Archive of Our Own ^beta

I want you to use it, blast the music
Bang it, bite it, bruise it
Whenever you want to begin, begin 
We don’t have to go back to where we’ve been 
I am the woman who wants you to win
And I’ve been waiting, waiting for 
You
To love me 

— ‘I Want You To Love Me’
Fiona Apple 

 

In all their years of sharing the ice, Ilya had never seen Hollander play such terrible hockey. 

At their first away game against Boston in the new season, it appeared that Hollander had somehow forgotten everything he knew about the sport since the last time Ilya had played against him. Easy passes fumbled, wide openings overlooked, violent checks not as easily shrugged off. The Metros’ loss wasn’t by any significant margin, but it was a loss all the same. Ilya couldn’t even really enjoy it, afterwards. It bored him when Hollander lost so easily—he was normally hard to beat, and part of the thrill for Ilya was the struggle, the fight. Nobody else in the league could meet him toe-to-toe on the ice and put him through his paces like Hollander. 

He wondered, only briefly, if something might be wrong. Hollander was sick, maybe. Or he’d dwelled too long on one of the simple facts of his existence and gone into full-blown panic. He was like a rat in a maze, always going in mindless, endless circles at a rapid pace, never arriving anywhere. Hollander tied himself into knots about anything and everything. Ilya knew these things to be facts. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information yet, so he kept it tucked away in the dark recess of his mind he reserved specifically for Hollander and all of his things. Obviously Hollander hated to lose—everyone did. Losing was part of the game. Ilya didn’t feel bad for winning—that was his job, after all. But he did worry about Hollander, a little bit. Only a very little bit. Just enough to make him reach for his phone in the locker room and open his conversation with Jane. 

It annoyed him to see that his messages sent prior to the game had gone unanswered. Hollander was definitely sick, then. That could the only reasonable explanation. He almost never passed up the opportunity to get underneath Ilya. Maybe he had come down with something serious. Clearly whatever he had was bad enough to make him useless as a player and absent as a texter.

Question, Hollander. What do you call what you were doing on ice tonight? 

To his surprise, a reply came almost immediately, no doubt fired off in the split second of irate indignance that always flared before Shane remembered to reign himself in. 

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You were definitely not playing hockey. Like zombie. Wondered if you hit your head maybe. Want me to kiss it better?

Fuck you. I’m not in the mood. 

You are always in mood. What time are we meeting?

Shane typed for a long time, the bubble disappearing and reappearing sporadically. Ilya imagined all the different irritated, foul, somewhat self-pitying replies he might be composing and then deleting. Finally, the response he had been hoping for came through. 

I can be there at 11:30.

Door will be open. 

Ilya stripped off the rest of his gear with a smile on his face. He didn’t bother to hide it; he knew in his bones that he was going to have a good time later. It hardly mattered, anyway. The atmosphere in the locker room was jovial, making it difficult for Ilya to dwell on compiling a list of things he wanted to do to Shane. He had earned a reward, after all. If Hollander was sick, hopefully he wasn’t contagious. Ilya would hate to catch whatever disease it was that made someone incapable of scoring goals. 

While he changed, the rest of the team tried in vain to convince him to go out and celebrate their victory. It was always nice to win on home ice; even more nice when they were beating Montreal. Ilya didn’t want to go to a club. If he went to the club he’d want a drink; if he had a drink he’d want a cigarette; if he had a cigarette then Hollander would complain about it when they kissed. It’s like licking an ashtray, he’d say, or something equally witty and uptight, with his nose wrinkled just enough to clump his freckles together. 

Ilya didn’t want to go out. He had plans that didn’t include a dark club or a cigarette or a $32 glass of vodka, plus tax and tip. His teammates let him be, shrugging him off as boring. Ilya let it roll right off of him. On his way home he checked his phone at every stoplight, just to make sure the message confirming Hollander’s arrival time hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. 

Ilya’s house felt emptier than usual upon his return, though still somehow not large enough to contain his nervous energy. He was always like this after a particularly satisfying game. Ilya liked to win. Ilya liked to celebrate when he won. Ilya liked to follow up one successful venture with another, racking up victory after victory until he was so satisfied with himself that he could coast on it for weeks. It wasn’t often that he thought of Shane as a conquest; once they’d started seeing each other regularly, Shane had never made him work that hard for it. Unless, of course, it was one of the times that Ilya handled him just right and got him so riled up that he practically begged to be put back in his place. Ilya paced the length of his living room a dozen times before he made himself sit down. 

The doorbell rang at 11:28. Ilya reacted to it like a pent up dog, practically leaping from his seat to make a beeline for the front door. He didn’t realize until then that he had been sitting in silence, lying in wait to let Shane in. The concept of an unlocked door meant nothing to Shane. No matter how many times Ilya said door is open, Shane would still knock, or ring, and then wait for an invitation. Ilya recognized it as one of his odd rituals, another of the routines he clung to for a reason known only to himself. Ilya had never asked, nor complained, about it. 

As expected, when Ilya opened the door for him, Shane stood on the porch and waited, staring, for his welcome. Ilya had known he would do all of this—Shane was easy, predictable, addicted to habits and consistency. Boring. No excitement, no variation. Ilya took delight in teasing him for it, poking harmless fun at the more charming quirks that made up Shane’s demeanor just to see his face get red and his shoulders creep up towards his ears defensively. Shane blinked at him once, owlish, clearly at a loss as to why Ilya still hadn’t invited him inside. 

“What? You are vampire?” Ilya asked. “Come in.” 

Shane glowered. He stepped over the threshold and toed off his shoes. Ilya could feel the anxiety and anticipation rolling off of him in waves, a palpable thing that drew the atmosphere of the room in tight around them. He was coiled, ready to pounce. Ilya was going to let him, if that’s what he wanted. It was anyone’s game, now that they found themselves together, on equal footing, on a familiar playing ground. The front door fell shut slowly. Shane’s gaze dropped to the floor, and then came up again to find Ilya’s face. He was quiet, though not in the way he was usually quiet; this was an expectant silence, a tension that implored someone to snap. 

“You want something to drink?” Ilya asked. 

“What?” Shane asked. “No.” 

Ilya shrugged. “Okay.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shane said. 

“Talk about what?” Ilya asked. “Drink? Okay. Nothing else to say, actually. So no problem.” 

“No, asshole, don’t be fucking funny.” Shane’s eyebrows drew together. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “The game was bad.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ilya said. “I had great time.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “My game was bad.” 

“No, definitely not bad,” Ilya said. “I wouldn’t say bad. Fucking terrible is closer to truth.” 

“You know what—” Shane stopped, swallowing his words. He exhaled once, short and sharp, centering himself. Then, calmer, he said, “Whatever. I should’ve known you’d want to gloat about it. Go ahead, let’s get it over with.” 

“Gloat,” Ilya echoed. “We are playing vocabulary now? Okay, Mr. Dictionary. You win. This helps? You feel better now?” 

“Sorry,” Shane mumbled. “It means, like… brag. Rub it in. Be an asshole.” 

“Yes, true that I want to do all of those things,” Ilya said. “Don’t worry, there is time.” 

He could see Shane’s pulse practically galloping in the hollow of his throat, his collarbone pulled into stark relief by the rigidity of his shoulders. The furrow between his eyebrows was deep, twisting his face into what Ilya could only describe as a pout. This was a good start. If he was handled right, Shane could be taken from placid to petulant in a manner of seconds. Ilya liked to see his temper come out. He liked to see him set his mouth in a straight line; he liked to see his gaze grow hard and steely. And Ilya especially liked it when Shane turned all of that smoldering intensity onto him. He was too easy, too fun, like a game of cat and mouse. 

They were both aware of the other’s restlessness, although they were keyed up for different reasons. Ilya had something to celebrate, adrenaline and happiness and good feelings to burn off. He won games often enough that it wasn’t a matter of urgency—it was nothing new, to win, but it still felt good. For Shane, though, losing didn’t happen often. He had plays to reconsider, a frustrated coach to apologize to, and no doubt an unwavering muddle of guilt and regret and frustration churning inside of him. Despite the difference in their circumstances, the end result was going to be the same for both of them. Ilya couldn’t help but smile. 

“Come on,” Ilya said. “I bet they are still showing highlights.” 

Shane groaned melodramatically, but he followed Ilya into the living room. They were, in fact, still showing highlights on television. Ilya was grateful that the commentary appeared to be focused mostly on how well the Raiders played; no doubt they would get to how badly the Metros performance had been, but for now, the local coverage was focused on Boston’s success. For Shane, a fine line existed between mild irritation and total despair—at times like this, he straddled it precariously. One wrong word might unravel him. Ilya was more interested in keeping him on edge in a different way. Their mutual confidence in the inevitability of the evening’s outcome heightened the tension in the room to an almost unbearable degree. 

