastigery.
Not only a new community, but a purpose in it. Wiebe knew Ilya had soft spots for people who were othered like he was; people who were turned away for who they were or where they came from.
It would be a slippery slope. If he said yes to Wiebe now, would that set a precedent for the future? When was enough enough?
“What about Boodram?” Ilya tries. “I know he finished with training a sub last week.”
“I believe this sub needs a firmer hand than what Bood is able to offer, if you know what I mean.”
Ilya’s palm itches. It had been far too long since he felt hot flesh and a flinching body under it.
That was a slippery slope in itself. How long would Ilya be able to keep his personal desires at bay? How long could he control himself, restrain his terrible urge to hurt? What if Ilya was finally pushed to a point he couldn’t return from?
Still. If not him, then who? Would this man be sent across each Chapter until he finally gave up? The thought crawls across Ilya’s conscience. Who would he have become without the Mastigery? What if this sub was just as lost as Ilya was then?
“I will meet him,” Ilya says and hears Wiebe’s pleased, surprised noise over the line. “Only to meet. Maybe I can offer advice on how to place him after I do.”
“Sure,” Wiebe sounds far too excited. “a consultation, then. Great. I’ll have a car come for you in an hour.”
The call ends and Ilya sighs, feeling the beginnings of a headache throb in his temples. Perhaps he’ll stop for a drink at the Clubhouse’s bar on his way out from meeting this Montreal sub and find something to dull the pounding in his head and in his chest.
“Master Ilya.”
Ilya doesn’t correct him. Reluctantly, he admits he’s missed being addressed as such over the months and the title slips over him like a comforting, well-loved sweater.
Grandmaster Wiebe clasps one hand on Ilya’s shoulder and the other on his elbow. His dark skin is crinkled around the corners of his eyes and mouth as he embraces Ilya.
Although he’s only ten years Ilya’s senior, Ilya has always looked at him through a paternal lens. Being Grandmaster was a patriarchal role in itself, but Wiebe was more to Ilya than just the leader of the Chapter. He’d found Ilya at a time in his life where he was vulnerable, susceptible to suggestion. He’s met the Doms of other Chapters many times, so he’s seen a mirror of what he could have become. Thank god he hadn’t.
There was a popular belief that submissives were there to serve—that the goal of scenes and playing was the Dom’s pleasure and that subs should find their own in that. Doms like Dallas Kent were firm in that belief and treated their subs as such.
Ilya knew different because he had been taught differently. Whichever partner you were, it was two sides of the same coin; an exchange of power with the same goal.
Ilya knew a sub’s pleasure was just as, if not more important than the Dom’s.
“Grand—Wiebe,” he corrects himself and Wiebe’s smile turns just down just at the corners.
“You can call me Grandmaster. You stepping away from the Chapter doesn’t erase your place here or what I am to you.”
Ilya nods gratefully. A burden lifts from his shoulders. “Grandmaster.”
It’s a relief both to have the permission to address him as his title and for the assurance that Ilya would be welcomed into the Clubhouse whether or not he chose to take on the Montreal sub. Wiebe was the patriarch and the rest of the Chapter had become Ilya’s family. He was far too old to be orphaned but there was reassurance that he wouldn’t lose the people most important to him.
Not again.
“He is in there?” Ilya points to the pane of glass behind Wiebe’s desk that looks into the Clubhouse’s lounge.
Wiebe gestures for Ilya to approach. “Go ahead.”
The other side, if you aren’t privy to the fact that it doubled as the Grandmaster’s monitoring window, looks like any unsuspecting mirror. It gives Ilya the opportunity to get his first look at this Montreal sub.
He’s sitting on one of the high back chairs, but his back doesn’t touch the leather. Instead, he perches on the edge of his seat with his elbows on his knees and his leg bouncing. It’s late in the evening and he must be exhausted from his swift relocation the day before, yet he’s restless.
He’s also completely overdressed for the occasion, in a soft blue button up and light colored cargo pants that he keeps rubbing his palms against.
You can tell the most about a person by who they are when they’re alone. The first time Ilya had seen Luca through the one way glass he’d been nosing around the room, innocently opening books on the shelves and curiously touching his fingers to the mirror.
This sub does none of that. In fact, he does nothing. He fidgets in small, squirming movements as if he wants to get up but doesn’t. He keeps casting looks towards the door, but ignores the mirror entirely.
“What did you tell him?” Ilya asks without looking away.
