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during the off season, he lets ilya give him hickeys. it’s mutually beneficial— ilya always wants to use shane like a chew toy, and shane always wants to be his chew toy. it’s nice when shane doesn’t have to worry about the guys seeing in the showers.
after the last game of the season, they get to fall into bed together without having to worry about the next morning. the others celebrate; they get drunk, wasted, and in the morning, the group chats are silent as they sleep through their hangovers.
shane isn’t hungover.
he’s bruised. theres one on his hip and one on his shoulder from particularly hard checks into the boards, but the others are smaller, darker, in the sweet shape of ilya’s mouth.
shane wakes up before him and goes to the bathroom. he looks at himself as he’s washing his hands.
they’re up and down his chest, scattered across his stomach, his hips, his shoulders, his neck. there are more he can’t see, hidden under his briefs on his hips and thighs.
his eyes catch on one, just above his left nipple— he can see the shape of ilya’s fucking teeth.
he traces it. lets his fingertip press a little too hard. lets the ache linger.
he ignores the way it makes his cock twitch, moving to brush his teeth, to wash his face. ilya is waking up when he goes to the kitchen and starts the coffee.
ilya doesn’t close the door, and shane listens to the sound of him in the bathroom, the toilet flushing, the sink running, the scrape of his toothbrush. it’s all so domestic, and it makes his heart hurt.
he pours the coffee. he has some after every last game. black, no sugar.
ilya takes one scoop of sugar and creamer— one of the only things he claims to like about america. shane watches the coffee swirl lighter until it’s the right colour. and then he sets it on the counter, moving to tidy up a little. they were in a rush last night.
he nudges their shoes into place, picks up their jackets from where they were tossed to the ground last night.
there’s a mirror in the hallway. it catches his eye as he’s hanging ilya’s jacket, turned to reach for the coatrack. there’s a bruise on the back of his shoulder.
he’s still looking, distracted, when ilya comes up behind him, also shirtless. he hugs shane’s waist, setting his chin on shane’s shoulder.
‘it is very early.’
‘it’s almost nine.’
‘mm.’
shane’s hands slide over ilya’s forearms. he’s still sleep warm.
‘you’re insane.’
ilya doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about.
‘you liked it.’
shane doesn’t answer.
‘do you have a favourite one?’ ilya asks, voice hushed, lips brushing shane’s neck. ‘hm?’
shane hesitates for a moment, cheeks flushing, before he touches it.
‘this.’
ilya hums, eyes scraping to look at it as his hand slides up shane’s chest into he’s pushing shane’s hand aside and touching the bruise for him. he digs his fingers into it. hard.
‘fuck,’ shane breathes.
‘you like?’
‘yeah.’
‘you’re so cute.’
‘what, because i like when you hurt me?’
ilya hums, running his nose over shane’s neck. shane tilts his head to let him.
‘say that again.’
‘i like it when you hurt me.’
ilya’s breath catches in his throat. he exhales slowly.
‘is bad that i like hurting you, isn’t it?’
‘not if i like it too,’ shane whispers.
ilya moans softly, hand pressing to shane’s pec, squeezing.
‘what else do you like?’ he asks. ‘tell me. please.’
shane hums, opening his eyes to look at him, to watch ilya’s fingertips digging into his flesh.
‘fuck.’
‘tell me,’ ilya murmurs. he kisses shane’s neck slowly, softly, wetly. ‘i wanna know.’
his fingers find shane’s nipple, rubbing it before catching and tugging.
‘that,’ shane breathes, head falling back. ‘and…’
‘and?’
‘your teeth.’
ilya freezes, tongue lingering.
shane forces his eyes open to look at him in the mirror. he’s got his eyebrows furrowed, lips parted against shane’s neck. he waits.
‘fuck,’ ilya says finally. ‘why is that so hot?’
shane scoffs, finally turning around in ilya’s arms to face him.