They sat on the sofa with just one cushion between them, arms folded, legs planted. It was different, a variation on their expected theme; typically they would get right down to business, and not waste any time getting straight out of their clothes and right into bed. Instead, they both seemed to sense that it wasn’t yet time for them to touch. Shane kept his eyes fixed on the screen. 

Ilya, who had just finished playing the game and didn’t really need to watch it, let his gaze wander from the TV to Shane’s face. He took his time, raking his eyes over the straight line of Shane’s nose and the unhappy press of his mouth and the tight knot of displeasure bundled at the hinge of his jaw. The TV made strange shapes of his profile, bisecting his forehead and chin with harsh slabs of white light, making his dark eyes gleam like mirrored glass, refracting a kaleidoscope of blue and red and yellow. On TV, the crowd roared. Ilya tore his attention from Shane’s proud chin and looked up at the action unfolding. 

“See, that was good pass,” Ilya said. “Watch.” 

Together, they watched the puck sail right past Shane and back into possession of the Raiders. 

“You are huge asset to my team,” Ilya said. “The best performance of our season, probably. What will your mother say when she hears we are making you Raiders MVP? Unofficial, of course.” 

“Shut up,” Shane muttered. 

Ilya glanced over at him. To his delight, Shane’s ears and cheeks were pink. He was responding correctly to everything Ilya was giving him. Ilya supposed he shouldn’t be surprised—Shane was known both on and off the ice for his exceptional sportsmanlike conduct. He knew how to take teasing and criticism in equal measure, even when he didn’t want to hear it. Only Ilya saw the subtle temper tantrums, the frustration, the immense amounts of disapproval Shane directed towards himself whenever he felt like his performance had been insufficient. Ilya could tell this particular game had affected him badly, because Shane was very quiet. 

Normally, when they watched a game or talked hockey, Shane would have things to say. Lots of things. He would point out specifics, offer his commentary, and back everything up with logic and statistics and callbacks. Now, he was stonily silent. He’d started to bounce his knee; every so often he would notice it, and make himself stop. Moments later it would start up again, and the cycle would repeat. Ilya wished that he would say something. Even though he found sports history and player statistics boring, it was nice to hear Shane be excited, to hear him talk without thinking too hard about what he was saying. 

They sat in taut silence and watched the Raiders score again. On the screen, Hollander skated a wide circle around his own goal and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. 

“You know what, fuck this,” Shane said. “Are you going to fuck me or not?” 

“Depends,” Ilya teased. “You think you deserve it, after that play?” 

It was a joke, delivered lightly, but Ilya saw the devastating effect it had on Shane. His eyes darkened, filling with tears; he rolled his shoulders down and folded his arms over his chest. His mouth twisted downward with misery. Ilya knew that he took every loss seriously, and somewhat personally, but this was extreme, even for him. He appeared to have forgotten that a bad game was just a bad game. It was not the end of his season, or his career, or the world. Somehow, they had wandered into dangerous territory. 

Ilya knew Shane was not actually going to lose his temper; he was always doing this, skirting just close enough to his real feelings to let it all sit in his face, while never daring to let anything out. Crying was okay. Sulking was manageable. The worst possible outcome was Shane becoming silent, disappearing into himself. Ilya wouldn’t be able to reach him if he did—that would require the only kind of attention Ilya couldn’t give him. The risk of comforting Shane was too great. He would be revealing too much if he started interpreting his tells and giving him the handholds needed to pull himself out of the dark place he’d slipped into. 

“Hollander. Relax. So you lost one game,” Ilya said. “Big deal. Win next time.”

“It is a big deal,” Shane said. His hands were clenched tightly into fists. “It’s not just the game. You know I can’t afford to fuck up, not this close to playoffs. It’s a pretty big deal. Fuck. And it’s my fault. I wasn’t focused. I can play better than that, and I just… didn’t.” 

“Okay, your fault, so what?” Ilya shrugged. “You think you should be punished for this?” 

Shane turned away. A new, equally complicated expression settled over his face, one that revealed everything Ilya needed to know. He had guessed correctly—Shane was feeling more than sorry for himself. He was distraught. Guilt and anxiety thrummed inside of him constantly, like a resting pulse, but this was more than that. This was something bigger. This was something Ilya knew how to fix. He knew what Shane was after, even if Shane didn’t quite realize it himself, yet. 

Excitement fluttered in the pit of Ilya’s stomach as the thrill of possibility took hold. The door of opportunity had opened itself. He’d been wanting to get Shane over his knee since the first time he’d touched him; had wanted to leave marks on him, to hold him down and see just how much he could take. He guessed it would be a lot. He hoped it would be a lot. He knew from experience that Shane was tough, strong, marked easily, and never complained about pain. Ilya had seen him marbled with some of the ugliest, most enormous bruises he’d ever seen on another human being, and never once had Shane done more than shrug and say it’s clearing up or it doesn’t hurt that bad. Briefly, Ilya let himself marvel at his incredible luck. Not only was he going to bend Shane over and leave him bruised, Shane was going to beg him to do it, and he was going to like it. 

“Here is what I think,” Ilya pressed, leaning forward on the couch to find Shane’s eyes with his own. “You want somebody to teach you a lesson. To make sure it won’t happen again.” 

Shane didn’t offer a rebuttal. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and then closed his mouth. His face was red. He still looked like he might cry, though he wouldn’t; Ilya had never actually seen him do it. Always only the threat of it, always like dangling over the edge of a cliff and never letting go. Ilya himself was not a crier, God forbid, but he wondered if it might help if Shane were to stop storing all of that sadness in his eyes. He looked like a wet cat, bedraggled and pathetic and imploring. Ilya could fix this. Ilya could make him sorry, could make him cry, could make him forget about feeling bad for his performance. And then they would fuck, and everything would be back to normal. In the silence, Shane did his best to hold Ilya’s gaze. His lashes would drop on occasion, an attempt at shielding himself from the direct nature of Ilya’s questioning. 

“I can help,” Ilya said. “You will let me try?”

He got a nod in response, a brief but unmistakable jerk of Shane’s head. Words were required sometimes, but hard for Shane, usually right when they were needed most. Ilya knew this, and slowly but surely, he had been getting better at reading the whole of him, as opposed to just his voice. It wasn’t always necessary for him to say anything at all. Everything that happened in Shane’s brain happened in Shane’s body, in his limbs and his eyes and his face. Ilya knew what his uncertainty looked like, and he didn’t see that. He could see excitement, maybe. Thoughtfulness. No fear or worry. A nod said everything Ilya needed to hear. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Take off your shirt.” 

Wordlessly, Shane reached behind himself and grabbed a handful of his hoodie to yank it off over his head. His t-shirt followed. He folded them, and set them aside. When he was finished, he cast another expectant look towards Ilya. He was practically trembling with anticipation, no doubt trying to guess what might be coming, warring with his imagination as it offered up dozens of probable scenarios. Ilya liked knowing that Shane probably hadn’t guessed correctly. 

“Come here.” 

Shane tucked the rest of his body up onto the couch, and crawled across the chaise to close the distance between them. He knelt on the seat next to Ilya, his head hung low. They sat there for a moment, letting tension make chaos of the silence. Ilya watched Shane’s eyelids flutter shut when he reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair to drag him down. He got no resistance, no protest; Shane folded, going where he was led with all the ease and willingness he possessed in some of Ilya’s most idealized wet dreams. It took minimal effort to get Shane where Ilya wanted him to be: laid over his lap, his feet on the floor, all of his weight centered across Ilya’s thighs, his chest pressed to the cushions. 

“Comfortable?” Ilya asked. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane said. “Uh—what are you—”

Ilya hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s sweats and tugged them halfway down his legs. His boxers followed suit, similarly placed, left just high enough so that Ilya could see the thick elastic cutting into the meat of his thighs. He dragged his fingernails up the back of one leg, over the curve of his hip, chasing a shiver up the line of Shane’s spine. His fingers came to rest in the shadow of a deep stretch mark, pulled taut over the bulk of his haunch. 