He hears Wiebe come up next to him and hum softly. “I told him to have a seat while we tried to reach you.”
Ilya’s neck jerks back in surprise and he casts a look over his shoulder at the Grandmaster. “He’s been like this for hours?”
“It wasn’t a command, but he must have taken it very literally. You see what I mean?”
Ilya makes an affirmative sound. A true brat would have gotten up immediately, without knowing they were being watched but especially if they thought they were. Ilya has a feeling, by the way this sub is avoiding the mirror, that he has an inkling there is someone looking in from it. And yet, he obediently stays in his seat..
As if he somehow knew they were talking about him on the other side, the sub finally looks up and directly at the mirror. His face is very…plain.
Non-specific features and dark hair and a blank expression; all of it so boring and yet Ilya forgets to breathe until the sub’s gaze drops back down to his hands and Ilya realizes his lungs are burning.
Ilya swallows. Where had this lump in his throat come from?
Ilya opens the door slowly, so the sub will hear him before he sees him. Still, he feels the air escape the room as soon as he steps in it.
The Montreal sub’s legs twitch as if he’s unsure whether to stand and greet this new Dom or continue to sit as the Grandmaster instructed him. The panic and uncertainty is written all over his face and Ilya takes the chair opposite of him to put them on the same level.
His decision must be the correct one because the sub settles back into the chair and his leg ceases its tapping.
“Are you a trainer?”
His voice is deep, much deeper than Ilya expects with his soft, rounded features. Now that Ilya is close enough, he finds the sub’s ambiguous look much prettier than he had before. He’d never lost the baby fat in his cheeks and the slight curve of his eye and the wide set of the bridge of his nose hints at some Asian heritage.
“No,” Ilya says, answering the sub’s question instead of correcting his lack of pleasantries. “I was for many years, but now I am retired.”
His nose scrunches up in disbelief and Ilya finds it unfairly cute for how obviously rude it is. “You’re a little young to be retired, aren’t you?”
“Is that any of your business?”
Those fat cheeks turn a delicious shade of embarrassed red and Ilya has the urge to lay his palm across them to see how dark they can get. As always, he shakes away the unwelcome thought.
“Relax,” Ilya urges him. “I am only here to help. Grandmaster asked me to meet you and offer my opinion on who to put you with.”
“They didn’t send you in here to tell me I’m hopeless?”
The question is an obvious attempt at humor, but it’s edged with insecurity.
“Is that what happened in Montreal?”
The sub’s silence is answer enough. Ilya has had the misfortune of being around the Montreal Doms and trainers on several occasions and never came away with anything positive to say about it.
“What’s your name?”
He blinks hard before answering, “Why?”
“Why do I want to know or what I am going to do with it?”
He seems shocked by Ilya’s question and blinks three times before responding. Ilya counts each one.
“Both, I guess.”
“I want to know what to call you. What were you in Montreal?”
“They usually called me ‘sub’. If not, they just called me ‘boy’.” His nose crinkles behind the word.
“You didn’t like this,” Ilya surmises.
“I’m not a boy.”
No, there’s no mistaking that. He’s built of pure muscle that Ilya can see through the fabric that stretches over his arms and shoulders. There’s no denying that this sub is a man, a rather strong one, and perhaps that intimidates some Doms who aren’t of the same build.
He’s shorter than Ilya, but broader. His thighs are thick and large as he shifts nervously in his seat. Ilya is sure his ass will be muscled too, and imagines it flexing and twitching and growing red from his hand or a switch.
Ilya licks his lips. “So? Your name?”
“Shane Hollander.”
“Hollander,” Ilya lets the word settle on his tongue and is pleased when it makes the man shiver.
“Hollander,” Ilya repeats and then points to the spot at his feet between his legs. “I want you to kneel here.”
He blanches and his pink lips part in surprise. “Why?”
Ilya can see why Doms might categorize this sub as a brat; questioning authority and refusing obedience like he is. But, unlike true brats, his questions seem to be born from genuine curiosity. A need to understand the commands before he can truly trust and submit.
Ilya smiles. “Because I want you to. Because it will please me.”
“And this’ll… help you decide who I should train with?”
Ilya shrugs. “It might.”
He waits patiently for it to churn in Hollander’s mind. There’s a very small line between his eyebrows that smooths out as he rises to his feet. Ilya blinks slowly, making sure to keep his movements small and nonthreatening.
