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Ilya was being… kind of a dick lately. 

Which wasn’t all that out of the ordinary, Ilya was kind of a dick most the time, but there was something different about this. 

For one, it was constant, almost like they were rookies again, Ilya always trying to get under Shane’s skin. But Shane had also begun to notice a strange pause after every dickish comment. A half second moment where it seemed as though Ilya was waiting for some sort of response, eyes flicking over Shane’s face to see how he would react. 

Shane felt like he should do something about it, but he didn’t know what. Sometimes, figuring out what Ilya wanted felt like being trapped in a maze, trying desperately to wind through the layers of convoluted half-admissions and masked deflections and fucking… reverse psychology bullshit. 

Luckily, these days, Shane had a consultant for all things Ilya Rozanov. 

When Ilya had asked if he could tell Svetlana about their relationship, Shane had been hesitant. The circle of People Who Knew was already worrying large with his parents, Hayden, Jacki, and Rose, and Shane had harbored a dark pit of jealousy and distrust about Svetlana for years. But Ilya had been okay with Rose knowing, despite his own (unfounded) jealousy and distrust for her, so… fair was fair. 

And, well, it turned out that Svetlana already knew, and had known for years without saying anything, so it was kind of a moot point in the end. 

She had insisted upon their first meeting being one on one, informing Shane when he would be arriving for lunch the next time he was in Boston. She’d picked the restaurant, an upscale place so fancy it made Shane feel like he was going to be kicked out any second. 

When Shane had first spotted her, gliding across the room like gravity worked differently for her than for everyone else, he had thought she was the most glamorous woman in the world. She looked like she belonged here, like she probably belonged everywhere she went. Looking at her, Shane had been reminded of everything he was not. 

Her nails were long, sharp, painted a deep blood red that matched her lipstick. When she’d shook his hand, not tight, not trying to prove anything, they’d dug like talons into his skin. 

“You are afraid of me,” was the first thing she’d said once they were seated with menus, tucked away into a private booth in the far corner. 

“I’m not—”

“No, you are. You are afraid because you know how much I love Ilya, and how much he loves me, and that intimidates you.” 

“Well—”

“It’s good that you’re afraid,” she had said, smiling all teeth. “You should be. Because I am his best friend, and I would burn the fucking world down for him. I’d say Ilya could handle himself if you ever did anything to hurt him, but that would be a lie. Because he is very soft, and he is very in love with you, and he is not good at standing up for himself.” 

She clapped her hands together, smile falling off her face as her eyes went dark and terrifyingly blank, boring into Shane like she could see every hidden corner of his soul. “So. If you ever hurt him, you will have me to contend with. And believe me, no one will ever find your body.” 

Shane had been, reasonably, terrified. He’d found his eyes instinctively flicking down to her hands with their worryingly sharp fingernails. 

After a moment of staring him down flintily, Svetlana had continued, 

“You should be afraid of me, but not because of my sexual history with Ilya. We are friends. That’s it. I don’t feel anything romantic for him, he feels nothing romantic for me, and it has always been that way. Yes, we have had a lot of casual sex, but that’s over. He is utterly committed to you. So I will not have you acting like I’m some kind of competition.” She spread her hands to either side before gesturing between them sharply, long fingers cutting through the air. “I intend for us to be friends.” 

“Do you always start friendships with death threats?” Shane had joked weakly, finding that he was starting to like her despite himself. He wished everyone was as blunt as her, he liked that he knew exactly where they stood. And he especially liked that Ilya had such a fierce protector in her. 

“Only the important ones,” Svetlana had said, a small smile starting to creep over her lips. “Let’s be friends, Shane Hollander. You make my Ilyushka very happy, and I would like to know the person who can do that.” 

Shane had found himself grinning widely. “You really think he’s happy?” he’d asked. He thought Ilya was, but sometimes… it could be hard to tell. 

“The happiest I’ve seen him since we were children,” Svetlana had said, beaming as she flopped back in her seat, decidedly ungraceful. Shane had suddenly been able to imagine her as a gangly young girl, running alongside the golden, tenderhearted boy he imagined Ilya had been, patching his scraped knees and playing shinny together on the lake. 

“What was he like when he was younger?” he’d asked, leaning forward, suddenly eager for every bit of Ilya he could get Svetlana to share. 

Svetlana had laughed, shaking her head. “As a child? God… he was so sweet. Polite to adults, a little shy. Lived to be on the ice. Lived for it. We were always skating together. There was a park near his house with a pond, and we practically lived there in the winter. I’d play goalie for him, and he would cheer every time I blocked his shot. He could be so serious at times, so sad. But on good days he was so funny and imaginative, always making up new games for us to play and making me laugh until my stomach hurt.” She grinned, eyes sparkling. “I wanted to fold him up and keep him in my pocket.” 

Her smile faded after a moment and she sighed. “Then things changed. When hockey stopped being just about playing a game. When coaches and scouts started seeing how good he was. When kids on other teams started getting mean, and he had to get mean back. After his mother died and his father took it all out on him…” She shrugged, going stony faced, just like Ilya did when he was trying to hide his sadness. “He had to figure out a way to survive it all, so he made himself… well. You know how he can be.” 

Shane did know, or was starting to know at least. Ilya put on masks and he put up walls, and he did everything he could to make sure no one could see behind them to the tenderhearted boy he still was. 

Shane had found himself thinking that he and Svetlana were probably the only two people in the world who knew how soft and delicate Ilya really was. How much he needed care and gentleness, and how keenly he deserved it after so many years of being denied. 

Shane had been overtaken by a sudden desire to reach out and take her hand, and after a moment of consideration, he tentatively did. It felt awkward, Shane didn’t really like touching people he didn’t know well, but he’d wanted her to understand that he was part of this now. Part of the little club of people who took care of Ilya, who made sure he didn’t lose track of his sweetness. 

“I will never, ever do anything to hurt him,” Shane had sworn. “Not on purpose. And if I fuck up, I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it right.” 

Svetlana had smiled softly at him, turning her hand under his to thread their fingers together. And then she had done something shocking, bringing their intertwined fingers up to her lips and pressing a fierce kiss to his knuckles. 

“He needs more people who care if he is happy,” she had said. “We’re a team now, yes? Team Rozanov, you and me.” 

Shane had never had a teammate in his care for Ilya before. It felt nice, to know he was not alone in helping Ilya to fight the darkness that seemed to always be hovering around him. He nodded firmly. “Team Rozanov.” 

And that had been that. 

So now Shane and Svetlana texted regularly, mostly about Ilya, though there was a lot of hockey talk as well (she was just as brilliant about it as Ilya had always said, Shane had already brought several of her suggestions to his coaches). 

He was learning to depend on her expertise regarding all things Ilya, so after getting off a video call where Ilya mostly just made fun of his hair for half an hour, Shane immediately pulled up her contact in his phone. 

Shane:  

Help, asshole levels have been steadily rising for like two weeks and I have no idea what I did wrong. 

Svetlana: 

What is he being an asshole about? 

Shane: 

Everything. It’s like everything I do sets him off. 

Svetlana: 

How mean is he being? Little picking or hurting your feelings?  

Shane: 

Picking, but it’s constant.  

Svetlana: 

Is he doing pokepoke wait?  

Shane frowned at his phone. 

Shane: 

What does that mean? 

Svetlana: 

Is he saying things then pausing after? 

Shane sat up. Yes, good, she knew what was going on. This was why he loved having her as a friend, it was like having an Ilya decoder. 

Shane: 

Yes. 

Svetlana: 

He wants a rise out of you. 

Shame huffed out a breath. He could have told Svetlana that. 

Svetlana: 

You should hit him. 

Shane dropped his phone like it had burned him, horrified. Then he grabbed it and immediately hit the call button. 

“What the FUCK do you mean I should hit him?” he practically screeched into the receiver the second she picked up. 

“Ow, Shanya, Jesus. Not like, hit him hit him. You know. Just a smack.” 

Shane wanted to tear his hair out. “I’m not going to hit him! I’m a good boyfriend.” He hoped, at least. “Have you hit him?” 

“Of course. He likes it. Open palm, across the face. You can cup your hand for less impact and more sound.” 

There was a high pitched whistling noise happening, like a kettle going off. It took Shane a second to realize the noise was coming from him. 

“I’m not going to hit him,” he said again, feeling crazy that he even had to say it. Shane loved Ilya, even when he was the most annoying asshole on the planet. Never in a million years would he hit him. 

“Okay, that’s fair,” she said, placating. “Uhh sometimes biting and scratching at him works too, if you don’t want to hit. He’s just got the itch, he hasn’t gotten into a fight in too long or… I don’t know, I never really could figure out what triggered pokepoke wait, but that’s always what it meant with me. He’s trying to rile you up enough that you’ll retaliate, but he’s not being really mean, so it’s just fun ‘please smack me around a little’ Ilya, not ‘I deserve to be abandoned forever’ Ilya.” 

Shane hid his face in his hand.  

“I can’t believe you hit him.” 

“No. Don’t say it like that,” Svetlana said, voice going hard. “Like I was abusing him or something. It’s something he likes. It gets him off. Why, I don’t know, I could never get him to talk about it, but sometimes it’s just what he needs. Don’t fucking judge him about this, Hollander, he doesn’t deserve that.” 

Shane sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Okay. Okay, I’m not judging. Just… the not talking about it thing isn’t going to work for me.” 

Svetlana snorted. “Oh, so you want Ilya Rozanov to talk about what he wants? Good luck.” 

Shane sighed. “Yeah. Listen, thanks for the insight. I just have to go… think about some things.” 

And do some research. Lots and lots of research. And maybe take some notes. 

“Just be careful with him, okay? He’s flighty about this stuff.” 

Didn’t Shane know it. 

Luckily, these days he was a lot better at pinning Ilya down. 

“Where did you get this shirt, Hollander? Did you forget what size you wear? Maybe you’ve hit your head one too many times, hm? Now you think you are big man instead of little shrimp.” 

Pokepoke. 

There, the half second pause, Ilya’s gaze sharpening the tiniest bit, searching for a response. 

Wait. 

Shane sighed, leaning back against his headboard as Ilya launched back into his teasing. The tone of it had changed a little, the last few times they had spoken. Ilya’s eyes were always a little too bright, his teeth a little too visible. There was something sharp about it, almost manic. 

Shane waited until the next pause to ask, gentle yet firm, “Why are you being mean?” 

Ilya laughed, a little bit higher than usual, a little bit louder. “Oh, what, you are being sensitive little bitch now? Can’t take a chirp?” 

Wait him out. Don’t say anything for one, two, three… 

There, the little crack in the armor, a tiny bit of uncertainty. 

“Are you trying to make me be mean back?” Shane asked. “Is that what this is about?” 

Ilya smirked, too big, too toothy. “Like you could get mean. Little kitten with no claws.” 

There was a desperate sort of edge to Ilya’s voice now, like he was trying to force a script that Shane just wasn’t following. 

“I’m not playing this game with you,” Shane said plainly. “You’re not going to get anything by acting like this. If you want something, you can ask for it. But being mean hoping I’ll get mean back isn’t going to work.” 

“I’m not playing a game,” Ilya snapped. Thin. Brittle. Cracking under the weight. “You’re just being—”

“Baby,” Shane interrupted, soft. And that was the warning shot, the small, simple word that had begun to mean so much between them. “Tell me what you want.” 

Ilya’s face went completely blank, and before Shane had a chance to react, the call ended notification flashed across the screen. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, he’d pushed too hard. 

He’d misread things. Svetlana had been wrong. Ilya was actually mad at him about something, and instead of listening (fuck, why couldn’t he just fucking listen, why could he never understand?) Shane had used the word that was primed to press Ilya into potentially uncomfortable vulnerability. He was the worst boyfriend. Ilya was going to hate him, Ilya had trusted him with the delicate, new thing between them where he could be Shane’s baby and now— 

The phone was ringing. 

Shane nearly threw it across the room in his haste to answer, holding the screen close to his face when Ilya came into view, expression still blank. 

“Fuck, Ilya, I’m so sorry, I—”

“I don’t know what I want,” Ilya said. Soft. A little lost. 

Shane’s heart was still pounding in his chest, but Ilya was talking now, and he had to listen. “That’s okay. I’m sorry for pushing, I just—” 

“Have been dealing with me being a huge bitch for no reason for weeks?” 

Shane winced. “Well. Uh. I wouldn’t put it like that.” 

Ilya let out a long breath, and Shane watched as he shifted to lie down on his side, curled in tight on himself in his dark hotel room, all alone hundreds of miles away from Shane. 

“I wanted to make you angry,” Ilya said quietly. “And you weren’t getting angry, and I didn’t know what to do.” 

“Why did you want me angry?” Shane asked, moving so he was lying down too, so he could pretend they were in bed together, body curved around the phone like he wished he could curve around Ilya. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya groaned, briefly turning his face to hide against a pillow. “I don’t know. I wanted you to fix it.” 

“Fix what?” 

“Fix… me? I wanted you to fix me?” 

Shane’s heart broke. He wanted so desperately to understand. He wanted to be able to cup Ilya’s cheek, kiss his temple, sooth the wrinkle between his brows. “How would me getting angry fix you, baby?” 