Greedily, he let himself enjoy the new view afforded to him. He was in no hurry. Shane was already breathing heavily, probably because he’d guessed what was about to happen and was trying to figure out how he felt about it. The effort of forcing himself to work past the thing inside of him that didn’t want him to get what he needed was enormous, Ilya knew. The struggle was worth it, sometimes. Ilya had watched Shane actively decide to enjoy things in real time, like flipping a switch. He didn’t know how Shane might respond to what Ilya had in mind, but he knew without a doubt that it got him worked up to be put in positions like this. Embarrassing positions. Uncomfortable positions. He was very talented at it. Whatever shape Ilya wanted Shane’s body to make, it would, no matter how strenuous or degrading. Ilya loved it. He could think of no other word for it. He loved the way Shane’s body liked his hands; he loved that his responses were huge and immediate. 

Ilya had already considered the fact that Shane might love this, but he hadn’t really given much thought to how much he might enjoy it himself. This was new for Shane; it was not new for Ilya. He was struck by the need to make him feel at ease, somehow, to remind him that it was not that serious. Ilya didn’t care that Shane had lost a game. He benefitted greatly from the fact that he had. The only person punishing Shane was Shane. Ilya was merely here to help speed the process along, to drive him to the point of acceptance. And also, probably, the point of orgasm. He grabbed a firm handful of Shane’s haunch and jiggled it, just to watch the cushioned muscle shift underneath his skin. Shane scoffed, fidgeting, and shot him a sideways glance. 

“Quit it,” Shane said. “Pervert.”

“Hey. Me, pervert?” Ilya asked. “I am not the one begging for spanking.” 

“I never—what? I didn’t—”

The protest in Shane’s voice was weak. He didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could get up and pull up his pants and walk away. Ilya wouldn’t fight him, if that’s what he decided. Shane rested his chin against his own shoulder. He wasn’t alarmed; his expression was calm, but heavy with contemplation. 

“You would rather suck my cock instead?” Ilya asked. “No problem.” 

“No,” Shane said. “I mean, yeah, always, but—what if I don’t—” 

Once Ilya heard the beginning of what would surely be a long list of what ifs, he drew back his hand and slapped him, hard. The impact made Shane sit up. He pushed himself up on his forearms and stayed very still. Ilya could tell he was holding his breath. An odd, weighted silence settled over the room, underscored by the low drone of the TV. If he had been hitting anyone else, Ilya would have taken the cue and offered to let them tap out. This was different. Shane’s surprise wasn’t discomfort. It probably hurt, but it was supposed to. Ilya let him sit and think, not breathing or blinking, in that odd and protracted way he had when he was trying to figure something out. All he needed to do was wait for Shane to arrive at what was already a foregone conclusion. His sudden stillness meant that he did like it—probably a lot, probably too much. His body had surprised him, not for the first time, hopefully not for the last. 

“Trust me,” Ilya said. “You will like.” 

Shane’s ribcage contracted, expanded, went rigid again. The muscle of his upper body shifted beautifully as he rolled the tension out of his arms. He’d already broken out into a sweat; artificial light from the TV sheened his skin, catching on the thick scar on his shoulder, drawing Ilya’s eye down the slope of his back to the dimples on either side of his spine. He was slightly pink where Ilya had hit him, faint enough that if they were to stop now, it would fade to nothingness in just a few minutes. Ilya squeezed again, digging his thumb into the crease of Shane’s thigh. 

In a soft voice, Shane said, “Okay.” 

“Lie down,” Ilya said, “so I can do it again.” 

It only took a moment for Shane to lower himself to his belly, letting his head rest atop his folded arms. Ilya kept a close watch on his face the next time he hit him. Not too hard, just a warm up, enough to deepen the heat in his skin and force a soft moan out of his mouth. Shane’s eyes slipped closed at the same moment his lips parted. Ilya couldn’t help but smile, marveling at the way he’d responded so perfectly. Shane was always giving him what he wanted, jumping headfirst into everything, indulging his imagination in new ways. Sometimes Ilya wondered how he was ever able to let him leave afterwards. A smarter, braver man would keep Shane at home in bed where he belonged. Ilya could not claim to be either, but he fought the urge, on occasion, to keep Shane for longer. He knew that Shane would have to leave soon, back to his hotel, but for right now, he was beginning to flush red underneath Ilya’s hands and grow hard against Ilya’s thigh. 

This particular thing was one of Ilya’s favorite things to try with new people. Primarily because he liked the noises that people made when they were hit. Soft at first, pleasantly surprised by the sting, and then eventually more strained, sometimes veering into guttural. He liked it the most when the intensity built up to the point that they couldn’t do anything other than express it with wordless cries. Ilya put considerable effort into wringing that out of people. He liked the feedback loop of a person moaning; he liked that each noise indicated a feeling, things like this is good and this is painful and this is going to make me come. 

Shane was somewhat unique in the sense that he made pretty sounds all the time. He was perpetually some kind of overwhelmed. They varied in pitch and tone, depending on whether he was being kissed or fingered or yanked around by his hair or fucked into the mattress. The sounds he made when he was in pain were different. Ilya had heard them on the ice, and he had heard them in bed. He hoped that Shane would be loud. Ilya was good at making people loud. He was an instigator, a generous lover, an infuriating and stubborn person. All of these things garnered strong reactions—all of these things made people behave the way Ilya wanted them to behave. 

Ilya varied the speed and strength of the blows until he found the perfect balance, the one that made Shane noisy almost immediately. A shocked, jagged moan escaped him as he reached out to clutch a handful of the couch cushions. Shane braced his weight against his arms and pressed himself down. His face was red, his eyes glassy, his mouth wet. He was biting the inside of his lip, his normally tense brow and jaw loose with bliss. 

“Fuck,” Shane said. “Fuck, Ilya—”

Though his voice was breathy and broken, he wasn’t overwhelmed, not yet, which only made Ilya want to redouble his efforts. Shane should not be talking—the point was to drive him past that. The point was to get Shane out of his head. He wrapped his free hand around Shane’s hip and hitched his weight closer in order to lay a quick series of alternating blows to the crease of each thigh. Each impact of Ilya’s hand was visible, both in the way the meat of Shane’s body rebounded and the way the bright, warm pink of his skin deepened. Ilya couldn’t deny that he liked seeing Shane bent over like this, in a state of total surrender. He hadn’t struggled yet, but it sounded like he loved it, if his enjoyment could be judged solely by the delicate, pained sounds pouring out of him. 

When Shane started to cry it was quiet, nothing but a few subtle huffs of thick, wet breath. Ilya cocked his head towards it, listening for what he wanted to hear. He paused to shake out his wrist, repeatedly tightening his hand into a fist and releasing it quickly. His palm was a bundle of nerves set ablaze, dappled white in all the places it had gone numb. Shane didn’t seem to notice the brief reprieve at first. A tear dripped from his chin, mingling with the dark wet spot that had formed beneath him on the cushion. He hiccuped, his breathing rapid, and lifted his head. 

Ilya lightly teased the blunt edge of his fingernails across the most inflamed parts of Shane’s body. He gasped, arching his back, pressing his cock more firmly into Ilya’s thigh. A strangled fuck died in his throat as he pushed and pulled, warring against his own response to the intensity. He turned to look over his shoulder, giving Ilya a good look at his tear-streaked face. His mouth was still slack, swollen and wet from crying and biting. Ilya had been focused intently on Shane’s body up until now, to the point he’d been able to compartmentalize his own growing need; the sight of Shane’s open, drooling mouth broke the dam. Red blanched dead white beneath Ilya’s fingertips as he grabbed, spreading Shane open so that he could spit onto his hole. He dragged his thumb through it, and pressed tiny, tight circles against the slick skin. 

“You are being such a good boy for me,” Ilya murmured. “Is because you want me to touch you like this?” 

Shane groaned. He turned away, hiding his face again. 

“Hmm?” Ilya asked. “Answer me.” 

“Yes,” Shane said, his voice throaty and strained. “Yes, please, are you gonna fuck me?” 

“Not yet,” Ilya said. “I don’t think you are sorry enough yet.” 

He pressed down, just enough to feel the tension of Shane’s body begin to give. Shane hitched his hips back, seeking more, and Ilya took his hand away. He liked to think that he was well versed in Shane’s behavior, and his body, by now. His breaking point was not the goal, but Ilya was no quitter, especially not when it came to things like this. He hiked Shane’s body up again, reseating his weight, and held him firmly in place with a hand on his hip. It wasn’t necessary—Shane was not a wriggler. He had stayed still, mostly, and accepted whatever Ilya had given him. He was good, very good, probably the best person Ilya had ever spanked. He made a mental note to tell Shane that, later, because it would definitely make him very happy to hear. 