‘why are your teeth so hot?”
ilya’s head tilts. shane’s hands slide over ilya’s chest slowly, savouring the warmth of his skin. his breath stops in his chest as ilya leans in, kissing him slowly, licking so shane parts his lips before he bites.
shane moans.
it’s loud, his mouth open, bottom lip caught between ilya’s teeth. it hurts. shane can’t help but squirm against him, hips searching for friction that ilya withholds before he allows it, reaching for shane’s hips and pulling him in sharply. shane groans, hugging his neck.
ilya sucks on his lip, scraping his teeth against the soft inside of it, and he lifts shane up, prompting him to hold on as he carries him to the kitchen counter.
‘you are so weird,’ ilya says when they part, nudging their noses.
‘fuck you.’
‘please,’ ilya breathes.
shane hums, pushing a hand into ilya’s hair and squeezing, holding his head in place as he kisses him.
‘you don’t mind me being weird,’ he whispers into his mouth. ilya shakes his head, reaching his other hand, pulling it, guiding it down.
‘look what you do to me.’
he’s hard. shane rubs his cock gently, then harder, then squeezes. ilya groans, head falling forward against shane’s. he reaches for shane too, fingers curling into the fabric of his briefs to jack him off a little. shane whines, hips shifting, pulling at ilya’s hair sharply.
‘let me see,’ he chokes, pushing into ilya’s hand. ‘let me---' he reaches for ilya's jaw, pressing until ilya opens his mouth, and he knows it's odd. he knows it's fucking bizarre.
but he can't help it, not when ilya is indulging him. not when ilya seems to be just as into it.
he lets shane press his fingers into his mouth, lets him rub them across his teeth and his tongue, lets him press his lips out of the way so he can look at them, at the sharp angles of the ones that hurt the most.
'fuck, rozanov.'
ilya moans softly, his eyes closing.
shane uses both hands, because he's fucking deranged. he pushes his index and middle fingers into ilya's mouth, presses them down on his molars, feeling the ridges and dips of them in his fingerprints, and he wants to keep them there, to leave the impressions of them on his skin.
he kind of wants to laugh. Because he knows the chances of any of this were slim, of finding someone who likes him the same way he likes them, who likes him as much, but this— finding someone just as fucking weird as him...
he’s lucky.
ilya lets him, and lets him, and lets him, and shane takes it, and takes it, and takes it.
his fingers are wet, spreading spit across ilya's lips. he’s panting, breathing hard like he’s running, like they’re having sex, and ilya is pliant, eyes almost closed and glassy.
‘fuck,’ shane breathes, letting his nails drag over ilya’s molars. ‘why is this so hot?’
ilya moans soft in his throat, leaning closer, hands firm on shane’s hips before they shift with the slightest suggestion. shane nods breathlessly.
He lifts a hand to hook his thumb in ilya’s cheek, holding it out of the way to see his back teeth. ilya groans, pushing a hand over shane’s cock, rubbing firmly. shane lets out a sudden moan, nodding again, lifting his hips into ilya’s touch, looking into his pretty mouth.
‘so fuckin’ pretty.’
ilya hums. his cheeks are pink, and shane can’t help the pride that swirls in his gut along with the heat. ilya looks fucking drunk, and it’s shane’s fault. shane did this to him, just by playing with his mouth a little, by rubbing his teeth and tongue.
‘spit,’ he says breathlessly. ‘give me— give me some spit.’
ilya makes a weak noise, a whine, and shane doesn’t even take his hand from his mouth, doesn’t let him go, as he leans forward, pulling shane’s waistband to free his dick. his eyes, hooded, lower to watch, and he spits.
it’s clumsy. some falls to the head of shane’s cock, and some falls down his chin. shane slides his hand over it absently, smearing it across ilya’s skin like he’s rubbing it in, and he moans weakly as ilya’s hand moves.
ilya stares at him. his eyes are dark. he's /into this/.
‘fuck, yeah,’ shane gasps, nodding, shifting to press his thumb into one of ilya’s canines. ‘like that.’
he’s never seen ilya like this. so dazed, so needy for it— even though shane isn’t giving him anything. even though he’s the one touching shane.
shane moans pitifully, pressing his thumb into ilya’s mouth and letting his suck on it, letting him press his teeth into his skin until it hurts. he nods, reaching to grab at his hair with a spit-slick hand.