“Because then… then you would do something. You would—” he flapped his hands, made a sharp noise. “It’s like I’m flying apart, and I don’t know how to stop, and I just need you to—” he clapped his cupped hands together, like he was catching a bug. “Make it stop. Make me stop.” 

Shane sat with that, trying to get it to make sense. “You need me to make you stop.” 

Ilya nodded miserably. “Please. Just. Please, Shane.” 

“What do you need to stop?” 

“Being me?” 

“Wrong answer,” Shane said instantly. “I love you. I never want you to stop being you. Try again.” 

Ilya groaned. “I don’t know.”

“Are you being mean to people other than me? Your team?” 

“No. No, but… I’m not playing like I should. Not putting up enough points, not winning games. Not being their captain like I should. I’m not doing enough and I can’t figure out how to stop being so fucking lazy—”

“Stop,” Shane said, firm. “Don’t call yourself that. You’re not lazy, you work so hard.” 

“I am,” Ilya insisted, and he had this far off look that Shane didn’t like at all, a million miles away and trapped deep within his own head. 

“Don’t argue,” Shane snapped, instinctive, and it was less gentle now. He needed Ilya with him for this. “Good boys don’t argue. You’re a good boy, Ilyusha, remember?” 

“I’m not,” Ilya gasped. “I’m not, Shane, I’m bad. I’m fucking rotten and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m awful. I’m mean. I’m—”

“You’re mine,” Shane said, almost vicious in his intensity. “It’s not your job to beat yourself up over this, baby, I decide when you’ve been good. I’m going to fix this, okay? Not fix you, you’re perfect, you’re my perfect boy, but I’m going to figure out how to make it stop. I’m going to figure out how to…” he cupped his hands and clapped them together, just like Ilya had. “I’m going to figure it out, okay? I’m going to take care of you.” 

Ilya whined, low and pitiful, and Shane wanted to book a fucking plane ticket. He wanted to learn how to teleport. 

“I’m here, baby, you’re safe. You don’t need to worry about it anymore, I’ve got it. You just need to be honest with me, okay? I know it’s not easy, but I need you to try. Can you be my good boy and try for me?” 

Ilya nodded shakily. His eyes looked a little wet. Shane was going to invent time travel so he could go back in time and punch everyone who had ever made Ilya feel like this.  

“Okay. Good. Now, I want you to know I talked to Svetlana a little bit about how you’ve been acting lately, and she had some advice for me that I need your help unpacking so that I can understand what you need. I didn’t tell her anything about this, about you being my good boy, but I wanted some insight from her.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, letting out a shuddering breath. “That’s. Yeah. That’s okay. What did she say?” 

“She said you used to do this with her, poking at her like you’ve been poking at me, and when you did it with her, she would slap you.”

Ilya coughed, looking away. “Um. Yes. Sometimes.” 

“And you were okay with that? You liked it?” 

Ilya curled in on himself tighter. His voice was very quiet when he answered, “Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Ilya made a soft, distressed noise. 

“You can do it, baby,” Shane said. “I know. I know it’s hard. But I need to know this so that I can take care of you right. I need your support here.” 

Ilya took a deep breath. “Can I… can I turn video off? Not on you, just on me?” 

Shane didn’t love the idea of not being able to see Ilya’s face for this conversation, but if that was what Ilya needed, Shane would give it to him. “Yes, that’s okay.” 

Ilya’s video went dark. For a long moment, the room was silent. 

“I like to hurt, sometimes,” Ilya said softly, disembodied voice floating through the air. “Just. Because I like it. I don’t know, maybe it’s too many years playing hockey, maybe my head’s not screwed on right, but I like it. I like when bite is not just sweet little hickey but hard, like the other person wants to eat me. I used to like when girls had long nails and they would leave my back torn up and bloody. I like when guys whistle in the locker room the next day, and I can see the bruises and scrapes in the mirror for a week, and it feels like they left something with me. Something I can hang on to and press on and remember.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, because, yeah, he could get that, kind of. Maybe not to the same level, but he’d get a hot little thrill when Ilya boarded him during a game, and he liked the way blowing Ilya made his jaw ache, and he loved when Ilya left handprint bruises on his hips after a brutal fuck. He could understand this. He could understand Ilya. 

But he needed to know all of it. 

He took a steadying breath. “I know this is a really hard thing to talk about, so take your time, but I need to know this for me. When you talk about liking being hurt like that, that’s not, like… a self harm thing, right?” 

Ilya took his time answering that, which Shane appreciated and also hated because without a visual on Ilya he had no idea what was going on inside his head. 

“I… do not think so? I think… I think if it was, I would have felt bad about… about using another person for that. I think I just like it because I like it, but…” 

Shane waited for Ilya to continue. When he didn’t, he prompted softly, “But?” 

“But… what you talked about with Sveta, that’s… complicated.” He sighed. “I am going to tell you something now, and you are not going to ask me to talk more about this part, okay? Not… not tonight. It is part of it, I am being honest like you asked, but I will say this and you will not ask more questions, okay?” 

Shane had about a million questions already, but he just took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” 

There was another long pause, like Ilya was steeling himself. 

“My father would hit me a lot,” Ilya finally said, voice coming out strangely blank. “Backhand me, usually, across the face. He wore a heavy ring. It would leave a bruise on my cheek. It hurt, and I hated it. I hated how it made me feel.” He took a shaky breath. “But it is how he would correct me, when I talked back, when I did something wrong. There is something about… about seeing a hand come at my face from the corner of my eye, that makes me think… okay. This will happen, and then it will be over, and some part of it, of me being wrong and bad will be… will be over.” 

Shane felt like there was a lead weight in his stomach. 

“Please don’t cry,” Ilya said softly, and that was when Shane remembered that while he couldn’t see Ilya anymore, Ilya could still see him. He didn’t even want to know what his face was doing. 

“I won’t ask questions,” Shane said, voice thick. “But please don’t ask me not to cry for you. Ilya, I—”

“I need us to move on now,” Ilya said, insistent, and Shane shook his head a little like he could somehow shake out the feelings Ilya’s admission had left in him. 

“Okay. Okay, I’m here. I’m with you. Keep going.” 

Ilya took a deep breath, that heavy blankness fading as he continued, “Okay. So. One day, Sveta and I are still young, just starting to have sex and figure these things out, and we are having an argument. I said something stupid, I can’t remember what, but she’s so mad, and wham! She slaps me. Open hand, and it barely even hurts, just a little sting. And there’s this noise. Sharp. Quick. Not at all like when my father hit me. Not like thunk and horrible pain but just—” There was the sound of a hand slapping against skin. “Slap. And it’s embarrassing, because it’s like being a child who needs to be corrected. And it’s… it feels different, feels kind, because it barely even hurts. And then it’s over. I said something I shouldn’t, and she hit me, and now I’ve been…” 

“Fixed,” Shane said softly. “She made you stop. And it fixed it.” 

“Yes,” said Ilya, the relief in his voice palpable. “Sharp little sting, loud noise, and it’s all better. She cares enough to fix it, like…” he faltered, but Shane could hear it, like my father did. Even though no one who cared about their child would ever hit them. “Just. She cares, and I’m okay now. I don’t repeat what I said, and I’m forgiven.”

“Okay.” Shane nodded, trying to take it all in. He couldn’t let himself judge. Ilya had been honest, had been so good, so open. Shane could freak out about all of this later. “Okay, I hear you. So you think… when you were having a hard time and felt like you needed to be… to be corrected, you would try to make her angry so that she would slap you again, so that you could feel that relief of being ‘fixed.’” 

Ilya took a deep breath. “I think yes.” 

“And now you’re feeling that way, so you were being mean so that I would fix it.” 

“I… yes. Sorry.” 

“No, don’t say sorry,” Shane said firmly. “God, you’re doing so good baby, thank you. Thank you for being honest, this helps. I think I’m understanding.” He took a moment to think about the next question he needed to ask. “Svetlana said biting or scratching you might help you when you’re feeling like this, but you said stuff like that is different from the slap, the slap is about the correcting, the other things are more about just enjoying pain. How does all that work together?” 

Ilya hummed thoughtfully. 

“I think… I think sometimes I still want the pain. I expect it. If it is part of being corrected, then that makes me feel bad. But if it’s still there but part of something else, I get the relief and I get to enjoy the pain without feeling bad. A backhand is bad, but a girl scratches up my back, that means I fucked her right. I get bit hard, that means they want me. It’s sexy, it’s good. It’s something else, and it… it makes the bad stuff far away. Far enough away that it can’t hurt me. Only the good can hurt me.”

Only the good can hurt me. Shane fixed on that, made himself internalize it, because if he was going to do this, he needed to be able to remember what it was about. It was like Svetlana had said, giving Ilya this wasn’t abuse, wasn’t anything like what Ilya’s father had done to him. This was something Ilya needed, a release, and Ilya got what he needed from Shane now, not from Svetlana or the possibly hundreds of other women he had slept with. Shane. It was Shane’s job to take care of Ilya, and he was determined to do it right. 

“Okay. I don’t have any more questions. Can I see your face again, baby?” 

There was a pause, and then Shane’s screen lit up once more with Ilya’s face. He had a blanket wrapped around him now, and his eyes looked a little red. 

Shane smiled softly. “My beautiful boy. You did so good. Do you want me to tell you what the plan is?” 

Ilya sniffed. “You have a plan already?” 

Shane nodded. The plan was nowhere near finished, but he knew enough to get Ilya through his roadie and back into Shane’s arms. 

“You have four more days on the road, so I’m going to need you to take care of yourself for a bit, just until you can come home to me and I can take over. You’re going to play your hardest, and you’re going to show up for your team, and anytime you feel like you’re not good, you’re going to remember that it’s not your job to correct that. You’re not responsible for making sure you’re good, okay? Whose job is that?” 

Ilya’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “It’s… it’s your job?” 

Shane smiled, nodding. “Exactly. It’s my job. If you feel like there’s something that needs my attention, you can make me aware of it, but you’re not allowed to beat yourself up. Once I know about it, it’s not on your plate anymore, and I need you to let it go until you get back to me and I can address it. Do you think you can do that?” 

“Mhm.” Ilya’s face was half hidden by his pillow, his hands wrapped up in the edge of his blanket, wringing the fabric like he was nervous or—

Or… 

“Are you hard, Ilyusha?” Shane murmured. 

Ilya whined. His eyes were far away, but not like before, like he was lost in the past. It looked like he was starting to float. 

“I asked you a question,” Shane said, that hot little thrill running through him that he got when he saw Ilya like this, soft and vulnerable and at Shane’s mercy. 

“I am,” Ilya whispered, soft and almost ashamed and, oh, so was Shane. He could feel his boxers starting to stick to the head of his cock where he was getting wet. 

He had an idea. A hot, mean idea that had him shivering in pleasure just to think about. 

“You can safeword this at any time, just like anything we do,” Shane began, “but you have been very mean to me lately, and I think maybe we need to do something about that before you get home. Does that seem fair to you?” 

Ilya nodded immediately, pink lips slightly parted as he stared expectantly at the screen. “Yes. Yes, please, sweetheart, I’ve been so mean. Help me, please.” 

Help him, like whatever correction Shane doled out was something he needed. Like it was a kindness, something to be grateful for. Fuck, Shane was so hard. He liked this. Ilya needed help. Ilya was helpless. 

Shane was going to help him. 

“You were very mean, so I think you don’t get to touch yourself until you get home. Four days, do you think you can do that?” 

Ilya’s pupils were so blown his eyes looked black, only a tiny sliver of blue grey around the edges. “But… but that’s so long,” he protested weakly. A token resistance, Shane could tell. 

“It is. Color?” 

“Green,” Ilya breathed, eyes wide and cheeks pink. 

“Good boy. I know it’s going to be hard, but I believe in you. You’re a good boy, you can do it.” 

“I can do it,” Ilya echoed. “I’m a good boy.” 

He was so fucking pretty. Ilya liked to protest that Shane was the pretty one, not him, but fuck, look at him. All golden, curls askew, so strong and yet so perfectly sweet for Shane, like he was for no one else. Like he had never been for anyone else. 

Shane kept Ilya on the phone until he fell asleep, and once his breathing had evened out into soft snores, Shane pulled out his laptop and the little notebook he would never admit he actually had, and he got to work. 

Shane took care of Ilya now, and he was going to make sure his baby got everything he needed and more. 

I got snappy at Haas after practice today. He wanted to talk to me about his passes, but I just wanted out. He’s going to think he shouldn’t ask for help. I’m his captain, he’s just a rookie. I should be there for him. 

I shouldn’t have missed that goal in the second period. I saw where the goalie was moving, and I went five hole anyway. Stupid mistake. 

I don’t want to go to team dinner tonight. I don’t want to talk to anyone. But I hate that the A’s are arranging it instead of me. I should be making sure everyone is spending time together, and instead I’m hiding in my room. 

I’m angry that you’re not here. I’m angry at you, like it’s somehow your fault. I want to break your rule and touch myself. I want you to be angry at me for disobeying. 

For four days, Ilya texted Shane every time he felt like he was awful, just like Shane had asked. And every time, Shane responded sweetly. 

Good job for telling me, baby. Let it go now, it’s my job to handle it. 

And Ilya… Ilya found he was able to do just that. Not completely, the voices in Ilya’s head telling him he wasn’t enough couldn’t ever truly be silenced, but he was able to reduce the noise to a gentle roar. 