The crying came back before the bruises began to appear, but eventually, Ilya could see the dusky onset of them beneath Shane’s skin. It satisfied him to see proof that he was leaving behind an ache that would linger for days. When Shane was crying, really crying, no more self-conscious sniffling or stifled hiccups, but real full-bodied sobbing, interspersed with watery exclamations of please and I’m sorry and fuck, Ilya paused to take stock of him. The creases of his thighs were stippled with bruising, all faint, though copious enough that Ilya knew they would only deepen later. He prodded gently at the darkest spots, vivid wine-red marks that appeared more tender than the rest of them. Shane reared back, choking on his sobs, and tried to twist his body away from Ilya’s hands. Immediately, Ilya sank the fingers of his free hand into Shane’s hair and shoved, holding him down against the cushions. 

“Stop,” Ilya said. “I’ll give you last ten. You can keep being good boy for me, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane sobbed. “Yes, I’m a good boy, I promise. Please, I’ll be good.” 

“I know you will.” Ilya brushed his knuckles against the back of Shane’s thigh. The skin there was still shockingly warm, red and searing like a fever. “Just ten, okay? Don’t move.” 

Ilya didn’t believe in pulling his punches. Not on the ice, not in the bedroom. He was something of an expert in bodies, how they worked, what they responded to, what kind of force they could both apply and endure. He knew where to hit people to avoid a penalty; he knew where to hit people to make them cry. It was all about the execution. The amount of weight he let sit forward on his skates for a body check differed from the amount of momentum he needed to put behind his arm in order to leave a real, substantial bruise on Shane’s thick thigh. Like everything he did, Ilya was going to finish it up strong—harder and faster and better than anything he’d done so far. 

His warning had made Shane brace himself, which would only make it hurt more, but Ilya didn’t correct him. Shane would figure it out. He was smart. 

The first of ten made him cry out, a strangled aha sound that punched itself from his lungs. By six Shane had stopped crying, and was instead shouting, gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles were white, his entire body shaking from the effort of lying still and taking it. He reached up, bending his arm back, holding his hand palm up against the small of his back. Ilya released his grip on Shane’s hair and threaded their fingers together. Nine made Shane clench his hand so tightly that it ached; ten sent all of the tension out of him in an instant, along with an exhale so powerful that it left him visibly breathless for the span of several seconds. 

Ilya hooked his elbow underneath Shane’s chest and hauled him upright, pulling him into his lap. Shane went willingly, though not easily; he was dead weight in Ilya’s arms, crying and trembling like he might shake apart. Later, Ilya would tell himself that he only held Shane so close and murmured affectionate nonsense in his ear because he’d needed it at the time. The logical conclusion to a scenario like this was a slew of Russian pet names and disjointed praise and professions of pride. Obviously. Ilya couldn’t imagine giving him any less. Besides, Shane couldn’t understand any of it. He knew only that Ilya was comforting him, and every so often Ilya would tuck a good boy in English alongside the more dangerous, self-indulgent terms delivered in his mother tongue. 

It didn’t surprise him to find that Shane was still hard. His body rested heavy against Ilya’s, pressing the line of his cock between their torsos. As his breathing steadied, he started to shift his hips, seeking friction. His eyes were closed; his mouth was open. Ilya pressed him back with a firm palm against his sternum, just far enough to slip a hand in between their bodies. He didn’t touch Shane’s cock. Instead, he let his knuckles rest against his navel, close to where Shane was hot and wet and painfully neglected. 

“Look at me,” Ilya said.

Shane lifted his heavy head and looked at Ilya. He regretted making the request; it was devastating, to look Shane in the eye. He was a mess, red and flushed and weeping, his eyelashes clumped together with tears. Ilya wanted to kiss him so badly he felt it in his teeth. Something told him it would be a bad idea, too close for comfort, to acknowledge that he could see the terrible vulnerability in Shane’s face at that moment.

“Good job,” Ilya said. “You were very good, I am so proud of you. You want me to touch you?” 

“Please,” Shane whispered, his voice far-away sounding, pulled from somewhere deep inside of him. “Please, make me come, please. I won’t—it won’t take long, please, I wanna—“ 

Ilya hushed him softly, and wrapped a hand around his cock. The sound that Shane made was incredible, deep and resonant, so impossibly pleased that it landed on Ilya’s ear like a caress. Ilya twisted his wrist, hoping to hear it again, and was rewarded when another long moan ribboned out of him. Shane was still crying when he came merely moments later. His chest spasmed with sobs while his abdomen quivered. It was then that Ilya kissed him, breathing his air, anchoring him to the places where their bodies touched. 

“Thank you,” Shane gasped against Ilya’s parted lips. “God, fuck, thank you.”

His forehead dropped onto Ilya’s shoulder as he shuddered through it, rocking his hips into the loose grip of Ilya’s fist. When he stilled, he took Ilya’s wrist in hand and guided his fingers into his mouth. Methodically, with his eyes heavily lidded, Shane licked him clean. It was self-indulgent, in a way, but the weighted reverence of the act made Ilya’s chest seize. He felt like he was on fire; he was close to losing control, to his own breaking point. Shane’s come was hot like blood on his chest, and he could feel the heat of Shane’s thighs through the fabric of his pants. Static started to infringe upon his awareness. He needed to be inside of Shane, or on top of him, at least as close to him as he could possibly get himself in the next few seconds. He reached out, blindly, for the lube he kept stashed between two of the couch cushions. 

Shane made a small, surprised sound when Ilya upended him, practically tossing him facedown onto the chaise. He struggled just enough to turn his head and looked up at Ilya, his eyes wide and bottomless and dark. Ilya grabbed him by the hair and pushed him back down, hiding his face again. Now was not the time for flirting or games; Ilya wanted something, and he wasn’t in the mood to work for it any longer. 

“Knees together, like this.” Ilya put Shane where he wanted him, his hips cocked up just slightly, his legs together, his weight on his elbows to keep him steady. “Stay still.”

He popped the cap on the lube and squeezed, smearing the backs of Shane’s thighs until they glistened. The near blinding urgency he felt made him clumsy. Ilya fumbled with the drawstring on his sweats as he bent down, resting his forearm alongside Shane’s head. His chest lined up neatly with Shane’s sweaty back, and his cock lined up perfectly with the lube slick space between his legs. He pressed in slowly, guiding himself with a loose and practical grip. He didn’t need to help himself along; the whole thing was going to be over embarrassingly fast. The heat of Shane’s body was indescribable, almost unbearable when paired with the tightness and pressure of his plush thighs. 

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “Fuck, Shane.”  

Shane whimpered a response. His thighs were still trembling, but he kept them pressed together the way Ilya had directed, with just the right amount of tension. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he was good at it, that he’d followed instructions perfectly and made himself ready for Ilya to fuck him. It was terrible, how that made Ilya feel. Selfish and ugly and a dozen other things that were much too big, especially for right now. Ilya forced his mind off of it all. He held Shane down against the couch and closed his eyes. 

It was sometimes enough for Ilya to just listen to Shane, to narrow his entire focus to the way that he sounded when Ilya fucked him. He stifled a grunt into the upholstery every time Ilya’s hips came into contact with his bruises, which was new, but everything else was exactly as Ilya remembered it. Breathy, punched out, woven with his voice, undeniably masculine and earnest and so deeply laden with pleasure that it seemed Shane hardly knew what to do with it. Ilya heard Shane gasping like this in his dreams all the time, sometimes in the back of his mind when he missed him. He counted himself lucky that Shane in a dream was a lot like Shane in the waking world: needy and lovely and always, always bending his body towards Ilya’s, offering his open mouth. 

Ilya could hardly stand it. He leaned forward and bit down on the nearest patch of Shane’s skin he could find, grounding himself in the physical sensation of applying pressure. Shane muffled a squeal into the couch. He would bruise there now, in the shape of Ilya’s teeth. Ilya sucked an identical mark into the skin directly beside the first one, and then another, leaving a trail of purple along the line of Shane’s trapezius. He liked that all the fight had gone out of him; he liked that it felt just as gratifying as he’d hoped it would to have Shane entirely at his mercy. 

“Later maybe I will fuck you,” Ilya murmured. “And I know you will let me, you will take it like a good boy, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Yeah, I’m your good boy, Ilya, I’m gonna be so good for you, always, I’m—”  

His promises receded into the background, underscoring the groan that bloomed deep in Ilya’s chest as he came between Shane’s thighs. It seemed to go on forever, like the memory of a freight train running through his backyard; blood pounded against his temples for a full and furious minute, his release protracted by self-denial, urged onward by Shane’s voice saying yours and always and Ilya. Another dangerous combination of words, surely another figment of Ilya’s treacherous imagination. He slumped, exhausted, against Shane, letting his full weight rest against his solid body. A deeply satisfied sigh escaped him as he settled into it, his eyes closed and his cock tucked into the space Shane had made for him. 

