Archive of Our Own

Ilya was brought up on the feeling of cold air on broken skin. The wind chills of Moscow he’d fraternized with as a child were useful in numbing any unwanted sensations, rendering them as inanimate and painless as driving an icepick into solid ground. And maybe he was a total fucking cliché, but ice fishing on the Grebnoy Canal and the heat of good vodka in metal flasks paired together like resin and gauze — forming the perfect bandage to freeze out every weakness. 

Weakness. Wasn’t that what it was? Loving Shane Hollander had turned his body into one gaping, sopping wound. His every organ waited for the other man’s command, heart clamping and releasing at his will, ready to explode and kill the man it belonged to at the snap of Shane’s fingers. Love, as Ilya always feared, was an uninhibited release of control, a control which Ilya had never expected to relinquish willingly. 

But what Ilya willed hadn’t mattered in the end. He’d have followed Shane like a lamb off a cliff years ago, on all fours unbridled towards certain death. Shane’s love ripped out his liver daily, and daily it grew back stronger. They snacked on each other’s viscera and bit down hard into the meaty possibility of a life together. They fed their entrails to one another like newlyweds splitting a slice of white cake. 

Belonging to someone hadn’t softened Ilya, a man who could never be soft — not after being beaten for crying over the way his dead mother’s mouth had been slack in a perpetual attempt to scream. Not after the smallest mistake had him sleeping in the snowbanks while dinner sat hot and contemptuous in front of a family he’d never belong to. 

Accepting love was so much more violent than denying it, because it melted the need for numbness and tore the bandage off an infected wound. He would make the world sick with his love, if that’s what it took to protect Shane. The fire of belonging to Shane would have melted the ice beneath Ilya’s skates years ago if Shane hadn’t willed it to be there, to keep them afloat over a sea of troubles threatening to pull him under. 

Ilya didn’t need hockey the way Shane did; he would have been the best at anything his father ordered. It wasn’t a self imposed expectation, not in the way it was for Shane — being great, being perfect, was as unequivocally necessary to Ilya as the lifeboats on a cruiser. He would not get his ticket out through sheer skill, but out of a need for survival. 

Hockey had stuck because, he could admit to himself now, it fed the need for touch he’d harboured all his life. It allowed him to strike through to the core of other men by way of violent rituals. 

The tabloids clung onto his wretchedness like cotton on a scab. The reporters who called him a barbaric player, teammate, captain, and lover were all probably right, but it wasn’t as if the truth didn’t sting. He’d lived so long as a sheep in wolf’s clothing he wasn’t sure if he could return to the pasture without cannibalizing his flock. 

He knew now that men who claimed stoicism with their voices raised and their fists bloodied were hypocrites of the worst breed. Knew that anger was an emotion like any other, only estranged, escaping the decimated body of fear like Cain denying the fratricide of Abel. Which is why Ilya Rozanov, at thirty, knew he was a sensitive man. He was a man in love. And tonight, he was leaving the rink with someone’s trachea between his teeth.

______

Once his gloves had hit the ice, the first tooth joined them almost too easily. 

The Metro's last trade had been a cold-blooded affair, and after losing their star player to Ottawa a few years back, they were running out of ideas on how to fill Shane Hollander’s shoes. And they were big shoes, all right. That’s where Burt came in: Caleb Burt was only twenty, but he’d already been passed around the league like a boof joint no one wanted to hold for too long. The outlets frothed at the opportunity to play this problem up, much to the Metros’ chagrin — the kid was talented, all right, and they could make a star of him yet. If it wasn’t for the fact that his mouth was even bigger than his game. 

The kid was a problem on the ice and an even bigger problem off it, and the Metros were forced to spend a lot of their time in the spotlight kissing feet over his fuck-ups. He was outspoken, courageous in his idiocy, and would have collected a fat stack of misdemeanor charges if it weren’t for the number of people and the amount of money dedicated to covering his ass. It was pretty widely speculated that the Metros were considering letting him go; they’d already taken heat from a portion of fans who had (rightfully) suspected foul play when it came to Hollander’s trade a couple years back. That was a stain on the franchise no amount of scrubbing could wash out. 

And really, the Metros should have thanked Rozanov for what happened that day on the ice— the hard decision on whether or not to drop Burt was taken entirely out of their hands and placed into Ilya’s closed fists. 

______

The second period had barely started when the fight broke out. Maybe “fight” was the wrong word for it. From the stands, the speed with which Rozanov was on Burt was more of a magic trick than anything else. Fans in the audience would swear the Russian had been in two places at once — both at Hollander’s side and dropping his gloves a few meters away before making a mess of the kid’s smug face. Burt was big, but it seemed all his power was either stored in his legs or in that loud voice that had gotten him into trouble time and time before. But bigger legs than his wouldn’t have been able to skate away from Rozanov at that moment. And his voice had never gotten him in this much trouble before, that much was for certain. 