He tried not to feel too guilty about it, about putting all of his awfulness on Shane’s plate to deal with. He tried to remind himself that he was following Shane’s instructions, that Shane wouldn’t offer this for him unless he wanted to do it. It had been a few months now, since the first time Shane had tied Ilya down and took all of the weight off of his shoulders, and Ilya was slowly learning to accept that Shane was not only strong enough to bear that weight, but that he wanted to. 

Still, Ilya never initiated the times when Shane took charge. He just didn’t know how to. How was he supposed to ask? What if Shane wasn’t in the right mood? What if this was the time that Shane said they wouldn’t do it like that anymore? What if taking care of Ilya like that became a chore? 

Picking at Shane to try to get him to put him in his place hadn’t been a conscious decision. He’d felt like he was watching himself from the outside every time he got bitchy with Shane, unable to stop himself from picking, picking, picking. Thank fuck Shane had figured out what was happening and had forced Ilya to talk about it, even if talking about it had felt like ripping his spine out through his mouth. 

Now Shane knew what Ilya needed, and somehow, he seemed willing to give it to Ilya. Willing to take on the horrible, ugly job of correcting everything that felt so twisted up and wrong inside of Ilya. 

Shane was going to fix it. 

Shane was going to hit him. 

Ilya’s leg was shaking as he waited for the plane to take off. He felt like his skin was too tight on his skeleton, like he was going to burst out of the confines of his own body. 

He hadn’t touched himself in four days, even after he woke up the second night impossibly, achingly hard from a dream about Shane riding him in the middle of a locker room, Ilya tied to the bench in front of a crowd of faceless teammates. Even after every sweet, gently commanding text from Shane reminding him that Shane was in charge right now. 

Four days shouldn’t have felt that long, but now, with only a few hours until Shane was in his arms, until Ilya would finally earn his release, it felt like pure torture. 

Torture which was only worsened by the last text he had received from Shane. 

I’ll be at your place when you get home. I want you to let yourself be as mean and nasty as you need to be when you get here, let it all out. I’ll take care of it. 

As the plane took off, Ilya settled back in his seat, noise cancelling headphones firmly in place, and allowed himself to finally dwell on all the things he had set aside for Shane to bear. All of the moments when he felt like he had failed as a captain and an athlete and a partner. Every time he had been angry or wanted to isolate or hadn’t performed to his own standard. Every time he had been too much and not enough. 

He let himself feel dark and too sharp to handle, like he was made of black holes and razor wire. 

He thought of Shane. Perfect, beautiful Shane, with his sweet smile and pretty freckles and hands that were soft like a girl’s. Shane with his slowly growing stack of kink guide books on his bedside table, bursting with multicolored sticky notes. Shane fucking Hollander, who thought he had what it took to contain the hurricane that was the inside of Ilya’s head. 

Shane, who Ilya trusted completely. 

Ilya let the awfulness in, invited every voice to shout. Lazy. Selfish. Unlovable. Failure. 

He let the storm take him, let the weight press him down, and he trusted Shane to pull him back up. 

Ilya slammed the front door hard enough to make it rattle in its frame. He left his bag in the entryway, didn’t bother hanging up his coat. His right shoe made a loud thunk when he kicked it off and it hit the wall. 

He wanted to scream, to crouch down on the floor like an animal and let all of the frustration of the last few weeks out in a wail of wordless fury. Instead, he let everything inside of him continue to pressurize. He stormed into his kitchen, yanking his freezer door open to grab a bottle of vodka. He had just gotten the lid off when he turned and spotted Shane. 

He was sitting at the kitchen table, body language open and relaxed, chin propped up on his fist as he watched Ilya with a kind of quiet contemplation. He looked soft and touchable, hair falling around his face, dressed in one of Ilya’s old t-shirts and a pair of tiny, high waisted boyshorts, striped blue and white. 

Ilya froze, feeling suddenly caught out, like he was doing something that he shouldn’t be. Shane’s eyes flicked to the bottle of vodka in his hand and Ilya had an irrational desire to hide it behind his back, like a kid caught sneaking a cookie. 

“Are you going to get a glass for that?” Shane asked. 

Ilya had been about to, but now he petulantly took a slow sip straight from the bottle, keeping his eyes fixed on Shane the whole time. 

The vodka burned sweetly going down. Ilya lingered as he finished swallowing, lips wet around the mouth of the bottle, thumb stroking over the slender neck. A final drop of liquor clung to the lip as he pulled away, and he flicked out his tongue to catch it before swallowing pointedly. 

Shane hummed, tilting his head in consideration. Ilya would have believed the cool calm in his expression was completely genuine, if not for the tips of Shane’s ears going pink. 

“You’re late,” Shane finally said. “You’re supposed to text me if your flight isn’t on time or traffic is bad.” 

Ilya bristled. He had only landed fifteen minutes after the expected arrival time, well within the reasonable window for his flight to not be considered late. 

“I don’t need to tell you where I am all the time.” The bottle made a sharp sound as Ilya all but slammed it down on the counter. 

Shane hummed, keeping his eyes on Ilya’s. Not rising to the bait. “Maybe not. But I was worried. You should have considered my feelings.”  

“I shouldn't have considered shit.” 

“Language,” Shane said and. Oh. 

Oh. There was. Something about this. About standing in front of Shane like this, Shane soft and pretty and unfazed in the face of Ilya’s attitude. Something about the way Shane was talking to him. Something about the way it made Ilya feel. 

He shoved the thought down. 

“I can say whatever the fuck I want,” he snapped. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.” 

Shane sighed, soft and disappointed, like he expected more but still wasn’t particularly surprised. “Sit down, Ilyusha.” 

Ilya wanted to scream. “I don’t want to fucking sit down.” 

Shane’s eyes flashed, and for the first time he was something other than gentle and careful as he pinned Ilya with a hard look. 

“And I don’t want to be having this fucking conversation, but you’re the one who’s been acting up for weeks. So sit your ass down.” 

Ilya sat down. 

Shane didn’t say anything as Ilya settled into the chair across from him, just stared Ilya down until Ilya started squirming uncomfortably. 

He broke quicker than he wanted to under the weight of Shane’s gaze. The air of bravado in his voice was starting to sound thin, even to his own ears, as he snapped, “What the fuck do you want?” 

Shane shifted out of his relaxed position, straightening up as his hands went to the table in front of him. His fingertips drummed over the polished wooden surface with a sharp clicking noise. 

Ilya froze.

That almost sounded like— 

Ilya’s gaze was drawn down like a magnet to a lodestone. Drawn to Shane’s hands, surprisingly big for his compact frame, all boxy knuckles and long, elegant fingers. 

Elegant fingers which were currently decorated with a set of stiletto cut acrylic nails. 

They weren’t particularly long, not like some of the girls Ilya had slept with. But they were sharp, filed into severe points. They were a light blue grey, and there was something familiar about the color that Ilya couldn’t quite place. 

He looked up to see Shane watching him, searching and intent. 

“Do you like them?” he asked, and there was just the smallest crack of uncertainty in his voice. 

Ilya couldn’t believe Shane had done this. Didn’t know how Shane had done this. Had he gone to a salon? Surely not, nothing could be so openly, obviously gay as going to get his nails done. 

Yet here he was, pretty, cruelly sharp nails anxiously tap tap tapping as he waited for Ilya’s answer. 

“I like them,” Ilya managed around the tightness in his throat. Already his skin felt sensitive and tender at the idea of those nails raking over him. He felt hyper aware of his back, his vulnerable sides, his chest. 

Shane smiled before doing that fucking thing that girls did with their nails, examining them first curled against his palm, then flicking them out to study them with his fingers outstretched. The motion let Ilya see that the undersides were painted silver, shining like a blade. 

“I’m glad. I got them for you,” Shane’s gaze shifted from his nails to Ilya’s face, and he smiled softly as he reached out, cupping Ilya’s cheek. “I wanted them to match your eyes.” A sharp thumbnail traced lightly over the top of Ilya’s cheekbone. “I think I did a pretty good job.” 

Fuck, that was so sweet. 

That was so hot.

Ilya was so turned on he was dizzy with it. He tried to lean into Shane’s hand on his cheek, but Shane was already pulling away, sitting back with his arms crossed over his chest, nails once more hidden away. 

“I want to know what you have to say for yourself about the way you’ve been acting,” Shane said, and all the sweet anticipation that had curled within Ilya at the sight of Shane’s nails was amplified as the shame slammed into him. 

Shane was so good to him. He was so sweet, and kind, and understanding, and Ilya had spent two weeks being an absolute asshole because he couldn’t just ask for what he wanted. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, head bowed, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What was that?” Shane asked. 

“I said I’m fucking sorry,” Ilya snapped, glowering at the floor, because he couldn’t give in just yet. Not totally. He still needed Shane to bleed it out of him like a poison. 

“You look me in the eye when you speak to me, Ilyusha.” 

Ilya looked up at Shane through his lashes, sullen and mulish, even as he felt a zing of arousal shoot up his spine at Shane’s words. 

He watched as Shane stood and came to stand in front of Ilya. As Shane reached out and cupped his chin, sharp nails just barely grazing over his jugular. 

For a moment, Shane just stared at Ilya.  

“I’d keep you locked away from the whole world if I could, you know,” he finally said, voice soft. “Keep you safe at home, where I could watch out for you. Make sure you were always cared for, always well behaved. Make sure you never had a moment where you could question how adored you were.” 

He climbed into Ilya’s lap, all warm skin and soft fabric as he wound his fingers through Ilya’s curls, scratching deliciously over his scalp. “But it wouldn’t be fair. You’re too talented for that, too hard working. I wish I could shelter you from it all, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.” 

Ilya’s chest felt suddenly too tight, a mortifying pressure building behind his eyes. He pressed his face to Shane’s chest, needing to hide. 

Shane held him close, making soft shushing sounds as he rocked him gently. “I know you haven’t felt like you’re doing enough,” he said. “I know you feel like you’ve been falling short. But I know you, Ilyusha, and you never give anything but one hundred percent. No. Don’t argue.” 

Ilya’s mouth snapped closed, but he still felt raw and tender at Shane’s words, wanting desperately to protest. He wasn’t doing enough. He couldn’t be giving one hundred percent, because if he was, they wouldn’t be losing. The stands wouldn’t be empty when they played. His team would be able to look to him and know him and trust him, trust that he would hold them together.

He couldn’t be giving it his all, because there was still blood inside of him that he hadn’t left poured out over the ice. Because there were still corners of himself he kept selfishly guarded, instead of carving everything out and serving it to his team like an offering. Because he was supposed to be able to carry it all without breaking, and even with how little he was doing he still felt like he was shattering to pieces. 

Shane grabbed hold of the hair at the base of Ilya’s skull and pulled, yanking Ilya back so he had no choice but to face the intensity of Shane’s gaze.

“This isn’t me trying to make you feel better,” Shane snapped. “I watch every game. I talk to you every night. I see how hard you’re working. You’re putting an entire franchise on your back, and even you can’t turn them around in a season through sheer willpower. You’re putting in the work, but it’s going to be slow, and it’s going to be hard, and you’re not going to see results right away. If you feel like you’re not putting up enough points, put in the practice time to mentor other players. If you can’t be in charge of organizing team dinners, find one guy who’s really struggling to fit in and get to know him. If you’re angry, feel angry, and then let it drive you. You know how to do this, I know you do. But you’re not in Boston anymore, and success is going to look different.”  

“I should be doing more,” Ilya insisted, because he couldn’t just sit there and take this. It didn’t matter what kind of team the Centaurs were, if Ilya was enough than they would be better. 

Shane growled, his grip on Ilya curls tightening, sharp and painful. “You can’t pour from an empty cup,” he said, shaking Ilya slightly. “Fuck, baby, when was the last time you slept properly? When was the last time you ate something that nourished you? When are you taking the time to rest?” 

“I’m resting plenty,” Ilya insisted, even though he wasn’t. Lying in bed with his mind whirling, stuck on every moment he had been less than perfect, wasn’t really rest. 

Suddenly, Shane stood, leaving Ilya behind as he stalked into the kitchen, every line of his body tense. He threw a cabinet door open and yanked out a plate before slamming the door shut with a bang. Ceramic made sharp impact against the marble countertop. The silverware drawer rattled metallically. A wooden cutting board landed with a clatter.

Ilya could focus on nothing but the abrasive noises of Shane moving around the kitchen, something about it making the hair on the back of his neck rise.  

Shane’s movements were jerky and aggressive as he started pulling things out of the fridge and setting them up on the counter. 

“You make me so angry sometimes, you know that?” Shane finally snapped, brandishing a small paring knife at Ilya  “All you do, all you ever fucking do, is give.” 

Ilya… didn’t know how to respond to this. To the combination of sharp anger and gentle care. It left him feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable and full of conflicting fear and desire. 

“I don’t—”

“Again with the fucking arguing.” Shane had a carton of… strawberries? What the fuck was he doing? “You are always giving, and just for once I wish you would take. Take from me, Ilyashen’ka. Haven’t I done enough for you to know that anything you want to take I want to give? Here you are, struggling, doing everything you can to keep your head above water, and instead of telling me you needed help, what did you do?” 