Moments later, still facedown in the cushion, Shane said, “I’m pretty sure we ruined your couch.” 

“Shut up,” Ilya muttered. He kissed the back of Shane’s neck. The skin was tacky with dried sweat, salty and warm. “Already the attitude is back. I didn’t spank you hard enough?” 

“No, it was good.” Shane turned his head. Ilya could see that his mouth was curved upwards with the wisp of a smile. “It was—I needed that. I think. Yeah. I think it helped.”

“Oh, good,” Ilya drawled. “I am so glad for you. I hope you feel better now about playing such very bad hockey.” 

“Fuck off. Don’t act like you didn’t get off on it, too. Asshole,” Shane said. “I’m seriously worried about the couch. Can we get up?” 

“Only if we go to the bed,” Ilya said. “Otherwise we stay here. Is my final offer. Take or leave.” 

“Bed sounds risky,” Shane said. “I might fall asleep. I don’t want to stay too late.”

Ilya quickly smothered the bright flare of hurt that burst inside of him when Shane mentioned leaving. Of course he wanted to go; their business was finished. He needed to get back to his real life, to the hotel and the team meetings and everything else that wasn’t Ilya. Despite the sting of the reminder, Ilya knew he couldn’t really be upset about it. He’d done his fair share of slipping out of hotel rooms as soon as he’d sealed the deal, of making sure that Shane didn’t fall asleep afterwards, of tossing his pants and his socks back to him in a silent demand for him to leave, of refusing to spoon or to kiss or to stare indulgently into each other’s eyes. They had the ideal arrangement: Shane came, and then he went. It terrified Ilya how much he wanted him to stay at that moment; he wanted it so badly that he knew he couldn’t let him. 

“Just for little bit,” Ilya said. 

Shane closed his eyes. His eyelashes fanned out beautifully, dark and thick, against his freckles. His eyelids fluttered. Ilya watched him breathe, in and out, and then reopen his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “We can go to bed. After I shower.” 

With an exaggerated groan, Ilya hauled himself to his feet and stretched luxuriously. He readjusted his pants, tucking away his cock, and wiped his sticky knuckles off on the stained fabric. At the same time, Shane maneuvered himself into a seated position. He looked a little lost, and his face was pinched with discomfort. The desire to hold him lodged itself in Ilya’s chest—the feeling was terrible in its tenderness. Shane blinked, slowly, and looked down at his hands, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of his own body. 

“Come on,” Ilya said. He held a hand out to him. “Up. We will shower.” 

An unmistakable flicker of relief passed over Shane’s face. He took the offered hand and let Ilya pull him to his feet. He was quiet again, different from his usual quiet, different from the hostile quiet of earlier, different from the anticipatory quiet of his arrival. It felt fragile, somehow. Ilya was afraid to move, in case he somehow disturbed or destroyed it. Shane kicked off his pants, wincing slightly as he did, and then took Ilya by the wrist to tug him towards the bedroom. 

Ilya wouldn’t let himself be tugged. Instead, he frowned down at the clothing on the floor. The mess was an unusual sight: Shane’s black underwear, tucked inside of his gray sweatpants, left carelessly in a heap. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted his head. 

“What?” Shane demanded petulantly. 

He let go of Ilya’s hand and folded his arms over his chest, already defensive. Ilya rolled his eyes. He picked up the discarded pants, one piece at a time, and folded them. His technique was not as good as Shane’s; the small stack was slightly lopsided, but much tidier than the pile they’d almost left behind. 

“Better?” Ilya asked. 

An indecipherable look had taken up residence on Shane’s face. He was a little wide-eyed, surprised maybe, and his lower lip was pulled tightly into his mouth, indented by his teeth. The intensity of his bewilderment was not directed towards Ilya—instead, he had zeroed on his clothing, perched on the couch cushions. On the opposite end of the sofa sat the hoodie and shirt he’d folded himself earlier. He was still wearing his socks. Ilya didn’t mind the lingering quiet while he waited for Shane to catch up to himself; it gave him time to drag his lazy, hungry gaze up and down the solid planes of Shane’s body, from mouth to thigh and back again. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. He cleared his throat. “Thanks. Come on.” 

He held out his hand. This time, Ilya took it, and let himself be led. The easy intimacy was like a knife slipped down his spine, deboning him with the constant reminder that it could not always be like this. It all felt too easy; it all felt like too much. Part of the problem lay in the fact that Shane was always different after Ilya had fucked him: softer, more at ease, almost painfully tender, and desperate for any extra attention that he could get. Ilya had fun indulging it, sometimes, because it could be nice to watch Shane melt back into the sheets, utterly un-selfconscious in a way that he rarely was. 

Ilya had noticed these things only occasionally before. He shied away from them, always, without fail. It wasn’t his problem that Shane liked to cuddle. That had never been part of the deal. They’d never shared pillow talk or quality time. But things were different, lately. Ilya found that he couldn’t stop noticing the immediacy of Shane’s need. Not just before or after they’d fucked, but every time they laid eyes on each other. It got harder and harder to turn away from him after each encounter, to put on his pants, to say his goodbyes. 

If Ilya was being totally honest with himself, Shane scared the shit out of him. It wasn’t a practical fear; Shane wasn’t threatening as a person, and he wasn’t going to put Ilya’s secrets or career at risk. Only very recently had Ilya come to realize that the thought of never having Shane all to himself was too horrible to reckon with. He had Shane on the occasional weeknight, sometimes a whole weekend if he was lucky, and it wasn’t enough to scratch the itch. The desire was all-consuming, ravenous—a lot of things, really: selfish and possessive and ugly and so, so stupid and so, so irrational. Ilya had never been the kind of person to ask for more. He had never been the kind of person to want more, either. Something had cracked open inside of him, something huge and hungry that wanted more, always, all the time, probably more than Shane was willing to give him. Probably more than he deserved. 

When they reached the threshold of the bathroom, Shane stopped, and asked, “Together?” 

Ilya looked down at their joined hands, and then looked up at Shane. An earnest hopefulness softened his eyes, bending the bow of his mouth into a hesitant smile. Ilya reached up and took Shane’s chin in his hand. His grip wasn’t gentle; he struggled to curtail the enormity of his response to his easy, affectionate expression. At times, Shane looked so trusting and so pliable that Ilya wanted to see him break, to push him until he had nothing more to give, to do things to him that made Ilya resent the depravity of his own imagination. Other times, the reaction was equal but opposite, and he wanted to show Shane such tenderness that he felt the need to turn away from his own imagination for different reasons. 

Probably unaware of the war Ilya currently fought in his mind, Shane implored him silently with his eyes. Ilya very much wanted him to stop staring like that. He kissed Shane on the mouth, his fingers still digging firmly into his jaw. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Together is fine.” 

“Okay,” Shane murmured. 

He pressed their foreheads together, the way he always did when he wanted another kiss. Ilya’s stomach flipped. He didn’t kiss him. Without another word, he let go of Shane’s face, and went into the dark bathroom. A different quiet settled over the room, this one expected, more lived-in, the silence shared between two people focused on a task at hand. Shane squinted at the sudden brightness when he flicked on the lights over the vanity. Ilya stripped off his pants and socks and stepped into the shower without turning on the water. It wouldn’t take long to get hot, but he desperately needed to put some space between them. Though transparent, the glass walls of the shower provided a sense of security, with Shane on the outside of them. Ilya yanked the hot water knob almost as far as it would go, and stuck his hand under the spray. 

In front of the vanity, Shane stood with his face pulled into a scrutinous pout. He peeled off his socks and turned his back to the mirror. A frown creased his brow as he cocked his head over his shoulder to run an assessing eye up the length of himself. Ilya followed along with him; he took any opportunity he could get to ogle Shane. His body was dense with muscle, solid in all the right places, ruthlessly disciplined, and at the moment, vividly bruised. With wide eyes, he ran the palm of his hand over his thigh. A cluster of dark, grape purple bruises in the shape of Ilya’s fingers bordered the slope of his haunch. The rest of him was still a furious shade of red, some spots darker than others, denoting the places darker marks would soon crop up. Ilya couldn’t help but think that it was some of his finest work. 

“Holy shit,” Shane said. “You really let me have it.” 

Ilya hummed a response. “Get in, is hot.” 

“You liked it, right?” Shane matched up his own handprint with the wine-red ghost of Ilya’s. “I feel like you liked it.” 

