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    Summary

    “Just. Turn.” Shane whispered to himself.

    He twisted his torso.

    The angle was awkward.

    But, now, he could see it.

    Илья rested right above his tailbone. Simple. Tasteful. What was he kidding? There was one thing that tattoo was: erotic. Just the sight of it made his mouth water. The knowledge of what exactly those innocuous Cyrillic letters meant. Whose fucking name was permanently etched into his skin, above his hole, like a fucking brand. Half his brain, the horny impossible half that ruled over him so often, wanted to take a picture to send to the owner of that name. The rational part of him wanted to die.

    _____________________________________________________________________________

    OR: What better way to celebrate winning the Stanley Cup then getting drunk and waking up with your situationships name tattooed above your ass?

    Language:
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