The Centaurs were up 2-1, an upper hand that never failed to send a thrill through Ilya, knowing both of those goals had been scored by his husband against the team that had turned their back on him. Winning had never felt so good, had never been anything but a necessity until playing alongside Shane. Now it was fueled by a need for vengeance so unadulterated it threatened the confines of his consciousness. He loved watching them curl in on themselves in defeat when they lost, loved to slam their ungrateful asses into the boards, would sit in the penalty box for as long as he needed with a shit-eating grin on his face as he watched Shane fly straight through them on the ice. Most of all, he loved gripping them a little too hard in the handshake line, squeezing as if that could transmit the reality of what that hand had done and where it had been: he’d caressed Shane with that hand, had held Shane’s in it at the altar, had fingered him and worked that hand over his dick and in his mouth for longer or as long as they’d known their ex-Metro. He used that hand to love Shane, gently and roughly and everywhere in between. Now, he used it to defend him in a display of supreme rage unprecedented in the history of the NHL. 

It had started just after Shane scored his second goal of the night for the Centaurs — he had raised his fists into the air as the puck found home in the back of the away net. The crowd erupted. This was Ilya’s favorite version of Shane — when he could practically feel him glowing from across the ice, could see him flash a filming Harris his winning smile even under his helmet. Ilya knew it wasn’t just him who got a special kick out of beating the Metros; the hurt of their betrayal had aged like a beautiful wine into something intoxicating in its determination. Winning with the man he loved, against the team that had never known a Shane who didn’t love him, was the closest thing to hard drugs golden-boy Hollander would ever participate in. And he was a full-blown addict. 

Burt was waiting for him behind the Centaur’s net, bringing a gloved hand down to clasp the smaller man’s shoulder. Shane’s head whipped around to face him, his bright smile flickering slightly as he processed the words being whispered in his ear. Private words always cut the deepest — Ilya knew that better than anyone: It was incredible how much pain and humiliation two people alone in a room could manage to fester for themselves, hidden away from the world. 

Ilya slowed for the briefest moment not three meters away, the milliseconds stretching out as he watched the smile drain out of his husband’s face. His stomach dropped as he watched the beautiful man crumple in on himself, with Burt’s face still tucked into his neck like an animal sniffing out its prey’s jugular. The crack was only momentary, and no one would catch it but Ilya, but it was already reason enough. The grin on the trade’s face was the cherry on top of the cold lasagna Ilya was about to make of this guy’s face — how dare he steal that smile from Shane. It’d be the last smile he’d flash with any of the teeth his mama gave him. 

Shane set his face in a way that looked rigid and painful before pulling out of the grip and gliding forward. Shane Hollander, the Centaur, second-in-command and finally beloved by a team who deserved him, was not going to risk his ice time to fight a trigger-happy kid who couldn’t handle the loss. Ilya Rozanov, the Centaur, Captain and beloved by a team who practically bent at the knee for him, did not have the same concerns, nor had he ever “outgrown” the twitch of his knuckles when they begged him to come out and play. It had only gotten worse, in fact, once Shane Hollander was signed to his team. 

Burt, unbeknownst to Shane, anticipated this collected professionalism and, in a move that had the edges of Ilya’s vision whiting out in rage, lunged for Shane’s unsuspecting arm and lurched him back. Ilya was so focused on the sight of this man’s hands on his husband that he almost didn’t catch the unmistakable shape of his mouth as he spat that word into Shane’s surprised face. 

No one knew quite how Ilya got to Burt before the word was even fully out of his mouth. The cameras didn’t pick up much more than a dark blur on the ice as it slammed Burt out of Shane’s space like a bullet. 

Fans and internet passerby alike would agree that this… interaction was not a fight. A fight required the participation of two or more partners. At that moment, Ilya was the only one on the ice. The world fell away at the sight of Shane’s stumble, pulsing gently in and out of frame before cutting out completely and giving way to pure static. His blood turned carbonated, noxious gases inside him that rose and burst him open. At that moment, he and everyone else, including Burt, knew he intended to kill. 

_____

“Never in all my years of hockey-”

“-Medics called before the ref could even get to them-”

“Rozanov seemingly going for the kill, took the whole crew and crowd to drag him off newbie Caleb Burt.”

“Number 61 down-”

The other teeth follow their friend like kids off a bridge, each more pliable than the last. Burt’s face is all over the front of his jersey, and Ilya’s pretty sure he has at least a cup of the kid’s blood in his mouth already from how much it was spraying. Maybe he would hear Burt’s cries if they could be heard over the sound of the blows or the roaring in Ilya’s own head; but most likely there weren’t any, considering how Ilya was pinning the large man to the ice with a knee directly under his diaphragm. Blow after blow he landed on Burt’s face. Blow after blow, the euphoric feeling was born, swelled, and then ceased to be enough. He was faintly aware of yelling, of strong hands trying to pull him off, but he felt their presence and power melt away into a turbulence that shook him but did not bring him down to Earth. 