Ilya couldn’t think of a good way to answer that question. Yes, Hollander, I loved holding you down and beating you until you cried. Would love to do it again sometime, maybe soon. Maybe together we can find out what it takes to make you scream. Now get in the fucking shower. Ilya decided to ignore the question. He tipped his head back, under the water, and let it soak him. Moments later, Shane joined him, with a peculiar and inquisitive look on his face. Ilya hoped that his own message had been clear enough: he did not want to discuss it. Mercifully, Shane didn’t ask any more questions. He let the shower door fall shut behind himself, and ducked under the spray. 

Despite the ostentatious nature of Ilya’s house, many parts of it were oddly minimal, occupied only by the bare essentials. The designer had left behind empty nooks and crannies for him to fill on his own, with family photos or personal belongings or trophies or heirlooms. Ilya had plenty of trophies; he had no photos. The shower was another place that had maintained what was intended to be a temporary emptiness. It was an enormous centerpiece for an enormous room, and in it, Ilya kept two things. A nearly empty bottle of Old Spice 3-in-1, and a nearly empty bottle of silicone lube. Ilya reached for the soap. Shane stared at the lube. 

“Exactly how many bottles of that stuff do you have hidden around this place?” Shane asked. 

“One in every place we have fucked before,” Ilya replied with an unbothered shrug. “So… I don’t know. A lot. I lost count. I am prepared, is all.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. He waited patiently for Ilya to hand him the shampoo. For Shane, showering was a meticulous process, done with all the neurotic precision Ilya had come to expect from him in everything he did. He started from the top and worked his way down, scrubbing and rinsing his hair, washing his neck and his shoulders and his underarms. He shot Ilya a dirty look as he turned towards the wall to handle what was apparently too private for him to see, and turned back when he started lathering the dark hair on his thighs. He winced only slightly as his hands passed over the backside of his legs. 

“What?” Shane demanded, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his flanks still shiny with soap. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said. “Just that I have had my mouth there, do you really think you need to turn around before you—“

“Fuck off,” Shane snapped. “Shut up and wash your hair, you neanderthal.” 

Ilya grinned. It was so easy to wind Shane up; it took surprisingly little to stir his irritation or embarrassment. He wondered if he should feel bad for enjoying it, for loving the way Shane scowled and huffed and turned pink all the way to the tips of his ears. He wondered if it could become a problem, the way he liked seeing Shane flustered and upset. He wondered if it meant something else, if it might be an indication that something darker lurked inside of him. Ilya couldn’t let himself think about that. When Shane was around he was always making Ilya think, making Ilya wonder, giving Ilya silly ideas and inspiring flimsy hopes. He didn’t know what to make of this version of himself, the one that only seemed to exist around Shane. This different Ilya was thoughtful, maybe even cerebral. Ilya knew that word; it was a brain word. He didn’t want to think about that, either. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “No talking. Got it. Turn around, I will wash your back.” 

Shane looked surprised by the direction, but he obeyed. He turned, placing himself close to the wall, offering his back to Ilya. His thighs were no longer sticky with dried lube, but undoubtedly still sensitive to the touch; Ilya couldn’t take his eyes off of them. Gleaming beads of water rolled in rivulets down the shapely, muscled line of Shane’s body. Ilya’s eyes followed them, skipping and stuttering over his curves. He didn’t feel bad for lingering. Shane was already mostly clean—they both knew what this was. 

Ilya lathered his hands before he set to his task. He started at the top, with the back of Shane’s neck. That was easy. Shoulders, also easy; arms, the same. He wasn’t ticklish, so his ribs were also easy. The small of his back and the curve of his hip is where Ilya began to run into complications. His movements slowed, his touch becoming more purposeful as the soap eased his way downwards. 

“Ilya,” Shane said. 

“Spread your legs,” Ilya said. “And put your hands on the wall.” 

Shane exhaled slowly. He pressed his forehead and his palms to the tile. Water streamed over his face, across his mouth, down the column of his neck. He widened his stance, cocking his hips back slightly. Ilya slipped a hand between his thighs. He didn’t luxuriate in it; he didn’t need to check and see if Shane was responding to the intimate proximity of their bodies. Instead of taking his hands away, Ilya began to skate a circuit along Shane’s flank, his palm gliding smoothly over wet skin. A small, breathy moan pulled Ilya’s focus upward again. He saw that Shane’s lips were parted; the tips of his ears were flushed red. Parts of him were trembling already—his hands and his legs and his eyelashes. 

“Look at you,” Ilya said. “Already, so soon? So easy for me.” 

Tension crept across the line of Shane’s upper back; embarrassment warmed his skin. Ilya wrapped one arm around his upper body, grabbing onto a greedy handful of his chest. His thumb caught on Shane’s nipple, and he started to tease light circles over it in the same continuous rhythm as the hand that still traced the length of Shane’s thigh. Soap bubbled through Ilya’s fingers and down the drain; steam covered the glass and curled from the floor, blanketing them in dense warmth. Ilya matched up his fingertips with the largest of the visible bruises, and squeezed. Shane cried out, thin and reedy, almost a wail, torn from him as the pressure deepened. His pulse jumped in the hollow of his throat. 

“Fuck,” Shane said. “Fuck, that hurts.” 

“Ah, no talking, remember?” Ilya asked. “We are not talking about this right now.” 

Ilya took his hand away, and reached for the lube. He could hear how heavy Shane’s breathing had become, wet and labored, deep in his chest. The unmistakable popping of the lube cap rendered him almost deathly still. He turned, ever so slightly, to look at Ilya. The broad slope of Ilya’s shoulders shielded most of him from the spray; he shivered, chilled by the absence of the water’s heat. When the cold shock of lube met the skin of his lower back, he closed his eyes. Ilya smeared his fingers through it in another torturously slow circle. 

“Shane,” Ilya said. “Look at me.” 

Shane opened his eyes. A bead of water trembled on the tip of his eyelashes. It fell free when he blinked, rolling down his cheek like a tear. Ilya slowly sank the tip of his middle finger inside Shane’s body. The result was overwhelming; Shane’s mouth opened around a moan, only to fall wider as Ilya pressed deeper. He kept his eyes trained on Ilya’s, his pupils wide and his temple resting against the wall of the shower. Water streamed down his face, following the line of his jaw and the bow of his lip. Ilya dug his fingertips more firmly into the meat of his chest, holding him into place. Slowly, his pace nothing more than a tease, he started to move his other hand, pulling back and pressing in again. Every time he did this to Shane, Ilya was reminded of why he loved doing this to Shane. He never got tired of seeing raw excitement take root in Shane’s face as he leaned into the wet, hot glide. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” Ilya said. “Can you come for me, like this?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “Not again, not unless you—”

Ilya interrupted him with the tip of his second finger, not yet inside, but teasing over his hole with intention. Gasping, Shane dropped his head back. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Ilya’s wet curls. In a perfect world, Ilya would always get to luxuriate in the act of fingering Shane. They rarely had the time to linger, which made moments like this more weighted, imbued with the significance of their scarcity. Ilya loved to watch; everything that Shane liked showed in his face. Everything that overwhelmed him brought him close to tears. Everything that felt better than anything he was used to made him turn his head away, hiding it in a pillow or behind his arm. Shane came apart easily in Ilya’s hands, on his fingers. Ilya knew he could make him come like this, without stimulation of any other kind, because he had made him come like this, clenching down around three fingers while he sobbed with wild abandon. 

“I think you can,” Ilya said. “And I think, because I want you to, that you will.” 

A shiver raced down Shane’s spine. His skin was pebbled with goosebumps. Quietly, he said, “Yes.” 

The muscle of Shane’s back was drawn tight, emphasizing the breadth of his corded shoulders. This time it wasn’t discomfort that made him tense—it was anticipation. He was still shaking, a very fine tremor that made his breath shudder in his lungs. Ilya leaned in and took a mouthful of Shane’s shoulder between his teeth, biting down in the same moment he pressed up and in. He heard Shane’s voice stretch out around a moan in the barrel of his chest, just as he felt the stretch of his hole as he pushed his hips backward to take as much of Ilya’s hand as he could get. Ilya worried a bruise into the skin with his teeth and his tongue, briefly applying harsh enough pressure that Shane yelled. He was breathing like he’d been running, fast and fluttery. 