Ilya swallowed, feeling hot and ashamed. 

“I was mean,” he said quietly. 

“You were mean, which I didn’t deserve, but more importantly than that, you didn’t give me the opportunity to see what was wrong.” Shane stopped moving for a moment, shoulders slumping as he leaned against the counter. “You didn’t trust me enough to let me in. You tried to manipulate me into getting mad, instead of just telling me you were struggling and needed me to take care of you. That’s what I’m upset about. That you shut me out instead of trusting me to have your back.” 

Shane sighed, his attention shifting to several different paper wrapped packages of… something. “I’m very proud of you for helping me to understand what was going on once I called you out, you were very good. But the way you were behaving before that? I don’t want it happening again. Do you understand?” 

“I understand,” Ilya muttered. 

“What do you understand?” Shane asked, still busying himself with various cartons and packages and jars, his movements less angry now, smoothing back into calm certainty as Ilya spoke. 

“I need to trust you. I need to ask for help instead of getting mean when I feel like I need—” he paused, uncertain. 

“When you need what, baby?” Shane asked.  

Ilya swallowed hard. He couldn’t say it. Not again. Shane wouldn’t make him, would he?

The silence hung for a long moment. Ilya felt like he would choke on it. 

“Do you need to be reminded?” Shane asked, voice soft. “Do you need help, making sure you behave?” 

Ilya turned his head away, wanting to hide, instinctively tucking his face against his shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Ilyusha,” Shane murmured, his soft footsteps coming closer. Something was set very gently on the table. A plate? 

“I—” 

“Look at me, baby.”

Ilya took in a shuddering breath and forced himself to look up at Shane standing above him. 

“You can tell me,” Shane whispered. “You’re a good boy.” 

“I’m n—”

Shane slapped Ilya across the face. 

It was fast, crisp as stepping out into a bright winter morning, the crack of skin on skin sharp and stinging. Ilya’s head snapped to the side, and for a moment, he was frozen, disbelieving. 

Already the pain was starting to fade, leaving his cheek hot and sensitive in the aftermath. 

Shane had slapped him. 

When Ilya looked back up at Shane, he saw his face was flushed, eyes fever bright. 

“I said,” Shane’s voice was soft, his eyes locked on Ilya’s. “Don’t. Argue.” 

Ilya was hard. 

He was so hard he could barely breathe, could barely think. His eyes flicked down, just to see if this was affecting Shane the same way it was affecting Ilya. It obviously was. Shane’s cock was straining against the thin shorts he wore, light material starting to darken as his pretty cock got wet. 

He dragged his eyes back up to Shane’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, clear and earnest. 

There was no fight left in him. It was like the last of the darkness had been knocked out by that bright, stinging slap. 

Shane’s smile was as warm and bright as the sun as he stroked his fingers through Ilya’s hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. 

“You’re forgiven. Now get on your knees.” 

Ilya practically fell out of his seat, collapsing to his knees in front of Shane. He grabbed at his ass, letting out a low, needy sound as he pressed his face to Shane’s covered cock, breathing in the smell of his body and mouthing messily over the damp patch where he could just start to taste him. 

Shane laughed, high and breathy, and tugged sharply at Ilya’s hair, pulling him back. 

“Greedy boy,” he crooned, sweetly admonishing. “Not yet. I made food and you’re already begging for dessert? Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners?” 

Ilya couldn’t fucking handle the way Shane was talking to him. Like Ilya was something sharp boned and irresponsible, desperately in need of guidance. It left him feeling hollowed out, struck dumb. He felt like he was going to start clawing at the walls, like he was going to lose himself completely. Maybe he would. Maybe he could. Maybe that was okay. Shane had him, after all, maybe it was okay to just let it make him feel however it made him feel. 

Right now, it made Ilya feel just as greedy and ill mannered as Shane accused him of being. 

“But I want,” he whined, straining against Shane’s hold, against the sweet pain of Shane’s firm grip in his hair. His eyes were wide and desperate as he gazed up at Shane with his mouth half open, desire making his breaths come fast and heavy. “Please, I want.” 

“I know,” Shane soothed. “I know, poor baby, you just can’t help it, can you? My pretty boy needs to show me how good he is with his pretty mouth, doesn’t he?” 

“Please,” Ilya whined. “Want to make you feel good. I can do it, I promise, be so good for you.” 

“I know you can, impatient thing. After. You need to eat. Come here.” Shane sat down in the chair in front of Ilya, patting his lap. “Lay your head here.” 

Ilya looked up at Shane tentatively for a moment before shuffling a little closer on his knees. After a moment he gingerly laid his head in Shane’s lap, feeling tense and unsure, not knowing how to react to this change in what he’d expected. 

Instantly Shane’s fingernails were back in his hair, and this time the scratching over his scalp wasn’t quite as gentle, each pass of his nails stinging. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to remind him again of the potential of pain. 

Ilya whined softly, turning his head into Shane’s lap, shoulders hunching forward in response to the sweet scratch. 

“Yeah, baby?” Shane asked, voice soft and pleased. “Does that feel good?” 

Ilya nodded, the motion slightly delayed as he felt himself starting to go slow and syrupy around the edges, tension melting out of his body. 

“Yeah, you’re feeling good,” Shane said, more to himself than to Ilya. Ilya heard the sounds of movement before Shane guided him to turn his head, something pressing up against his lips. “Open,” he said softly. 

Ilya opened his mouth instinctively, his teeth grazing over Shane’s fingers as something was placed between his teeth. 

“Eat,” Shane said. 

The thin skin of a grape burst under Ilya’s incisors, tart sweetness complemented by a nutty cheese. Ilya moaned unconsciously at the taste, so shockingly good after not eating since the protein bar he’d barely had enough energy to finish that morning. 

Shane made a soft, contented noise as Ilya chewed and swallowed. “Open,” he said again, and Ilya opened his mouth obediently. The next bite was strawberry and some kind of soft cheese. Some remained on Shane’s fingers after Ilya swallowed, and Shane pressed them into Ilya’s mouth. Sharp nails scraped over his tongue as he licked Shane clean. 

Shane continued to feed him like that, one bite at a time. Fruit and cheese and cured meats. Hearty whole wheat crackers. Jam and a spicy chutney and decadently buttery honey. The bites got less tidy as Shane fed him, more and more often Shane’s fingers pressed into his mouth, traced over his tongue, guiding him to lap up sticky smears of honey and fruit juice. 

Ilya felt drunk, slow and thoughtless and simultaneously heavy and light. The world had gone blurry around the edges, like sunlight through fine linen. His knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the hardwood floor, but that was unimportant. He felt warm and safe and well on the way to pleasantly full, cock aching and ignored between his legs. 

Shane ran his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip, catching a drop of sweetness before pressing it into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya wrapped his lips around Shane’s thumb, and he just couldn’t help himself, couldn’t resist enjoying the intrusion more than just for the purpose of cleaning away the mess. He sucked at Shane’s thumb like he wanted to suck his dick, even getting away with bobbing his head a few times before Shane’s thumbnail dug hard against his tongue. 

“Are we getting impatient again?” Shane asked quietly. 

Ilya looked up at Shane with wide eyes, lips still wrapped around his thumb. It wasn’t like he thought he was getting away with anything, but maybe if he looked particularly sweet and helpless, Shane would take pity on him. 

He blinked slowly up at Shane, and it would be impossible to hide the adoration he felt in that moment, so letting it shine through in his expression was easy. He tilted his head to rub his cheek over Shane’s bare thigh, stubble scratching over sensitive skin. His breathing went a little faster and his eyelashes fluttered as he let his lips part with a soft, wet sound, mouth just open enough to let Shane see where his nail was pressed threateningly against Ilya’s tongue. 

“You think you’re so slick,” Shane said softly, eyes fixed on Ilya. His ears were pink again, only a tiny ring of brown around the blown black of his pupils. “You think pouting at me is going to get you what you want?” 

Ilya shrugged a little, his lips closing around Shane’s thumb again as he sucked, soft and unobtrusive. 

“Spoiled brat,” Shane murmured, stroking his fingers indulgently through Ilya’s curls. “I should stop you, shouldn’t I? I can’t just let you get away with doing whatever you want.” 

Ilya sucked a little harder. Shane turned his hand, his nail running over the textured roof of Ilya’s mouth, tracing his gums behind his teeth. Ilya wondered how much pressure it would take to break skin.

“I should make you wait longer. I’m just building bad habits if I let you win.” Ilya could hear the arousal in Shane’s voice, could feel the slight tremor in his thigh under Ilya’s cheek. 

Ilya pulled his mouth away just enough that Shane’s nail was left barely caught under his top lip, pressing it up slightly, highlighting the generous curve of his cupid’s bow. He ran his hands up the back of Shane’s bare calves until his palms were cupped behind Shane’s knees and tugged, just a little, not enough to force Shane to move. Just enough to show he wanted it, but wouldn’t dare presume to push. 

Shane looked at the plate left on the table, then back down at Ilya. 

“You have been such a good boy though…” he murmured, considering. “Took your correction so well. Did such a good job telling me what you needed. Didn’t touch yourself for so long…” His eyes flicked down between Ilya’s legs. “You haven’t touched yourself, right baby?” 

Ilya nodded hurriedly, straightening up a little on his knees to get closer to Shane, to show him how eager and obedient he was ready to be. “No. No, I didn’t touch. I promise.” 

“Of course you didn’t. Not my good boy.” Shane traced a nail over the curve of Ilya’s bottom lip. “Was it hard? Were you frustrated?” 

Shane had that look on his face. The one he got after picking Ilya’s pocket on the ice or when he was winning at cards. Eyes a little too bright, expression a little too dialed in, laser focused and hypercompetitive and deeply satisfied by his own skill. 

Ilya could only groan and nod, briefly pressing his forehead to Shane’s knee as he was reminded once again of his cock, still untouched in all of this, trapped in the confines of his pants. His right hand twitched in an instinctive desire to reach down and give himself some form of relief. He gripped the back of Shane’s knees harder to remind himself not to break.

Shane pushed his thumb into Ilya’s mouth, a clear command. Ilya sucked greedily, pressing his tongue against the nail to feel the sweet threat of pain once. 

“There were no rules that I couldn’t touch myself, you know,” Shane said, legs falling open a bit as he played with Ilya’s mouth, fucking into him with slow, purposeful motions. “Four days. I’ve come maybe… six times? I got myself off in the shower, fingered myself in bed. I rode one of our toys last night, made such a mess of myself I had to change the sheets.” 

Ilya whined, redoubling his efforts as he sucked at Shane’s thumb. He felt white hot and out of control, half afraid that all of this would end with him coming untouched in his pants like a teenager. 

“I thought of you the whole time.” Shane’s free hand trailed over his neck and down to his tit, squeezing the plush muscle there before plucking at his nipple over his thin shirt. “I thought about you alone in your hotel bed, cock so hard, wondering if you could get away with just palming yourself for a minute, but knowing that good boys don’t cheat like that.” 

Ilya squeezed his thighs together, tried to focus on anything other than the way his cockhead was rubbing against the fabric of his boxers. 

“I thought about you in the shower,” Shane’s hand travelled lower, down to his covered cock, starting to massage himself leisurely. “Skin all flushed and wet. Pressing your forehead against the wall and whining like you do when you’re not getting what you want. Cursing me out, so frustrated, so desperate. So angry at me for being so mean and not letting you touch. But still my good boy. Still obeying, hands to yourself no matter how difficult it was.” 

Ilya was captivated by Shane’s hand on his cock, by the contrast of feminine and masculine he presented, boxy knuckles and hairy forearms, shorts cut for a woman and pretty blue fingernails. Ilya thought he was falling in love with that shade of blue, the blue of his own eyes. 

He turned his head so that Shane’s thumbnail hooked into his cheek, felt the piercing pressure there as his lips were pulled open at the corner, spit pooling slightly and escaping in a thin trickle that ran down to his jaw.

Shane’s eyes caught on that trail of saliva as he slipped his hand under his shorts, hips rolling into his own touch. Ilya could hear it, slick sounds of Shane’s hand on his wet cock. Fuck, he wanted to see it, he needed to taste it. 

“Please,” he whined, voice slightly slurred around the thumb in his mouth. “Please, sweetheart.” 

“Please what?” Shane asked, head falling to the side, eyes half lidded. 

“Please let me suck your cock. Let me make you feel good. Please.” 

“Mmm. What a polite boy.” 

Shane smiled sweetly down at Ilya. Slowly, he drew his thumb out of Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya waited with bated breath. 

It was a small eternity before Shane finally murmured, “Go ahead, baby.” 

Ilya fell on Shane like he was starving, grabbing at the waistband of his evil little shorts and yanking them down. Shane laughed, lifting his hips to help Ilya take them off. The sound morphed into a punched out little groan when Ilya lifted the shorts to his face, pressing his nose to the damp front and inhaling greedily. Fuck, Shane smelled so fucking good, sweat and arousal and stupid expensive body wash that was supposed to smell like rain but mostly just added a vague hint of sweetness. 

Then Ilya caught sight of Shane’s cock, and he threw the shorts over his shoulder because this, this was what he needed. 

Shane’s pretty cock was so wet, almost as wet as a girl. Ilya loved that about him, loved how he drooled precum as soon as he got turned on, how Ilya had to swallow it down regularly when he blew him, the taste rich and musky and perfect. 