It would be worse to overwhelm him while he’s obviously still trying to come to terms with the request. He reminds Ilya of a cat, cautious in his approach.
Truly, Ilya just wants to see if he’ll do it at all. There’s probably a million other ways to test the complexities of Hollander’s submission without him having to kneel, but Ilya would be remiss if he let the opportunity pass him by.
Hollander does come. Slowly, yes, but eventually he’s standing in front of Ilya’s open legs before falling to his knees all at once, as if needing to do it quickly before he changes his mind.
A joyous, satisfied laugh bubbles in Ilya’s throat that he swallows down. He doesn’t think this little kitten would appreciate or understand his laughter—not when he’s already vibrating with nerves.
He’s so close that Ilya can count not only his rapid, nervous blinking but also the constellation of freckles across his flushed cheeks. His eyes are darker than Ilya knew eyes could be; he can barely see the pupil in the liquid black of them, but sees himself reflected in them before his gaze drops to the floor.
“Good,” Ilya praises him. “This is exactly right.”
“Thanks.”
Ilya can’t help the way the corners of his mouth twitch at the odd response. But Hollander isn’t looking at his face anyway, instead opting to stare at a blank space on the floor.
His cheeks are red and Ilya gently reaches out a hand, making sure Hollander sees it before letting the tips trail over his soft skin. He’s hairless here, not even the hint of a shadow, and Ilya wonders if he’d find the same fine, straight dark hair that he has on his head elsewhere on his body.
He really is like a cat, Ilya grins. His head turns into Ilya’s hand and his eyes close as Ilya’s touch becomes bolder. Already Ilya is making note of the places he likes best and how some of the tension relaxed from his shoulders at Ilya’s praise.
His blinking slows considerably and the more Ilya pets him, the less his eyes open. Ilya sucks in a small, silent breath. Could it be possible that, just from this, he could send Hollander into subspace?
When he looks down, he spots the faint outline of the sub’s cock thickening where the fabric tightens across his thigh. Ilya doesn’t know whether it’s the praise or the submission that fills out his dick, but it must be painful, trapped as it is in his pants.
Still, Hollander doesn’t squirm. His hands never reach to adjust himself or add friction like a brat might. To Ilya’s surprise and delight, he ignores his own arousal entirely in favor of putting all his attention into Ilya’s touch.
Ilya wonders how long he could keep him hard and waiting. Maybe he’d let Hollander get soft only to bring him back to hardness again. Would this sub allow Ilya to play with his body at will or would he, at some point, forget his patience?
Would he cry sweetly and beg Ilya to touch where he needs it the most? Would he lose his composure and rub against Ilya’s leg like a cat in heat? In which case Ilya would punish his new pet by putting a heavy foot on his trapped cock.
His thoughts have gotten away from him. There’s no way he could take Hollander under his guidance if his mind is already conjuring up vicious scenes of using his body.
Fabian might be a good fit. His easy demeanor would soothe this sub’s frayed nerves and his verbal approach to discipline could potentially suit him very well, if he needed both correction and reassurance.
Though Fabian’s sub, Ryan Price, had his own problems with anxieties and Ilya couldn’t imagine the Dom having to navigate both their individual needs.
Or maybe he was just finding excuses wherever he could.
He firmly pats Hollander’s cheek to return some of his awareness and is surprised by the little gasp that escapes the sub’s mouth. Instead of taking him back from the edge of subspace it only seemed to drive him further into it.
His breathing has slowed considerably and most of his weight is leaning into the palm Ilya just smacked him with. His eyes close and never open again, his lashes fluttering sweetly on his cheeks. Ilya’s heart races. Could it be…
“Why do you want to be a sub?”
The line between Hollander’s eyebrows reappears and Ilya traces his thumb over it.
“Because I do?”
“Is not really an answer, though, is it?”
He frowns and Ilya’s attention is drawn to his mouth. His lips are a lovely, unique shape. His Cupid's bow is rounded and wide, very different from Ilya’s sharp mouth.
“That’s my answer.”
Ilya nods patiently. More specific, then. “Okay. What is your favorite part?”
He appreciates the silence that follows because it tells him that Hollander is seriously considering his answer. He distracts the sub from getting too lost in his thoughts by rubbing a knuckle over his chin, pulling down his bottom lip to expose his small bottom teeth.
A pink tongue darts out to lick his upper lip and accidentally catches the tip of Ilya’s finger. The brief touch is hot and wet and shoots down to Ilya’s dick. What is wrong with him? Barely anything and his balls are already aching.