‘yes. yeah, fuck—’
ilya groans like he’s the one with a hand on his dick and not a hand in his mouth. he looks fucking drunk.
‘you gonna make me come?’ shane gasps, tightening his hand in ilya’s hair, moving to push his fingers deeper into his mouth before he pulls them out.
He hooks them behind his bottom teeth, pulling his jaw down. ilya lets out a strangled sound as shane leans in and licks at him, sliding his tongue over ilya’s front teeth, behind them, between the smooth surface of them and the soft inside of his upper lip. shane moans.
He presses his fingers into the sharpest of them. It stings.
‘fuck, i’m gonna come,’ he chokes. ‘ilya, shit—’
ilya nods, jaw closing a little, hand quickening, spit falling over his chin again.
‘you wanna bite me?’ shane asks, shaking ilya’s head by his hair. ‘yeah?’
another nod, this time with a desperate whine that shane’s never heard before. he groans, heat rising.
‘you wanna hurt me, baby?’
and ilya is fucking crying.
his eyes are glassy, spilling tears over his pretty cheeks, and he's nodding, and shane would let him fucking gut him.
he would let him make him bleed, would let him stain his teeth pink.
he drags ilya in sharply by his hair, leads him to the bruise that feels like it's glowing on his chest, and one of ilya's hands reaches for his pec, gripping it tightly like he's trying to break skin.
his teeth dig into the bruise hard, and shane lets out a strained grunt, holding ilya's hair so tightly it /has/ to hurt, doesn't it? he doesn't seem to mind it, groaning against shane's chest, his voice muffled by shane's skin.
the hand on shane's cock somehow moves faster.
he doubles over, groaning in pain, in pleasure, in some weird combination of the two that he only ever finds when ilya is touching him.
ilya's hand releases his chest and reaches for his neck, and it's suddenly gentle even as his teeth threaten to break skin.
he's caressing him, cradling him tenderly as he jerks him off like he's got a deadline, as he bites him like he's trying to eat him, and shane's eyes burn. one of his hands releases ilya's hair and slides down his neck, down his back, nails dragging lightly over his spine.
'fuck, baby—'
his eyes squeeze shut when he comes, making a noise that would be embarrassing if he wasn't completely out of his mind, and ilya moans against his skin, finally letting up as shane gasps for breath, voice breaking.
'oh my— fuck—'
ilya looks at his chest.
he touches the bite, runs his thumb over it— it stings, almost raw, and shane is trembling, clutching at ilya desperately.
ilya ducks his head and kisses the bite, lips soft, tongue smooth and soothing, and he's smiling when he looks up to meet shane's eyes.
he looks fucking wrecked. cheeks red, eyes glassy and glazed, hair an absolute disaster, knotted around shane's fingers. his lips are red from shane's fingers, his skin glistening with spit and tears, and he looks like an angel. shane pulls him into a clumsy kiss, whimpering.
his cock twitches. ilya grins against his mouth, and shane is kissing his teeth. he groans, muscles quivering.
'fuck,' he breathes.
ilya lets go of his dick, sliding his hand, covering in come, over his stomach and chest, like shane did with his spit earlier.
he rubs it over shane's chest, lingering at his nipple, and then the bite mark. shane shivers, his head falling back, chest rising and falling with every breath.
'ilya.'
'yes.'
'holy shit.'
ilya hums again. shane looks at him, searching his face.
but he's looking at his own hand, shining with shane's come, tracing the shape of his own teeth in shane's skin. he meets shane's eyes after a moment.
'i am so fucking hard.'
shane laughs brightly, pushing a hand back into his hair and tugging it playfully.
'freak.'
ilya nods, face still dazed, eyes absent as he reaches down, into his own pants, with his dirty hand. shane watches hungrily, and he's greedy— he knows he is. he wants all of this, and then he wants more.
ilya leans forward and slides his tongue over shane's chest.
shane hums, leaning back to let him. it's gross, the way ilya is practically cleaning him up, humming like it tastes good.
ilya moans, lips closing around shane's nipple, teeth just barely teasing it before he pulls back and looks, panting, hand moving faster.