Ilya’s mouth flooded with spit at the thought, and he wanted to see Shane even messier, even wetter, so he opened his mouth and let a thick strand of saliva drip off of his outstretched tongue. It landed right on the dripping head of Shane’s cock before sliding down the side, and Ilya chased after it with his mouth, artless and sloppy. 

Shane moaned above him, gripping his hair tightly with both hands as he rolled his hips against Ilya’s face. His cock slipped over Ilya’s lips, rubbing precum up over his cheekbone in a messy smear. It was the same cheek that Shane had slapped, and Ilya wondered if the skin there  was still pink. If he looked doubly marked by Shane now. 

“Please,” Ilya groaned, overwhelmed and desperate. He couldn’t say any more. 

Shane knew what Ilya wanted, even if he loved making him wait for it, and after a long moment he pulled Ilya back just enough. Just enough that Ilya could finally get Shane into his mouth properly, and Ilya moaned.  He swallowed Shane down greedily, taking him to the root in a single motion. Like always, it felt like welcoming Shane home. 

There weren’t many things in the world Ilya enjoyed more than sucking Shane’s cock. He’d known from the first time he saw it, chubbing up between Shane’s thick thighs as they both snuck glances in the showers, that he would do anything to get it in his mouth. It was just so fucking gorgeous, plump and pretty pink and intriguingly short, as though it had been custom made just for Ilya. A perfect little mouthful. 

For all of that Ilya prided himself on his oral skills, he had a frustratingly sensitive gag reflex. Before Shane, he’d had no doubt that he could give a good blowjob, so long as he stayed completely in control. But that was different from being able to be used. To be taken, like Shane was taking him now, brutal and uncaring of Ilya’s comfort as he fucked Ilya’s face. 

Sasha would sometimes try to fuck Ilya like this, and it had been a disaster every time. He was big, and Ilya would choke and gag before he was even halfway down, panic closing in as he struggled to breathe. Sasha would laugh at him, cruel and mocking, and say there was no hope for him, that he just couldn’t be trained. Then he would finish getting himself off with his own hand while Ilya watched. It always left Ilya feeling cold and insignificant, unworthy of his attention. 

It was never like that with Shane. Shane and Ilya fit, like their bodies were made to come together. Like they had been crafted for each other’s pleasure. It was part of what had always made the thing between them so addictive, so impossible to resist. 

The first time he’d made Shane come, gasping and whining and unable to stop himself from spilling down Ilya’s throat after only a matter of seconds, Ilya had felt more powerful than he had ever felt in his life. 

Even hazy and desperate to show his submission, sucking Shane off still made Ilya feel powerful. He loved the sounds of it. Obscene slurps and his own heavy breathing, Shane above him whimpering like he could barely stand how good it felt. He loved how wet it was, how drool and Shane’s precum would escape past his lips to drip down over his jaw. He loved the taste of it, thick and deep, undeniable evidence of just how much he turned Shane on. 

But even with the power Ilya felt with Shane in his mouth like this, there was no denying who was really in charge here. Shane shifted his grip on Ilya’s hair, one hand grabbing a section of curls at the base of his neck and twisting. He pulled Ilya even closer, forcing him deeper until his nose was smushed up against Shane’s pubic bone, buried in the thatch of neatly trimmed hair there. 

Shane held Ilya down as he ground against his face in slow, luxurious motions. He pulled Ilya back every so often to breathe, and every time Ilya just strained back towards Shane’s cock, whining and desperate. Right now, breathing felt far less important than making Shane feel good.   

On either side of Ilya’s head, Shane’s thighs trembled, and Ilya wanted more, wanted Shane like that first time again, whimpering and shaking and utterly overwhelmed, coming helplessly. He worked his tongue over Shane’s cock with experienced precision, listening intently to Shane above him. He was almost there, whining high in his throat as he dug the nails of his free hand into the meat of Ilya’s shoulder through his t-shirt. He was so close… 

Suddenly, Shane yanked Ilya back, breathing heavily, cheeks pink and eyes bright, a frenetic energy running through him.

“Off,” he growled, yanking at Ilya’s shirt like it had personally offended him. “Shirt off. Now.” 

Ilya rushed to comply, ripping his shirt off with enough force that he thought he might have put a hole in the collar, watching eagerly as Shane followed suit. Once Ilya’s chest was bare he pressed back into Shane, arching his back to put himself on display. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Shane moaned, reaching out and running both his hands over Ilya’s chest. “Deep breath in for me, okay baby?”

Ilya obediently breathed in, mouth opening on the exhale to ask why when—

Shane raked the nails of both hands over Ilya’s chest, hard enough that Ilya felt skin slicing open, and Ilya screamed. 

The pain was blinding, obliterating, like being set on fire, like being shot. Ilya only had a moment of panic to realize what was about to happen before he was curling in on himself like a wounded animal, sobbing helplessly as— 

Ilya came. 

He came, hot and sticky and shameful, completely untouched, and the embarrassment that followed was so profound it was almost as though he came again. 

“Holy shit,” Shane whispered. 

Ilya’s forehead was pressed to the cold floor, his entire body shaking as he heaved in desperate breaths. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Shane, I’m s—”

“Ilyusha, If you say you’re sorry right now, I am never going to touch your dick again.” 

Ilya whimpered. “But I—”

“Hey. I said you couldn’t touch.” Shane’s voice went low and soothing, Ilya sobbed again. “You didn’t touch. You didn’t break any rules. You’re okay, baby. Can I see your pretty face?” 

Ilya felt like his face was probably the furthest thing from pretty right now, screwed up and blotchy. He shook his head. 

“No?” Shane asked, pout audible in his voice. “But I want to see the mess I made of you.” 

Shane’s hand came into view in Ilya’s periphery and, fuck, his pretty blue nails were tipped with red. That was from Ilya. Shane had made him bleed. 

Shane cupped his chin and guided him to straighten up. Ilya kept his eyes averted, but that was actually worse, because it meant that he was looking down at his own chest, at the ten long scratch marks running down it, thin and shallow enough that they were already starting to scab over.

It was worse, because he could see the dark stain slowly spreading over the front of his pants. 

Ilya could feel how red he was. Fuck, he could see it, see where the blush was creeping down his chest.  

“Look at me, Ilyushen’ka,” Shane said softly. 

Ilya couldn’t refuse, not when Shane called him that. He took a deep breath before slowly dragging his gaze up to Shane’s face. 

Shane was looking at him with utter adoration. The hand not cupping Ilya’s chin was grasping his own cock, holding himself tightly at the base like he was trying not to come himself. The sight of Shane’s red tipped fingers wrapped around his own cock made Ilya feel woozy from the intensity of his arousal so soon after coming. 

“You’re okay,” Shane said, gentle but firm. “You’re not in trouble. That was so fucking hot baby. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He reached up to thumb a tear away from Ilya’s cheek, careful of his nail. “Are you alright? Still feeling good?” 

Ilya nodded shakily. 

“You sure? We can stop now if you need to, that was really intense. I don’t want you pushing yourself further than you’re able to handle.” 

“Hollander, if you make me stop right now I’m never touching your dick again.” 

Shane laughed, leaning down and kissing Ilya, slow and messy, all tongue and smiling mouth, and that was when Ilya realized that they hadn’t kissed yet tonight. He whined against Shane’s lips, straining upwards to get more, to get deeper, and Shane eagerly obliged. 

“My good boy,” Shane groaned into Ilya’s mouth. “My perfect, beautiful boy. Fuck, I love you, I love you.” 

“I love you so fucking much,” Ilya gasped back, kisses sloppy and uncoordinated, but he didn’t care, couldn’t bother kissing with any skill, just needed to get as much of Shane as he could. 

“You wanna keep making me feel good, baby?” Shane asked, and Ilya whined, nodding eagerly. 

He was single minded as he kissed his way across Shane’s chest, down his stomach, ready to get lost in the pleasure of sucking Shane off once more. But as he neared his prize, something stopped him. A blunt resistance against his chest. 

Ilya looked down to see Shane’s bare foot pressed against his sternum. For the first time, he noticed that Shane’s toenails were painted that same blue grey. 

He dragged his gaze back up to Shane’s face and found a look there that he had never seen before. Shane was biting his bottom lip hard, eyes hot and intent and wild. There was an edge to the expression, the one got when he called himself mean and was clearly delighted by the idea of it. But there was something more to it than just that. Like he wasn’t just playing at mean but genuinely feeling it. 

Shane’s eyes were dark as he pressed forward with his foot, forcing Ilya to bend back. Ilya felt the strain in his thighs, the muscles of his folded legs stretching uncomfortably as they were forced to support the weight of his upper body. His right hand shot back to brace himself, but Shane just kept pushing, shifting out of the chair so that most of his weight was on Ilya’s chest, forcing him back until he fell to his elbow, and then further back still until he was laying flat on the floor, thighs spread open, feet tucked up beneath him. 

Ilya felt like an insect pinned to a board as he stared at Shane above him, both of them breathing heavily. 

Shane’s cock was dripping, and Ilya was hard again, he knew without having to look down. He stared up at Shane, at the blazing heat in his expression, feeling punch drunk and nearly sick with lust. 

When Shane met his eyes, there was something dark and impossibly hungry there, like Shane was starving and Ilya’s body was a banquet table laden with food. 

Finally, Shane opened his mouth and said, “You have exactly ten seconds to get naked. One.” 

Ilya snapped to action, fighting to get his legs out from under him as Shane counted. By the time Shane hit seven Ilya was shoving his pants and underwear off in one motion, triumphant. As soon as he was undressed Shane collapsed into his lap, moaning as he grabbed Ilya’s face with both hands and kissed him hard. 

“I want you to eat me out,” he panted into Ilya’s mouth, and fuck yes, Ilya was absolutely on board with that plan. 

Shane pulled back so that he could turn around, straddling Ilya’s chest as he bent forward, reaching back to spread himself open, and Ilya couldn’t be polite and well mannered here. He grabbed Shane by the hips and yanked him back, forcing him to rest his weight on Ilya’s face as he licked over Shane’s hole like he’d die without it. 

Shane moaned above him, but Ilya barely heard it. This was all for him, he’d take his correction if Shane felt he needed it, but right now eating Shane out was solely about Ilya’s pleasure. He loved doing this, especially when he could get Shane to sit on his face. He loved the heat, the borderline suffocation, the way he could feel Shane’s hole clench and flutter against his tongue. 

He started by kissing and licking over Shane’s hole, messy and indulgent. He gathered spit in his mouth and pushed it past Shane’s rim with his tongue, getting him nice and wet. Shane was rocking back against him, whining high and needy and slutty, and Ilya wanted to ruin him. He pointed his tongue and started thrusting it into Shane properly, sucking on his rim as he tongue fucked him with a skill born of years of practice. 

His attention wavered as he felt Shane tip forward, hot breath ghosting over his cock. He arched his hips up, aching for touch, for the enveloping heat of Shane’s talented mouth. Shane’s lips were so close, Ilya could almost feel the brush of soft skin over his cockhead, and he needed it. He was desperate for it. If only Shane would just— 

Shane turned his head and sank his teeth hard into the meat of Ilya’s inner thigh. 

The pain was an electric shock to Ilya’s system. He gasped in an abortive little breath, head falling back against the hardwood floor with a thud. The feeling had every muscle in his body locking up in response, and Ilya felt his brows screwing together in anguished ecstasy as he let out a high, helpless whine. 

Shane didn’t let up on the bite, digging his teeth in deep and sucking, gnawing. It hurt so fucking bad, mere inches away from Ilya’s cock, and that had all sorts of wires crossing, pain morphing and mutating into a kind of all consuming pleasure. 

After an achingly long stretch of time, Shane started to slowly pull back, teeth scraping over Ilya’s skin as he kept his jaw tightly clenched. It hurt so sweetly, the gorgeous agony of it all that Ilya could register. When at last Shane released him, mouth parting from his skin with a final wet suck, the relief was so intense it made Ilya tear up. He sucked in his first proper breath in minutes, and it was immediately punched out of him as Shane pressed a knuckle hard against the tender, bruised skin. 

Shane’s back arched beautifully as he sat up and looked back over his shoulder at Ilya. His dark eyes slowly traced over Ilya’s face, like he was just enjoying taking Ilya in. Then he arched an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to Ilya’s mouth. 

“Did I say you could stop?” he asked, and Ilya moaned as he grabbed Shane by the hips and pulled him back once more. 

Skill and practice failed Ilya as Shane set his teeth into Ilya’s opposite thigh, the pain so blindingly good that Ilya could do little more than offer himself as a wet, eager mouth for Shane to get himself off against. When Shane introduced his nails, clawing long lines up and down Ilya’s thighs, he could do little more than remember to breathe. 

Shane seemed content to use Ilya as a combination chew toy and scratching post. He alternated between Ilya’s thighs, and it didn’t take him long to start experimenting. 

Big, aching bites like he was trying to take out a chunk of Ilya’s flesh. Quick little nips, bright and sharp and one after another. Slow, soothing sucks, mostly lips and tongue with the faintest hint of teeth. And around each bite, the constant scratch of his nails, sometimes light and sensual, sometimes digging in hard enough that Ilya felt blood welling up in their wake. Every once in a while the scratches would drift higher, up to his lower stomach and the place just above his cock, tracing sweeping lines of sparking pain that made Ilya feel half insane with lust. 