It wasn’t a particularly strenuous angle for Ilya’s wrist; he could drag it out even longer if he wanted, keep Shane tight around two fingers while he avoided giving him what he really needed. He released Shane’s skin from his teeth and cast a glance down the length of his body. Ilya’s own bulk still prevented the water from really reaching Shane; he was shivering from cold, all of him riddled with goosebumps, his nipples pebbled. The lube at the small of his back had started to spread before it dried, leaving a tacky, shiny trail that disappeared into the cleft of his body. Lurid bruises had begun to set in all over the place, rendering him a morbid sight to behold. It was nowhere near as garish as the kind of marbling he might acquire on the ice; Shane had certainly borne much worse. It wasn’t the quantity of the bruises, but the way they’d come to be on his body, that made it different. Heat pooled at the base of Ilya’s spine. 

Even though Shane had been doubtful of his ability to come just minutes before, Ilya had taken him there, pushed him back to the edge with an insistent and masterful hand. Visible tension coiled itself in every line of his body. Ilya observed it with a clinical fascination; he hadn’t really thought that Shane could come hands-free on the second round. He’d really only wanted to see him try. It was impressive, the way Shane always managed to meet, and often exceed, expectations. He was good at everything he set his mind to, including this—especially this. 

“Ilya,” Shane gasped. “Ilya, I’m close, please, can you—” 

Ilya pinched Shane’s nipple between his fingers until he was quiet, his voice taken over by a keen of pain. He twisted his wrist. The sounds made it all more intense—Shane whimpering, Ilya’s hand moving in and out of him, all of it echoing back onto them obscenely within the confines of the shower. Even though he was close, it would take more to get Shane to come a second time. As hard as he tried, he had yet to make biology bend to his whims. Ilya didn’t mind. He knew every trick in the book, and he knew what worked on Shane. Ilya rolled his knuckles against the taut skin of Shane’s rim. A third finger would do it; Shane would lose his mind at the stretch and the friction, just like he always did. Ilya wasn’t sure if he wanted to give it to him yet. 

“Now that I am thinking, you came already, earlier,” Ilya said. “Maybe I should leave you like this.” 

“Please don’t,” Shane said. “Please let me come.” 

Ilya hummed in the back of his throat, a teasing sound of consideration. He released his grip on Shane’s chest and reached for the lube. Shane whined, arching his back. Over his shoulder, Ilya could see that his cock was red and weeping, despite the way he’d neglected it. Unhurriedly, Ilya drizzled lube onto the three middle fingers of his right hand, and tossed the bottle to the floor. It skittered against the tile with a hollow clatter. Ilya didn’t go back to fingering him right away. Instead, he ghosted his clean hand over the cut of Shane’s hip, following the trail of a wide stretch mark, still pale amidst the bruising. He let his hand come to a stop just below Shane’s navel, like he had on the couch. Close, yet so far. Shane always pretended to hate when Ilya drew him out onto the knife’s edge of delayed gratification. His half-hearted protests had never stopped Ilya from doing it anyway. 

“Ilya, please,” Shane whispered. “Please.” 

He stopped, words snagged in his throat, as Ilya coaxed three slick fingers inside of him. 

“Fuck,” Shane said. “Fuck. I’m gonna—please, can I—” 

“Yeah?” Ilya asked. He skated the tip of his nose along the line of Shane’s trapezius. He kept his hand still, just stretching him open. “You think you are good? That I should let you come? Tell me.” 

“I was good,” Shane pleaded. “I was so good for you, I’m good, I can—next time, I can—I’m good, Ilya, please, I’m a good boy.” 

“I know you are.” Ilya kissed the slope of Shane’s shoulder. “I believe you. You can come.” 

The sound Shane made was new, loud and reedy with desperation—Ilya had to take a deep breath when he heard it, steeling himself against the way his own body wanted to match his release. Shane came with his eyes closed, his legs trembling, and a breath stuck in his chest. Ilya wanted to fuck him so badly it felt ugly, animalistic; the way he wanted to manhandle Shane to the floor and shove his cock inside of him was primal. Before Shane had a chance to finish shaking or catch his breath, Ilya took his hands away and shoved him to his knees. Shane blinked, confused. He couldn’t seem to parse why he was suddenly facing the wall, staring at his own come on the tile. Slowly, he craned his head to stare at Ilya with a questioning furrow between his eyebrows. 

“Clean it up,” Ilya said. 

An immediate, bright flush rose in Shane’s face, spreading from the hollow of his throat. Despite his surprise, he didn’t protest or hesitate. He turned back to the wall and pressed his tongue to the tile. Ilya’s heart pounded in the pit of his stomach. His hands were shaking; he clenched them into fists. Shane was meticulous and precise about it, but it didn’t take him nearly long enough for Ilya to feel that he’d calmed down. He was still hard, and watching Shane lick up his own come wasn’t helping in the least. When he was satisfied with his work, Shane sat back on his heels, and turned his body in a low crouch to face Ilya’s, putting his back to the wall and his knees on the floor. His eyes dropped, first to Ilya’s tightly balled fists, then to Ilya’s hard, heavy cock. 

“What are you standing all the way over there for?” Shane asked. “You don’t want to fuck me?” 

Ilya felt his nostrils flare. He looked away from the devastation of Shane’s pink, pretty face. Something had shifted; gone was Shane’s doe-eyed compliance and desperate whimpering. The curiosity in his gaze was keen, probing, and the weight of his eyes seemed to be flaying Ilya raw, drawing back layers in search of the hideous thing at the center, the greedy and bloody thing that made demands Ilya could never meet. Not on his own, not without wringing something out of somebody else. 

“Ilya?” 

“Of course I want to fuck you,” Ilya said. 

The shower had grown lukewarm; Ilya stretched out an arm and yanked the knob all the way to the right. Moments later the water came out scorching again, renewing the steam that rose from the floor and stopping the shiver that had taken root inside Shane’s body. 

“Then how do you want me?” Shane asked.  

That question couldn’t immediately be answered. Ilya liked to have Shane in a lot of different ways. What he wanted was new. In my bed, forever, his traitorous mind supplied. In my house, tomorrow, when I wake up. Ilya wanted to kick himself. It would be more reasonable to say facedown and writhing or on your hands and knees with my come leaking out of you or handcuffed or silent or sobbing. Ilya had seen him in all of those ways before, and if he was lucky, he would probably see him in all of those ways again. He knew they were all possible, at least, easy to execute, and Shane would comply with any of them. 

Ilya knew that if he asked Shane to stay, he would not. If he asked Shane to wear his clothes and sleep in his bed and kiss him on the mouth first thing in the morning, he would not. 

“Ilya,” Shane began, and Ilya couldn’t stand it anymore. 

He took a step forward, boxing Shane in against the wall. “Stop talking.” 

“You don’t have to tell me. You can use me,” Shane said. His eyes were so wide, so wet and terribly earnest and still desperately searching Ilya’s face for something that Ilya hoped he’d never find. “Just—please. Ilya. Use me. I’ll do whatever. I’ll let you do whatever. Fuck me, make it hurt. I can take it. Make me take it.” 

Ilya ground his teeth together. “Stop. Enough. You don’t know what you are asking me for. Open your fucking mouth so I can fuck you.” 

Shane had a certain set to his face when he was focused and determined; Ilya could see it in him now as he opened his mouth and let his tongue lay against his bottom lip. He admired the sight for a moment, even though the odds of Shane talking again were much higher if Ilya didn’t give him something else to focus on. He didn’t want to be gentle; he didn’t know how to tell Shane this. 

Logically, Ilya knew that Shane was not really in trouble. The consequence for playing bad hockey was losing the game, and that had already happened. This was not really a punishment. Ilya was not God, was not judge or jury, was not Shane’s father. He did not have the right, really, to take Shane firmly in hand and show him what happened to people when they didn’t adhere to the expectations in place for them. He clenched his fists so tightly his forearm quivered. Shane took a deep breath—he was going to talk again. Ilya cursed himself for his hesitance. 

“You don’t scare me, Rozanov,” Shane said. 

The wrongness of the impersonal nickname was a shock like cold water. Ilya felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he bit down on his own voice. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and looked down at Shane. Without giving himself another chance to balk, Ilya threaded all ten of his fingers into Shane’s hair, and pulled him down onto his cock. It was messy right away, fast and loud, the way Ilya liked it. Shane was well-practiced at this by now, at making himself easy to fuck, but it didn’t take long for tears to well in his eyes. Ilya stopped pulling, and let Shane sit like that, crying, stretched wide around Ilya’s cock. He ground his hips in tight, tiny circles, pressing up into his mouth. 

“You think about this?” Ilya asked. “When I have you up against the boards, with everybody watching, you think about how I’m going to fuck you later?”