'can i...'
shane hums questioningly, running his hand through ilya's hair gently. it snags in his tangled curls.
'can you...'
ilya moans, his hand moving under his briefs, his muscles shifting under his skin.
'ask me.'
'can i come with my teeth in you?'
shane exhales slowly.
'fuck yeah.'
ilya huffs out a delirious laugh, and he's already leaning forward, mouth open. shane smiles at the ceiling, wincing in pain when ilya's teeth close on the meat of his chest again— a new, unmarked spot.
'shit.'
'mm.'
he can hear it, the movement of ilya's hand on his cock, slick with shane's own come, and he can hear ilya groaning, breathing hard against shane's skin. he cradles the back of ilya's head, relaxing against him.
'fuck,' he breathes. 'that feels so fucking good.'
it doesn't. it hurts.
he loves it.
he doesn't think he's ever been into pain, doesn't think he's ever gotten off on it, and he can't help but wonder if it's the pain that's doing it for him or the person administering it that is.
'god, ilya.'
ilya groans. he's getting close, shane can hear it in the way his breaths come faster, shallow and desperate like he's drowning.
ilya's hand reaches for shane's chest again, grabbing at it, groping it, squeezing it, and he moves to bite him again, but shane pulls his hair.
'do my arm,' he says breathlessly. 'come on.'
ilya goes easily, turning his head to dig his teeth into shane's bicep. he hums, eyes closing blissfully, hand releasing his chest to hold the back of shane's arm as it wraps loosely around ilya's head.
'that's it, baby.'
ilya moans, sucking the skin into his mouth, rolling it against his teeth, and shane can /hear/ it, the way it shifts like it's crunching.
'oh, /fuck/—'
he squeezes a hand in ilya's hair.
'you gonna come for me?' he asks breathlessly. 'come with your teeth in me, baby.'
he does.
he lets out a grunt, fingers tightening on shane's arm so hard they might leave five perfect little bruises in their place. shane is wincing, teeth gritted, groaning, and he's in fucking heaven.
'/fuck/, yeah.'
ilya gasps, teeth finally releasing shane's skin.
'/shane./'
shane hums, watching his hand jerk a few more times before it slows to a stop, and he's smiling again as ilya falls forward, breathing hard, pressing his face into shane's chest.
'fuck,' ilya gasps. 'god.'
shane hums, running his hands through ilya's curls.
he kisses the top of ilya's head.
'that was so fucking good,' he breathes. 'holy shit.'
'those bruises will last until the season starts.'
shane laughs, hugging ilya's head, letting his face press to the top.
'i hope so.'
they fall quiet as they catch their breath.
they've never fucked in the kitchen. it makes shane laugh.
he looks at the bite mark on his arm. it hasn't started to bruise yet, but it's reddened around the distinct shape of ilya's teeth. shane lifts his arm and slides his tongue over it, tracing the indents in his skin.
he sucks ilya's skin from his own skin, exhaling blissfully. ilya looks up at him after a moment, watching. he's a disaster. they'll go back to bed after they shower.
'you gotta get into fewer fights on the ice,' shane says after dropping his arm. ilya blinks.
'what?'
'and you can never get a puck to the face, okay? ever.'
another pause, and then ilya gets it, snorting and dropping his head to press his forehead to shane's chest.
'we can't risk losing those.'
'wha— they are /my/ teeth.'
'mm-mm.' shane shakes his head. 'mine too.'
'that is so weird.'
'oh, /that's/ where you draw the line? freak.'
ilya lifts his head, grinning, exposing those pretty teeth to shane. it distracts him, eyes catching on them, smile faltering. ilya notices. he slides his tongue over them the way he does when he's seething.
'fuck,' shane breathes.
'shower?' ilya suggests, eyebrows quirking, hand sliding around to shane's hip and then ass. 'i can put them somewhere else.'
a flame lights in shane's chest, and he shoves ilya away, pushing himself off the counter, hopping to the ground.
ilya is laughing as shane drags him to the bathroom, stumbling over their own feet, clinging to each other, and the coffee is already cold where they've left it on the counter.