Ilya knew he was making noise. Shouts and whines and whimpered pleas. He knew he was writhing under the attention, hips moving like he was trying to simultaneously move towards and away from Shane’s treatment. He knew through all of it he didn’t stop licking into Shane, no matter how artless his attentions were. 

He knew all of this, and yet as the pain continued, it all began to feel distant. Ilya was somewhere else. Somewhere safe, where his breathing and heart beat provided a soothing white noise. He was floating above and within himself, and nothing was wrong. 

Ilya felt his heart rate slowing, his body melting back against the floor. He was distantly aware that he had stopped moving, that the sounds he was making had shifted to something low and rumbling and constant, almost like a purr. He had a brief flash of worry as his head fell back that he would be chastised for stopping again, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt too good, too relaxed. 

Ilya had felt something close to this before, but it was like the difference between dunking your head underwater in the bath and sinking down to the bottom of the ocean. 

He was distantly aware of the pain stopping and he whined softly as he felt Shane get up off of him. 

“Oh, baby… You’re so deep.” Shane’s voice filtered into his consciousness, soft and wondering. “Do you feel good, Ilyushen’ka?” 

It took Ilya a long moment to make a quiet affirmative noise. He felt Shane lying down next to him on the cool floor, arm wrapping around Ilya’s waist as he carefully pillowed his head on Ilya’s chest. 

“You can hang out down there for a while,” Shane said softly. “But if we want to keep going, I’ll need you to come back up a bit so I can check in. Take your time, there’s no rush.” 

Ilya hummed, his hand lazily finding its way to Shane’s hair, stroking slowly through the silky strands. 

Ilya didn’t worry about anything. He didn’t think about anything. He just laid there, feeling Shane’s weight in his arms and Shane’s hair beneath his fingers. He didn’t bother with doubt or worry or the weight of expectation. He just let himself be. He let himself breathe. 

Ilya took his time, he didn’t rush, but gradually he started coming back to himself. Not completely, he still felt calm and quiet and liquid, but enough that he was able to turn his head a little, to focus in on Shane’s face. 

Shane was watching him, eyes cataloguing every detail, and he smiled when Ilya met his gaze. He had such a beautiful smile. Ilya loved him. 

“Hey baby. Still feeling good?” Shane asked. 

Ilya nodded. 

“Do you want to keep going?” 

Ilya nodded again. 

Shane reached up to stroke a hand over Ilya’s cheek. “Can I get a verbal answer?” 

Ilya’s English felt far away, impossible to reach. He answered in Russian, “I want to keep going.” 

Ilya watched Shane mentally translate his words before smiling softly. “Good boy. Thank you. I want to ride you, does that sound good?” 

Ilya shivered in pleasure at the idea. “Da.” 

Shane smiled, leaning in to kiss his nose. “I’m going to stand up and leave for fifteen seconds. I want you to count them. I’m just going to grab the lube.” 

Ilya nodded, counting softly under his breath in Russian as he watched Shane stand up and walk over to Ilya’s bar cart, picking out what looked like a brand new bottle of lube from between two different bottles of bitters. 

He must have left it there ahead of time. Ilya could just picture it, Shane carefully considering the best place to put it, getting a new bottle especially for this and muttering to himself about keeping things sanitary the whole time. 

Shane was back before Ilya reached the end of his count, and he smiled as he leaned over Ilya, kissing him deep and achingly affectionate. 

“I don’t want you to worry about anything, baby, I’ll do all the work,” Shane said, pouring a liberal amount of lube over Ilya’s cock. Ilya whined as Shane stroked over him to spread it evenly, the first touch to his cock in four days lighting him up like a live wire. 

Shane cooed down at him, peppering kisses over his face. “I know. My sweet boy, sweetest boy in the world. Don’t worry, don’t worry about anything, I’ve got you. Just let yourself feel it.” 

“I am not… not going to last,” Ilya managed in slow, uncertain English, his hips twitching under Shane’s touch. 

“That’s okay. That’s absolutely okay, baby. Just hold on at least long enough for me to get you inside, yeah? I just need to feel it inside me when you come.” 

Ilya nodded shakily, sitting up to hide his face against Shane’s chest as Shane straddled him once more, reaching back to carefully guide Ilya into his waiting body. 

Ilya was shaking like a leaf, clinging to Shane like he’d fly off the surface of the earth without Shane there to ground him. Shane’s hole was tight and wet and hot and perfect, and Ilya could feel tears starting to run down his face from just how impossibly good it felt. 

He let out a sharp gasp when Shane settled fully into his lap, weight resting heavily against Ilya’s aching, stinging thighs. Shane didn’t let up on that pressure for a moment, staying fully seated as he rocked against Ilya. Ilya felt completely subsumed by him, his cock never allowed out of the tight clutch of Shane’s body as Shane ground him deeper with every roll of his hips. 

Shane moaned, low and contented. He draped one arm over Ilya’s shoulders, his fingernails scratching light and sparkling over Ilya’s back, leaving him shivery and hypersensitive. Shane’s other hand cupped the base of Ilya’s skull, guiding his head over until Shane’s peaked nipple brushed over Ilya’s lips. 

Ilya groaned, instinctively wrapping his lips around the tender little nub. He sucked slow and deep in time with the movements of Shane’s hips. Above him, Shane sighed in breathless pleasure, his hand pressing Ilya’s head down to keep him in place. 

“I love you so much, Ilyusha,” he murmured, pressing a fierce kiss to the crown of Ilya’s head. “You’re so good to me. You love me so well.”

Ilya whimpered, sucking harder at Shane’s nipple, almost as if— almost as if he could— 

“My perfect boy. My beautiful boy. You make me so happy. You’re so talented, so hard working.  You make me so proud.” 

There was… something about this. 

There was something about all of this. Something about this whole night. Something horrible, something wrong. Something so terribly beautiful that Ilya was petrified to turn his head and look at it. 

“I love taking care of you,” Shane continued. There was something about the way he said it, soft and commanding and loving and gentle and awful. “I love how you let me. I love when you’re a brat about it and then I get to help you be good. I love that you trust me with this.” 

There was something caught in the back of Ilya’s throat. Something tucked up in the place between his lips and his teeth. Something that suddenly felt everywhere. In the way Shane had been speaking to him all night. In the carefully portioned out plate of food left sitting on the table. In the way Ilya felt safe, truly, completely safe, like he hadn’t felt since he was too young to know the world was not made to shelter him. 

There was a word floating in the air above them, and Ilya was terrified to look up and see it. His lips unwrapped from around Shane’s nipple as he gasped in a breath. 

He was shaking again, not in the good way this time, and Shane noticed immediately, guiding Ilya’s head back so that he could look him in the eye. 

“Baby? Hey, Ilya, what’s up?” 

“I—” 

Ilya had to get out of here. 

He had to push Shane off of him and run. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t be caught like this. This was bad, this was wrong. He was wrong for feeling this way. He was awful. He was everything everyone had ever said about him. He was everything his father had ever thought about him. 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. Baby, you’re scaring me, I need you to breathe.” 

Ilya needed to get away. He wasn’t worthy of Shane’s care, he wasn’t worthy of anyone’s care. He was evil, he was perverted, he was nothing but a filthy fucking f— 

“Ilyushen’ka, what did I say about shutting me out?” Shane snapped, voice stern and unbreakable. 

Ilya’s whirling thoughts stopped in their tracks. 

“I need to trust you,” he said, obediently repeating the instructions that Shane had spent four days drilling into him. 

Shane let out a relieved breath. “Yes. Please, baby, whatever’s going on, please let me be here for you.” 

Ilya opened his mouth, ready to protest, ready to argue, but he was stopped by the memory of Shane’s hand making impact against his cheek, sharp and sweet. Ilya had taken his correction for arguing already. He refused to be so hard to teach that he would need a second reminder. 

But still, how was he meant to do this? How was he meant to reveal something so awful? 

“I don’t know how to say it,” he said, looking up at Shane helplessly, stupid tears gathering in his eyes again. “I don’t know how, please, mommy, help me I can’t—”

Shane’s breath caught in his throat, and Ilya realized a second too late what he had already said, the word escaping without his permission. 

“I mean—” Ilya said, trying to backtrack, looking anywhere but at Shane. Fuck, he needed to— 

“Say it again,” Shane breathed. 

Ilya’s head jerked up to look at Shane without his permission. Shane’s dark eyes were wide, his mouth parted, his ears pretty pink. 

“I—”

“Please say it again.” 

Ilya took a shaky breath, and— 

Shane had found he entered a kind of flow state when he took care of Ilya. 

He spent the time before planning, doing research and taking notes, fixating on every little detail to make sure it all went just right. And when the time came, it was like when everything clicked on the ice, his mind analyzing without having to consciously think about it, his body knowing what to do based on muscle memory and instinct.  

On really good nights, when he had Ilya shaking and whimpering and begging, it was like he became something more than just himself. Like he was somehow an extension of Ilya. He just knew. He knew exactly what Ilya needed, knew every step to take to get him there. Everything became so clear, so obvious. Shane could see the play laid out in front of him perfectly, knew just what he needed to do to get Ilya exactly where Shane wanted him, cracked open and vulnerable and feeling so, so good. 

Tonight was a really good night. 

And, okay, Shane had maybe seen this one coming. 

Because, well, as he’d taken notes on his and Ilya’s conversation, sat up in bed until late at night, some things had just started to line up. 

Pain as a form of being shown desire. Particularly focused on girls/feminine. 

Correction, parental but not paternal. From someone he trusts, who has his best interests at heart. 

Feelings of inadequacy, being overly hard on himself like his dad was. 

A need for tender but firm care. Remind him always that this is about loving him and wanting to provide for him. 

It wasn’t like the word Mommy had been in the center of some kind of crazed red string board, but Shane had developed a theory that he was pretty sure had sound basis. 

So he’d consulted books, and articles, and forums online he’d learned to trust. Because even without the whole mommy thing, this was about pain. Not just physical pain, not just the kind Ilya wanted from teeth and nails and a crisp open handed slap, but psychological pain. 

Shane had read a lot about the intersection between kink and trauma, because he wanted to do this right. He wanted to build something for Ilya, something safe with strong foundations. A sheltered place where Ilya could maybe find some healing and where Shane could have the opportunity to provide proper caretaking for the deep hurts that were at the core of Ilya, tangled up in his roots. 

So Shane didn’t set a trap, exactly, but he had… tried to create a situation that would leave an open door. 

He spent four days walking around his house, trying to embody the energy of it. Mommy. Feminine and sexy, always in control, always caring. A little bit dangerous, sharp fingernails and cutting gaze and devastating potential for disappointment. 

Shane practiced the voice, the cadence of it, the tone. Both the disappointed version, wanting to correct bad habits and reinforce the structure of loving care, and the version for after. For when everything became about giving Ilya all the pleasure and pain he deserved. 

The more he practiced and researched and planned, the more of himself he put into it, the more he hoped desperately that Ilya would want to walk through that door. Because Shane quickly realized the idea of being Ilya’s mommy didn’t just appeal in an altruistic way, in a my boyfriend is sad and I want to support him way, but in the way that he found himself fantasizing about it constantly. Zoning out in inopportune moments as he imagined it. Touching himself to the idea of it. Of Ilya, teary eyed and desperate for guidance, for pleasure, whimpering something like— 

Please, mommy, help me. 

Ilya looked so pretty in his distress, eyes wet, skin blotchy pink, mole doted shoulders hunched in on themselves. Shane wanted nothing more than to soothe all of that worry away. 

He wasn’t looking at Shane, and that just wouldn’t do. Shane took him by the chin, tilting his head up and forcing him to look Shane in the eye. 

“It’s okay,” Shane said softly, holding his gaze, letting him see that Shane was serious about this. That Shane loved him unconditionally, and that Ilya would find no judgement here. “You can do it. Say my name, Ilyushen’ka.” 

Ilya swallowed, eyes flicking between Shane’s before he whispered, punched out and stripped raw, “Mommy.” 

A full body shiver made its way through Shane. 

It sounded even prettier than he had imagined. Fuck, this was going to become a problem, this was going to turn into an obsession. Shane loved the way Ilya’s gorgeous mouth shaped around the word, the way he was looking up at him, hopeful and trembling. 

He needed so much gentleness, so much kindness, Shane’s sweet boy. The poor thing, he just didn’t know how to take care of himself. That was okay, that was just fine, Shane was here to take care of him now. 

“That’s right,” he murmured, a smile stretching over his lips as he ran his fingers through Ilya’s curls. “That’s me, honey. I’m right here.” 

Ilya was biting his lip, practically gnawing on it, eyes wide as he stared up at Shane in awestruck disbelief. 

“Stop that,” Shane said, still gentle but with a hint of admonishment as he reached up and freed Ilya’s lip with his thumb. Ilya whined, instantly sucking Shane’s thumb into his mouth, eyes starting to go glassy once more. 

“That’s it,” Shane murmured, thrusting carefully into Ilya’s mouth. “There you go, baby, you suck on that instead. Don’t want you hurting yourself on accident. That’s my job.” 