“I like,” Hollander finally answers, still a little hazy and slurred from the close proximity to subspace, “Not having to think. I like not having to figure out what’s right or wrong because someone will just tell me.”
Grandmaster was right, as he often was. While Bood was a remarkable Dom, he was a permissive one. He enjoyed giving rules for them to be broken and his punishments were more about pleasure than correction.
Someone like Hollander needed structure while training. He needed to learn not only to trust the Dom, but to trust himself. Bood’s leniency blurred the line between good and bad far too much for Hollander to do so.
Ilya hums softly. “And your least favorite part?”
This time, the silence that follows feels more about hesitation than about Hollander actually thinking of an answer. The thought finally takes him away from the precipice and his eyes open to meet Ilya’s before falling to the floor.
“That… I’m not good at it.”
Ilya hurts for this sub. He feels a deep, irrational urge to call the Grandmaster of Montreal and demand he speak to his Dom trainers about how they must have treated him under their care for him to feel this way.
His grip curls under Hollander’s chin so he can lift his gaze and see Ilya’s earnestness. “I disagree. I have only had you for a short time and you have already done so well.”
He’s rewarded with a timid, slightly disbelieving smile. Ilya doesn’t blame him—can’t even imagine what the Doms in Montreal might have told him otherwise.
“Why are you a Dom?”
It’s not the fact that Hollander asked a question that surprises Ilya, but what the question is and how genuinely interested he sounds in the answer.
“Because I’m good at it,” Ilya smirks.
Hollander pouts, the curve of his upper lip flattening out. “That’s a terrible answer.”
“Well, that is my answer.”
Oh. A grin splits Hollander’s face and opens something in Ilya’s chest. He pulls his hand away from Hollander’s chin, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.
“So you don’t think I’m a lost cause?”
“No. Not at all. And Montreal failed you if you think so.”
He ducks his head, his chin coming down to touch his chest. “It wasn’t like that. I know I’m difficult. I just can’t, like, help it.”
“Not difficult,” Ilya corrects him. “Different. Is not a bad thing to be. But not every trainer can appreciate different.”
“You seem like you do.”
Ilya swallows. “I do.”
“Too bad you’re retired,” Hollander’s smile thins out again with his attempt at a joke. “Did you get the information about me you needed?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“Then, can I stand now?”
Ilya nods, not trusting himself to respond. He wants to keep Hollander on his knees, where he’d finally relaxed into Ilya’s control. He wants to force the sub to promise to continue trying, but he hates the thought of Hollander being under the care of another Dom only to be failed again.
He stands awkwardly before Ilya and holds out his hand. Ilya blinks at it.
“I appreciate you meeting with me,” he says and stares at his own outstretched hand that Ilya has yet to take. It’s cute how formal he is, even when the situation doesn’t call for it. “...and for what you said. I hope—well, I guess I’ll see if you find someone for me.”
Ilya swallows before finally accepting the offered hand. “It was nice to meet you, Shane Hollander.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
Sir.
It rolls off of his tongue clumsily. He’s obviously not used the title much, if at all. The Montreal trainers had probably demanded it of him and cast him away when he’d refused to use it.
It wasn't a refusal. They didn’t know the sub enough–didn’t try to know him enough to see if for what it was; a lack of trust. A lack of earning the moniker. Ilya must have done something right to gain it.
Hollander leaves the room and it seems much darker with him gone. Wiebe enters and takes the vacant chair across from Ilya with a pointed look.
“You see what I mean, then?”
Ilya’s nod is stilted. “He is… special.”
“Special enough to come out of retirement for?”
Ilya looks at the space between his legs that had once been occupied by dark eyes and a constellation of freckles and a smart mouth. He feels bereft.
This sub, Shane Hollander, is special. Not quite a brat, though not sweet and obedient either. The thought of fighting for his submission, of smacking that smart mouth and then kissing praises against it, is tempting.
And another thought, one of Hollander being under another Dom’s instruction, has Ilya’s hands balling up in his lap. He almost isn’t able to name the possessiveness that stirs in his belly because he’s never felt it quite like this before.
And he’d only had the sub at his feet for minutes. Ilya left the Mastigery for many reasons, but Shane Hollander is making him forget all of them.
He wouldn’t be grass but instead a field of wildflowers. Ilya has already gotten a look into how he would bloom if only the garden of his submission was tended to properly.
“I will have a room ready for him in the morning.”