Shane couldn’t reply. He blinked, his eyes huge and glazed and red from crying. The muscles of his throat worked visibly, an aborted swallow impeded by the presence of Ilya’s cock. His whole face was dappled with droplets as copious as his freckles; fragile beads of water were webbed among his long eyelashes. He was beautiful like this, and just as disciplined as he was on the ice, but Ilya knew it was different. He was trying to conflate two separate people. Shane on the ice was for audiences, for teammates, for TV, for sponsors, for trophies. Shane on his knees was just for Ilya. 

Ilya pulled his head down, harder, meaner, shoving until he felt him choke. The way the muscle of Shane’s back shifted as he recoiled, gagging, was beautiful; one enormous fluid motion, a seismic wave of struggle that engaged every curve of his body. With his fingers punishingly tight in Shane’s hair, Ilya yanked him back, quickly. The gasp Shane dragged in was guttural, his swollen mouth sticky and red. Spit ran down his chin, while silvery threads of it gleamed, suspended in the space between his bottom lip and Ilya’s cock. He coughed, still trying desperately to fill his lungs with air. Shane’s face and neck were smeared with something viscous and shiny—spit, precome, tears, sweat, water—all concentrated around his open mouth. His tongue trembled against his bottom lip. 

“What a fucking mess,” Ilya said. “This is what you wanted, yes? You let me beat you, fuck you, maybe send you home still crying. And next time you will come crawling back for more, like always.”

He tilted his hips forward to drag the tip of his cock along the line of Shane’s jaw. His waiting tongue grazed the skin, a barely there velveteen slide that made Ilya curse under his breath, tightening his cruel grip in his hair. Ilya could come like this, probably, just brushing their bodies together while he watched Shane cry. A high-pitched, plaintive whine ribboned from Shane’s mouth. Ilya knew that he really didn’t want to draw this out any longer; he wanted to bury his cock in the heat of Shane’s throat and press until he choked on it again, make him gag on it until his voice was ruined. He didn’t know why he kept stopping himself. He didn’t know why he was making this harder than it needed to be. 

Ilya set his fist against the wall behind them and rested his forehead on it. The way he towered over Shane’s kneeling form was heady; the fact Shane’s mouth was still open and his face was still expectant only made it worse. With his gaze locked on Ilya’s, Shane turned his head ever so slightly, far enough to catch the tip of Ilya’s cock with the tip of his tongue. Ilya saw red. He closed his eyes, breathing, and let Shane take his cock back. 

The slide home was easy, slick and hot and tight. He felt the muscle of Shane’s throat spasm, but it didn’t take long for his body to reach acceptance; Shane inhaled through his nose, and made his lips and tongue soft, just tense enough to thrust against. It was perfect, Shane was perfect, and Ilya wanted to tell him that. He wanted to say that he knew he’d practiced, that he’d spent so many years doing this that he knew exactly what would drive Ilya to the brink with embarrassing speed, and he was so good, he had Ilya’s favorite mouth, the best mouth, soft like flower petals, and the prettiest face, and Ilya loved to fuck him, Ilya missed him all the time, missed his strong hands and his strong thighs and the way his skin got so hot that it scorched like a sunburn. Ilya didn’t trust himself to say anything. He might not be able to stick to the facts; he might accidentally let something else slip out. 

“Close your eyes,” Ilya ordered. “Keep your mouth open.” 

Shane’s eyelids fluttered shut. He pressed his fingertips down into his own thighs. Ilya dragged him away, slowly, and held him still, with one hand still tight in his hair. With his other hand he brought himself off to a blistering finish, coming with pearlescent ropes that clung to Shane’s lips and chin and eyebrows. Ilya hadn’t been intentionally aiming for his mouth, but he saw that some of it glistened on Shane’s tongue, in the space behind his teeth. 

“Swallow,” Ilya said. 

He watched Shane obey, then gasp, his throat flexing around nothing. He was shaking again, that same nonstop tremor coursing through the whole of him. Ilya dragged his thumb across his cheek, down the slope of face. When his finger was coated with come, he shoved it into Shane’s mouth and watched him suck it clean. 

“Such a good boy,” Ilya said. “Give me your hand.” 

Shane reached up, and Ilya pulled him to his feet. He was unsteady, no doubt numb and stiff from kneeling on the cold floor for so long. That was no problem. It was easy for Ilya to bear the weight of him, even when he was limp and useless with exhaustion. He guided Shane to drape a loose arm around his neck. Despite his previous decision not to say anything, Ilya murmured quietly to him in Russian as he led him under the showerhead to rinse himself clean. 

When Ilya turned the water off, the room was devoured by silence. He reached for towels, one to bundle Shane into and the other for himself; they dried off quickly, both spurred on by a desire to get out of the bathroom. Shane was cold, shivering, and his gait was slightly off-kilter as he meandered into the bedroom with his hair still dripping. He helped himself to clothes from Ilya’s dresser: a t-shirt and underwear and socks. Ilya stood in the bathroom doorway, squeezing his hair dry with a towel, while he watched Shane ready himself for bed and then climb into it. 

“Hurry up,” Shane called from beneath the blankets. “I’m cold.” 

Ilya scoffed lightly. It wouldn’t be a hardship to join Shane in bed, but he didn’t intend to hurry. He opened drawers one by one, taking his time putting on his underwear, his pajama pants, his socks. After more than a couple of minutes had passed, Shane poked his head out from under the bedding to scowl at him. 

Immediately, Ilya regretted his devious plan to provoke Shane with his nonchalance. He looked good in Ilya’s bed. Ilya’s t-shirt was a little big on him; it made him appear loose and relaxed, swallowed up by Ilya’s clothes and Ilya’s sheets. His hair had dried badly, and odd tufts stuck up at angles over his ears and the crown of his head. He’d been irritated when he sat up, but that had already disappeared. Instead, his face was soft, his eyes still somewhat dazed—it was a blissful expression that he probably didn’t realize had taken up residence on his face. Ilya ground his teeth and did his best to keep from smiling. He wanted to trap Shane in this moment forever. He wanted to climb into bed with him and fold him up into an embrace and close his eyes and go to sleep and not need to lament the fact Shane would be gone in an hour. 

“I know you’re just trying to piss me off,” Shane said. “Seriously, I’m freezing.” 

“Fine, fine,” Ilya muttered. “Bossy. I fucked you so good and you are still making demands of me.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane said. “Just shut up and come over here.” 

Ilya climbed into bed and opened his arms, expecting to receive Shane within them. He didn’t. Shane stared at him, his eyes wide and his face flat. 

“What?” Ilya asked. “I am here, like you wanted. What is problem?” 

With an irritated huff, Shane lay back against the pillows and tugged on Ilya’s wrist until he rolled over, covering Shane’s body with his own. He locked a snug arm around Ilya’s neck and wove a tight fistful of curls through his fingers. It took a moment for Ilya to relax into it; the newness of this intimacy made him feel uneasy. Shane had slept at Ilya’s before, an occasional nap if Ilya had really put him through his paces, but they’d never made the conscious decision to get into bed together for any purpose other than fucking. This mutual, unspoken agreement was baffling to Ilya. He decided he wasn’t going to complain, not when Shane was holding him so tightly. The tension spooled out of him, little by little, and he settled his weight against Shane’s frame. 

They should probably talk about it—even Ilya could admit that. They should probably talk about how much Shane had liked being hit; how much Ilya had liked hitting him; how badly Ilya had wanted to take him apart; how Shane had noticed the voracious impulse and invited it, indulged it. Ilya did not want to talk. He didn’t know how to explain the terrible, aggressive, possessiveness that had started to attach itself to his feelings for Shane. He didn’t think he wanted to hear Shane try to logic and reason them both through the spanking and the crying and the clenched fists. It felt too easy, to not talk about it. Ilya knew that he probably shouldn’t just fall into Shane’s arms and take his offered comfort at face value. 

He waited, several long minutes, for Shane to try and talk about it. He didn’t. When he did speak, it was in a hushed murmur. 

“You’re gonna fall asleep,” Shane said. “I can tell.” 

They were not going to talk about it. 

“No, I won’t,” Ilya said. 

He closed his eyes. 

Three days later, Ilya sat on the couch in his living room and watched Shane wipe the floor with Ohio. Even though Shane was far away, behind a helmet, and very small on the TV screen, Ilya could see pride and relief on his face as he accepted fist bumps from his teammates. Or maybe he was imagining it, simply because he knew it would be there. Both teams started to leave the ice, while the commentators remarked on how badly Montreal had needed this win. Shane’s jersey disappeared into the tunnel. Ilya unlocked his phone. In lieu of his typical congratulations or teasing, he sent one simple message. 

Good boy. 

Shane’s reply came moments later. 

Yes I am.