Ilya nodded, whining. 

“And I hurt you so much already, didn’t I?” Shane asked, rolling his hips against Ilya’s battered thighs, pressing Ilya deeper inside of his body. “That was so mean of me, wasn’t it baby?” 

Ilya shook his head vehemently. 

“It wasn’t? But mommy hurt you so bad, made you bleed.” 

“Liked it, mommy,” Ilya slurred around Shane’s thumb. 

Shane grinned, starting to grind down against Ilya in earnest. “You did? You liked mommy hurting you?” 

Ilya nodded, tipping further into Shane. He sucked desperately at Shane’s thumb as his hands grasped at Shane’s back, his sides, pulling Shane into him in a fitful rhythm. 

“Mmm. I suppose that makes sense. My boy’s always been tough, so aggressive out on the ice, of course he likes a little pain.” Shane smiled teasingly, reaching up and flicking Ilya’s nose. “Weakness leaving the body, huh?” 

Ilya shivered and made a noise, like he was trying to say something around the thumb that Shane was now fucking as deep into Ilya’s mouth as he could take without gagging. 

“What was that, honey?” Shane asked, drawing his thumb back just enough that Ilya could talk around it. 

“Did you see my game, mommy?” Ilya asked breathlessly, staring up at Shane with wide blue eyes. 

“Hmmm… what game?” he asked, grinning a little. “Do you mean the one last night?” 

Ilya nodded eagerly. 

“Of course I saw it, silly.” Shane leaned down to kiss Ilya’s forehead. “I’m your biggest fan, of course I saw it. I love watching you out there.” 

“Did I look good, mommy?” 

“So good. I could tell you were working on getting out of your head, just like we talked about. And that assist in the first period?” Shane shivered. “Drawing their attention like that and then dropping it back for your wing? Such a smart play, they didn’t even see it coming. I was so proud of you.” 

“Didn’t get a goal though…” Ilya pouted, deflating a little. 

“You didn’t, but you were a playmaker the whole night. Set your boys up beautifully, stepped in for the holes in your defense.” He leaned in to kiss Ilya, sweet and commanding. “We’re still working on building a foundation out there, remember? You’ll get there, just keep at it. Slow and steady.” 

“Slow and steady,” Ilya repeated. He shifted Shane in his lap, big hands hot and possessive over Shane’s hips as he got a better grip on him. “Like this, mommy?” 

Ilya got his knees back under him before steadily lifting Shane up off of his cock, biceps standing out starkly as he took all of Shane’s weight into his arms. He lifted Shane until only the tip of Ilya’s cock was still inside him, then he slowly guided Shane back down, thrusting up at the last moment so that his cock slammed up against Shane’s prostate. Shane let out a high noise of helpless pleasure, body going completely limp as he relished the feeling of being fucked open on Ilya’s gorgeous cock. 

“You like it slow, don’t you mommy?” Ilya asked, voice low and eyes half lidded as he looked up at Shane through his lashes. “Slow and hard, yes?” 

Shane moaned, clenching down around Ilya just to hear him whimper. “Mmm, yes, I love it like that, baby. And… mmm… fuck… you’re so good at giving it to me just right.” 

Ilya looked so pleased with himself as he continued to fuck Shane like that. He made it look easy, but the full body workout of it was clear as sweat started to gather along his hairline. 

“Mmm…” Shane hummed as he ran his fingertips over Ilya’s arms, tracing the lines of muscle there as Ilya continued to lift him up and then guide him down, steady as a machine. “My boy’s so strong. No one else compares. No one else could even come close.” 

Ilya whined. 

Up. Down. He was sweating more now, it was gathering in his collarbones, between his pecs. 

“Do you wanna know a secret, baby?” Shane asked, stroking damp curls out of Ilya’s eyes. 

“Mhm.” Ilya’s upper lip was curled, brows pinched together. 

Up. Down. He was shining with sweat now. Shane could smell it, musk and exertion and arousal and Ilya. 

“You know how I said I made a mess fucking myself last night?” 

“Mhm.” 

Up. Down. 

“It was because I got so fucking hot watching that assist. Watching you out on the ice. I watched your game while I fucked myself and wished you were there to do it for me.” 

Ilya groaned, low and guttural, head falling forward to thunk against Shane’s collarbone. “Mommy.” 

Up. Down. 

“You know what really got me? And I know I shouldn’t say this, I know I should be encouraging you to play clean, play smart, but I can’t help it. I love watching you play dirty.” 

Ilya was panting, whining softly with each thrust. 

Up. Muscles trembling. Form starting to get shaky. 

Down. Impact harder, less control on the release. 

“It turns me on so much, watching how aggressively you play. Watching you put your whole body into it. When you cross checked their D-man and got away with it, and Dykstra was right there with the rebound?” Shane shuddered. “Fuck. I nearly came just from that.” 

“Mommy,” Ilya whined, low and plaintive. 

Up. Jerky and shaking. 

Down. No control, just a sudden drop. 

Shane moaned, seeing stars. It took him a moment to gasp out, “Yeah, baby?” 

“I… fuck, mommy, I need…” 

“What do you need?” Shane asked. 

“I don’t know, fuck, help me mommy I don’t know.” 

Shane’s poor, sweet boy. How was he supposed to know? Who had taught him to recognize when he was pushing himself too much? Who had shown him how to give himself the rest he needed?   

“I think fucking me like this might be getting a little too hard for you to keep up, honey.” 

Ilya whined and frantically shook his head. “No. No, it’s fine mommy, I can do it.” 

“I mean, I’m sure you can,” said Shane consideringly. “But why do you feel like you need to? I’m not asking you to push yourself until you break, Ilyusha, you don’t need to do that for me. I don’t need you giving more than you can give.” 

“But…” Ilya stared up at him with wide eyes, still stubbornly trying to keep moving Shane, even as he only managed to lift him half as far before dropping him down again. 

“Ah-ah. No buts. You’re a smart boy, Ilyushen’ka. You want to keep fucking me this good? Find a new solution.” 

“I… yes. Okay,” Ilya gasped, finally stilling Shane as he took several heaving breaths, chest working like a bellows. “Okay, fuck. Hold on to me.”

Shane wrapped his arms and legs around Ilya as Ilya tightened his grip on Shane. He held Shane close as he rocked forward, and Shane watched over Ilya’s shoulder as he tucked his toes up under himself. Then Ilya took a deep breath and smoothly rolled back, shifting his weight up onto his feet and landing in a low squat with barely a wobble. Shane, pressed close to Ilya’s body, was keenly aware of his added weight and the athleticism required to do such a thing. His breath caught as Ilya stood smoothly, like Shane’s weight barely even registered. 

Then Ilya swept one hand out, and Shane gasped, indignant, as he heard the sound of ceramic and silverware clattering to the floor. 

“Ilyusha!” he scolded, glaring down at Ilya. “You need to be more careful. You could have broken something. You could have hurt yourself.” 

“Is fine,” Ilya insisted, laying Shane back against the table. “Nothing broke.” 

“You made a mess.” Shane’s voice broke on the last word, going high and whiny as Ilya started thrusting into him again, slow and deep and hard, so good it nearly made Shane’s eyes cross. “You need to clean… fuck… clean that up.” 

“Later,” Ilya groaned, leaning down to press kisses over Shane’s chest. “Clean up whatever you like later, mommy, just let me keep fucking you.” 

Fuck, why did that send such an electric bolt through Shane? Would Ilya really clean for him? Would he let Shane give him chores? Fuck, that was so hot. 

Shane arched his back and reached out to grasp at Ilya, and honestly it wasn’t even a conscious decision to rake his nails hard over Ilya’s back. It just all felt so good, and Shane wanted Ilya as close as he could get him. 

“Fuck, mommy,” Ilya groaned, shuddering against Shane. 

“Mmm, does that hurt, baby?” Shane asked, grinning wickedly as Ilya’s hips stuttered against him. 

“Mhm, hurts so much, mommy,” Ilya whined. 

“Does it feel… fuck… feel good?” Shane asked, question catching on a moan as Ilya hit a particularly good spot and then just kept hitting it. 

“So good,” Ilya gasped. “So good, I’m—”

“Are you getting close, baby?” 

Ilya shook his head stubbornly. “No… no, mommy, I can—” 

“Mmm, I don’t know…” Shane said, low and teasing as he let go of Ilya’s back to grab on to the edge of the table, using it as leverage to roll his hips in response to Ilya’s thrusts. “Came so easy earlier, just a little pain and you couldn’t help yourself.” 

“Not gonna… not…” Ilya’s voice broke, his hips stuttering in several fast, jerky motions. 

“You can, you know,” Shane said. “Can have whatever you need, baby. In fact…” 

Shane sat up and pushed Ilya back. Ilya whined pitifully as his cock slipped free, reaching for Shane instinctively, like he couldn’t bear for them to be parted. 

“Sweet boy,” Shane crooned, gently guiding Ilya back so he could turn around. “One second, just a second, baby. You’re okay.” 

Shane bent over the table, right at the perfect height for Ilya to fuck into him. He arched his back and spread his legs, offering himself up for it, open and eager for Ilya’s cock. “C’mere, baby. Take what you need.” 

Within seconds Ilya was plastered over Shane’s back, his cock sliding home with a thudding impact that had Shane shivering down to the tips of his toes. 

“Fuck, mommy,” Ilya gasped, breath hot on the back of Shane’s neck as he started thrusting into him, quick and fitful. “Mommy mommy mommy I…. ah— fuck… hurts…” 

Shane groaned, pushing back as best as he could against Ilya. “Yeah? Hurts where mommy marked you up?” 

“Yes, fuck, hurts so good, mommy.” Ilya straightened up, his hand pressing between Shane’s shoulder blades as he fucked into him. “Love it, love how you… where you…” his voice trailed off as his hips stuttered to a halt. “Did you…?” 

Oh, so he’d finally noticed. 

Shane grinned smugly to himself, looking over his shoulder to see Ilya standing stock still, staring down at the place where he and Shane were joined. 

Or, more specifically, just above that place, where Shane had used his nails to etch long, sweeping lines into the skin just above Ilya’s cock.

MINE 

The marks were red and welted, the word clearly legible. Shane had been precise, had carefully considered just how deep to cut. It would definitely still be there the next time Ilya went into the locker room. 

Ilya’s eyes slowly dragged up from the marks to look at Shane, and, oh yeah, he was gone. 

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” Shane asked sweetly. “You’re mine, and so is that pretty toy between your legs. Wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.” 

“Mommy,” Ilya gasped, low and desperate and pained, and then he was pounding into Shane, whimpering with each impact, and Shane groaned as he reached down to wrap a hand around his own cock, stroking viciously in time to Ilya’s thrusts. 

“Fuck, yes, good boy, good fucking boy, Ilyusha, just like that. Take what you need, baby.” 

Ilya took. No finesse, no concern about Shane getting off first, just mindlessly chasing his own pleasure. It felt incredible, not because Shane was being fucked particularly well, but because he wasn’t. Because he was everything Ilya needed, his body the perfect, welcoming warmth for Ilya to find his release in, and Ilya had let go of everything that was not making sure that his own needs were met. 

It didn’t take long. Just a few more arrhythmic, frantic thrusts before Ilya was overcome, collapsing forward once more to press a wet, open mouthed kiss to the base of Shane’s neck as he spilled inside him with a groan. 

Ilya was left panting like he’d just finished a two and a half minute shift, body trembling on top of Shane’s. Shane relished the feeling of it, warm skin and centering weight and Ilya’s cock gradually softening within his body. 

“Did that feel nice, baby?” he asked, breathless and sweet, and Ilya just groaned before slipping out of Shane and— 

Shane’s breath caught at the sound of Ilya’s knees hitting the floor. 

“Baby, what—?”

“Said I gotta clean up my mess,” Ilya said, like it was obvious, before his mouth descended, hot and wet and greedy, on Shane’s hole. 

Shane moaned, reaching behind him to clutch at Ilya’s curls as his other hand desperately jerked over his dripping cock.

He could hear the way Ilya was eating him out, the sounds wet and sloppy and audibly needy as he licked his own come out of Shane.  

“Close,” Shane gasped, stroking himself faster as he fucked back against Ilya’s tongue. “So close, baby, fuck.” 

Ilya moaned, and he sounded pathetic, so eager and hopeful for the chance to prove himself. “Come for me, mommy. Come for me, I need it, please.” 

It was the please that did it. It was the way Ilya said it, like making Shane come was the only thing that mattered. Like in making Shane come Ilya could finally find absolution. 

Shane came, and it washed over him like a wave. Shane let it take him. He was left liquid and quaking and pleased, the whole of his body flushed warm with it. Satisfaction wasn’t strong enough of a word. 

He stretched his arms out over the length of the table for a moment before he pushed up onto his palms, smiling to himself as he looked back to check on Ilya. 

Ilya was looking at him expectantly, like he was waiting for something. As soon as Shane met his eyes a little smirk ticked over the corner of his mouth and he leaned down, eyes never leaving Shane’s as he… fuck… 

“Fuck…” Shane whispered, spent cock twitching as Ilya licked the puddle of Shane’s cum up off the floor. 

He swallowed deeply as he sat back on his heels, eyes lidded as he opened his mouth and pointedly stuck out his tongue, like he was proving to Shane that he’d taken it all. 

That he’d properly cleaned up his mess. 

Shane groaned as he slid down to the floor and, ow, he was not a rookie anymore and maybe floor and table sex hadn’t been the best idea. But he’d just been so taken by the mommy-ness of keeping it all in the kitchen that he’d been willing to sacrifice comfort for setting the right tone. And given the way Ilya was looking, fucked out and blissful, it had obviously done the trick. 

He gathered Ilya up into his lap, and within seconds he was enveloped, Ilya clinging and needy in the aftermath. He kissed over Ilya’s chest, across his shoulders, holding him tightly and rocking him in his lap as Ilya hid his face in Shane’s hair. 

He let Ilya take the time he needed for the initial cooldown, stroking over his skin, offering soft affirmations. I love you and you did so good and my good boy, make me so proud.  

Eventually, once Ilya seemed a little less frantic in his need to clutch Shane close, Shane pulled back, stroking a few stray tears from Ilya’s cheeks as he smiled up at him. 

“You ready to go get cleaned up, baby?” 

Ilya nodded and got up to let Shane stand, hovering close the entire time. He held Shane’s hand in both of his own as trailed down the hall after Shane. He was quiet and sweetly obedient in the way he often was after scenes, all wide eyes and parted lips. Like this was the most shocking part of it all, the part where Shane carefully put him back together after he had finished breaking him apart. 

Shane led them into the en-suite of the first floor guest bedroom (he’d been concerned about Ilya’s ability to make it up the stairs). He guided Ilya to sit in the chair he had set up in the corner by the door, making sure to give him plenty of gentle kisses and soft touches before stepping away. He kept a watchful eye on Ilya as started up the shower, carefully adjusting the temperature and pressure of the multiple heads until everything felt appropriately soothing. 

He went to the counter, where he’d left out a set of nail clippers and a file, and methodically trimmed the points off of his nails, filing down any rough edges. He’d soak them in acetone later to take them off properly, it was all set up with the kit currently in Ilya’s home office, but for now he didn’t want to risk cutting Ilya on accident. 

Shane went to Ilya as the room started to fill with steam, kneeling in front of him and reaching out to brush a curl out of his face. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. Ilya still looked happy and far away, but Shane could see the exhaustion starting to creep back in. His poor boy. Shane would make sure to keep this efficient, his baby needed sleep. 

“’M good mommy,” Ilya said, and Shane was both pleased and surprised that they weren’t done with that yet. He was hopeful that this was a good sign that the almost certainly impending freak out would be easy to handle. 

Shane set his chin on Ilya’s knee and stroked gently over the back of his calves, looking up at him with a soft smile. “You still feeling floaty?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. We’re going to shower together now, okay, and I’m going to clean your cuts. It’s probably going to sting, so I need to tell me if it starts hurting more than you can handle, and we’ll take a break. And I especially need you to tell me if you start feeling dizzy or faint. Can you do that for me, baby?” 

“Yes mommy,” Ilya said. “Tell you if it hurts too much or I feel dizzy.” 

Shane smiled, pushing up to kiss Ilya’s forehead. “That’s right. Such a good listener. Come on, up we get.” 

Shane helped Ilya to his feet, supporting most of his weight as he led him into the shower. Ilya hissed quietly as the water hit him, but his body stayed loose and pliable, so Shane felt okay about carefully depositing him on the shower stool he had bought specifically for aftercare.  

He grabbed the soap (a medical grade antibacterial wash he had spent hours of research on), and started to set about cleaning Ilya’s scratches. 

He started with his back. The few cuts here were about as deep as Shane was comfortable with, still barely bleeding, the water running off them ever so slightly pink. They would need bandaging. Shane cleaned them carefully, making soothing noises when Ilya whimpered at the touch. 

“Doing so good, moya lyubov,” he said, stealing Ilya’s pet name. And then, because he felt the Russian would be soothing, he continued, “You did very well, I am very proud of you. You are such a good boy. I love you.” 

Ilya sighed happily, answering in quick, flowing Russian, obviously happy to have been given the excuse to abandon English. Shane didn’t catch all of it, but knew enough to understand the gist, a lot of I love you and that was so good and thank you. 

Shane provided soothing noises in return, along with his own praise and gratitude, Russian mixing with English as he made up for the words he didn’t know. 

He moved to Ilya’s shoulders, a few small scratches, some broken skin, but nothing deep enough to have bled. Everything got the same careful cleaning, and Shane was finding himself soothed by this chance to catalogue everything. To help facilitate the healing after the hurt. 

Around to Ilya’s chest now, and Shane took his time to admire these. The first marks, centered beautifully over the expanse of Ilya’s chest, all ten scratches perfectly lined up and symmetrical. Shane shivered, remembering how it had felt. How Ilya’s scream had echoed off the walls before he curled in on himself and came, just like that. 

It had been unlike anything Shane had even experienced, and he had suddenly understood it  completely, the whole sadist thing. It was such a raw insight in another person’s being. Shane had felt in that moment that he could see the deepest, most foundational parts of Ilya. Like in his pain Shane could look his fill at the hidden, tender core of the man he loved. Shane had known immediately he would do anything for the chance to give Ilya pain again, to see him like that over and over. 

He was smiling as he finished cleaning Ilya’s chest, as he slid down to his knees in front of Ilya so he could properly address— 

His thighs. 

Ilya’s beautiful, pale, mole speckled thighs were covered in lurid bruises and criss-crossing cuts. It was a mess, all bright red and vivid purple, and Shane immediately felt sick. 

He’d lost himself during this part. Ilya’s noises had just been so pretty, and his mouth had just felt so good, and hurting him just to feel him react had just been so fun. 

Fun. 

Fuck, that was so fucked up. Shane should have been more restrained, more careful, more cognizant. Ilya looked like he’d been mauled, and above it all that cutesy little signature of MINE was like an accusation. 

Mine, because Shane couldn’t carve PROPERTY OF SHANE HOLLANDER into Ilya’s skin, and why the fuck had he even wanted to do that? That was weird and creepy and way too possessive. 

Shane was spiralling. He couldn’t look away from the damage he had done to the man he loved more than anything. 

The man who knew him better than anyone, and who was cupping his chin, guiding him to look up. 

“Stop freaking out,” Ilya said softly, and it was Shane’s Ilya again, eyes clear and intent. Shane had a moment of mourning the helpless version of him who had needed Shane for everything. 

And then he realized how fucked up that thought was and his breathing was picking up and— 

“Hollander. I am fine. You are okay. Breathe, sweetheart, we’re all okay here.” 

“But I—”

“But nothing,” Ilya said insistently, taking Shane’s face in both hands before leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Shane Hollander, you just did something for me I would never in a million years have been brave enough to ask for. You just fucking… looked inside my head and gave me…” 

Ilya stopped, his mouth opening and closing as he looked around like he was searching for the right words. “I… I cannot describe it. Not in English, not in Russian. You… Shane. I…” 

Shane stared up at Ilya’s face, at the bewildered kind of wonder there. 

“I have never had anything like that,” Ilya finally said. “Never in my life. Even before… I’ve never felt so…” 

He let out a frustrated noise, looking down at Shane with a grimace. “I wish I knew how to say it. You deserve to hear me say it, I just… I don’t have the words.” 

He stroked his thumbs over Shane’s cheekbones, sighing. “You do these things. You say these things. And they are all exactly right. They are all exactly what I need. I feel safe, I feel loved, I feel pleasure.” He smiled down at Shane, his real smile, his big smile, the one he usually hid behind a hand as soon as he realized he was doing it. The one that made him look boyish and carefree and lighter than air. 

“All of this, because of you. Because of this,” he brought one hand up to tap the center of Shane’s forehead. “And these,” he touched two fingers under Shane’s eyes. “You see me like no one else ever has, and you think about me like no one else ever has. You think about why I do things, you think about how to help me, and you know me so well that everything you do makes me feel loved. Every part of that was perfect, because you know me, and you love me, and you think about me. It was…” 

He sighed. Shrugged. Like what we had to offer was not enough, but he would give it anyway. “It was beautiful.” 

Shane was crying. He let himself, this was the kind of thing that was good to cry about, he thought. He put his head in Ilya’s lap and took deep, steadying breaths as Ilya’s hands stroked soothingly through his wet hair. Shane made himself internalize every word Ilya had said. Made himself believe it down to his bones. 

Then he sat up and got to work cleaning up Ilya’s thighs. 

After, once they were both clean and dry, antibacterial ointment applied and the deepest of Ilya’s cuts taped up with gauze, Shane and Ilya laid curled around each other in bed, so intertwined that Shane didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began. 

They talked about the kinds of things that you can only talk about in the dark, that you can only say into the space between two heads on a single pillow. Both of them cried, and it was the good kind of crying, the kind that feels like relief, like laying down something heavy. 

When they fell asleep, it was in the space between words, a pause in the endless conversation that they were always in the middle of. 

Shane dreamt of a frozen lake surrounded by tall, snow covered pines, ice glassy and smooth. He dreamt that it was a safe place, with warmth and comfort nearby. He dreamt of a boy in the middle of it all, golden and tenderhearted, laughing as he flew over the ice like the world could never hurt him. Like nothing would ever steal his joy. 

“Oh hell yeah, Cap, fucking get so— Jesus fucking Christ, Rozy, what the fuck happened to you?” 

Ilya grinned smugly at Dykstra’s admiring whistle over his back, feeling perversely satisfied when he turned and Dykstra’s eyes went wide as dinner plates at the sight of his thighs. 

Ilya glanced down like he’d just remembered the state Shane had left him in, bruises now developed into shades of maroon and purple so dark it was nearly black, vibrant red scratch marks standing out starkly over top.  

And of course, above it all, the still perfectly legible MINE etched into the skin just above the strap of his jock. 

He shrugged, finishing tugging on his under armor, hiding the marks away. 

“Had a nice night,” he said simply. 

“Bro, did she carve mine into your fucking skin?” 

A few more heads popped up at that, several guys looking over with expressions of morbid curiosity. 

“Dude, she did what?” Boodram asked from across the room, sounding horrified. 

Ilya smirked as he started putting on his pads. “She likes to mark her territory.”

The she hurt a lot less than it usually did. Ilya was having too much fun shit stirring to be sad about the whole tragic secret gay romance of it all. 

He leaned down to finish strapping on his shin guards, and when he looked up it was to a sea of deeply concerned faces. 

“Are you like…” Luca paused, looking a little sick as he stared at Ilya with big, worried eyes, hands wringing the fabric of the jersey he was holding. “Okay?” 

Ilya felt a mix of annoyed and touched by their reaction. They seemed so genuine in it, like they would all go to bat for him if his secret girlfriend was being abusive or whatever. He hadn’t known that they cared about him like that. He hadn’t thought they cared about him at all. 

“Guys,” he said, holding up his hands placatingly. “I am fine. It was…” he snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember. “Safe, sane, and consensual, yeah?” 

Some shoulders relaxed (and Hazy’s eyebrow went up), but most of the guys were still looking at him like he was about to start crying. Like if he did start crying, they were all going to go on some sort of abuse correcting revenge spree on his behalf. It was very sweet, if completely unnecessary. 

“I had fun, I am good. Are we going to get to practice today or do you all want a blow by blow?” This seemed to be enough to finally reassure them, and everyone went back to gearing up.  

Ilya grinned a little, feeling warm as he turned and reached into his bag for his next pad. He frowned a little as his fingers brushed over a piece of paper. 

He angled his body towards his stall as he pulled it out. It was about the size of his palm, folded in half. It was nice quality, expensive feeling, like something you would buy from a specialty shop. A familiar shade of blue grey. There was a hockey stick batting a heart drawn on the outside. When Ilya unfolded it, he saw that there was a pretty pattern of stylized lilies printed around the border. 

It was a note, written in Shane’s neat, precise handwriting. 

You’ve got this! Slow and steady, just like we talked about. Remember, I love you and am proud of you, always. 

- M 

Ilya felt a blush rising over the back of his neck. This man. This wonderful man. Ilya loved him. Ilya felt loved by him. 

He slid the note carefully back into his bag, tucking it into a small zippered pocket where it wouldn’t get damaged.  

He finished getting dressed and looked around, catching Luca’s eye, and gestured him over. Luca approached nervously, all long limbs and eighteen year old uncertainty that he was allowed to take up space. 

“I am staying after practice today, to run some drills,” Ilya said. “You are staying too. We will work on passing and accuracy. Your shot is strong, but I’ve noticed you go wide when you shoot from the left. We will work on this, da?” 

Luca nodded so hard Ilya was a little worried his head would pop off. “Ja, yes, I would love that.” 

“Perfect. After, we will go get lunch. I have a place I think you will like. We will eat and we will bitch about stupid North America together.”  

Luca looked like someone had just told him he’d won the lottery and then slapped him across the face with a fish. “I— yeah. Yeah, that sounds awesome.” 

“Good. Let’s see if we can get something going, yes?” Ilya reached out with his gloved hand, rubbing Luca’s helmet affectionately as he turned and started making his way to the tunnel. 

He knew how to do this. Slow and steady. Start small, focus on building a foundation. 

“Alright boys,” he called, and for the first time in a long time, the voice he heard coming out of his mouth sounded like his. 

“Let’s go play some fucking hockey.”