Burt’s head was out of his helmet but his face was no longer visible, reduced to something even a starving vulture would turn its beak up at. Ilya is no longer aiming for specific features — he’s already had the pleasure of feeling the fucker’s nose crack violently into the delicate bones of his maxilla, a sheet of carbon he felt separate from the rest of his skull under unwavering fists. He wants to close his thumbs over the place where he assumes Burt’s seedy eyes are and push and push until he feels them give, until he could never look at Shane or touch him or stand in the rink with him ever again. 

His fists are screaming too, but Ilya can’t hear them, refusing to listen. All that mattered was putting the man who had made his husband’s beautiful freckled face fall through the fucking ice. 

The fine line between overwhelming love and violence was a pilgrimage Ilya Rozanov trudged like a birthright. His body releases itself into the path carved by his ancestors, ancestors who had faced the cold and swam through its numbing beauty. He thinks of his mother seeing him now, intent on the hunt. In a flicker he thinks of his father, too, the military man who had wielded violence against enemy and family alike. He wonders at the twisted image of his face, what it would look like watching Ilya draw blood for the man he had made his home in. 

Then- a voice pierces through the haze. His helmet is off, too, and familiar hands in his hair, yanking him and paralyzing his muscles like a pup submitting to its dam. As he lets himself be pulled, he remembers learning the double meaning of that word. Harris had used it jokingly when referring to Chiron’s mother when they first adopted him for the team — Ilya had always thought it meant the fortress that holds back rushing water. Apparently it was a word for mother. He supposed the name was fitting. 

“Ilya, fuck, you’re killing him! Stop! STOP!”

The peace of Shane’s rough hands in his hair negates the fervent desire to kill and renders him a docile animal, ready to whine and beg for forgiveness with a heated tongue.

“Shane-” 

And then, in the absence of his prey, the pain comes skating in with a vengeance. Medics are pulling Burt away from the blood-soaked ice, every ref on the rink hounding around Ilya like a pack of hyenas. All Ilya can see is the swath of dark freckles and darker hair that frame round eyes as he yanks Ilya’s hair hard enough to have him seeing stars.

_____

He spends the rest of the game in the penalty box while Wiebe and Theriault hold themselves back from recreating their players’ scene on the ice. He barely hears when Wiebe screams at him, catching only throwaway lines that sound odd in his polite Canadian accent. 

“Lucky not to be leaving the ice in cuffs-” He would’ve, gladly. 

“-swear to God, I’ll fucking bench you, Rozanov-” He wouldn’t. Not past the suspension, anyways.

“-face looking like cold lasagna when they wheeled him off-” Ilya has to wipe a trickle of blood from his nose to hide the smirk that appears just under it. He hopes the Metro’s dentist puts all his teeth in backwards. Hopes they rot and fall right back out after. 

But Ilya is grateful to Wiebe; it was because of him he’d be spending the night at home with his husband and his dog instead of in a cell. He supposes he should feel a little bad about the situation he’d put his coach in, and his team: the word suspension had been clear enough. But he can’t bring himself to, especially considering the amount of times Burt had probably had Theriault ripping his thinning hair out of his scalp fighting those same battles. He scowls at the thought of their names, spitting dark and thick onto the floor of the penalty box as the Metros and Centaurs play out their final period with nearly dainty apprehension. Like any moment the gate would click open and the Ottawan attack dog would come out hungry for their throats. Ilya spits again, and hopes the cameras are still on him as he does. He knows they are. 

He watches as his husband scores one, two more times in the last ten minutes of the game. Each time Bood and Dykstra skate over to press loud kisses to his cheek. Each time Shane refuses to celebrate or even recognize the crowd as they cheer. Through the commotion, Ilya can see his eyes stray back to the blood stain on the ice. 

_____

Shane won’t look at him in the locker room, and, to his great relief, none of his teammates do either. They’ve all had the urge to rough up the Metros in the past, and every single one of them has acted on it to some degree. But Ilya can tell there’s something in his expression that separates this time from the others. Dykstra and Chouinard, the defensemen, don’t even get on him for taking on the fight in their place. When Haas sneaks a glance at him after the showers, like he always does, it’s not with his usual wide-eyed awe, but a sort of… fear. Like he’s refusing to size up a wild animal for fear of retaliation. 

Shane doesn’t look at him on the drive home — no one really felt like celebrating, even after such a solid win — and he definitely doesn’t look at the fresh blood hardening on Ilya’s knuckles. Hadn’t even insisted he ice them on the way. Had just slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled off before Ilya could even buckle his seatbelt. 

Shane still doesn’t look at him after he unlocks their front door. Doesn’t say a word, either. Just runs his fingers through Anya’s fur before standing and walking towards their kitchen, back to Ilya. He swears he sees Shane’s shoulders shake — not the consistent pulse Ilya’s used to when he’s angry or anxious, but intermittent shivers that rush down his spine. He only shakes like this when he’s sick. Or needy. 

Ilya stands frozen in the doorway, the heat in his abdomen flaring despite the fact that Shane was ignoring him. On purpose.

On a regular day, Ilya would punish Shane for that treatment. Would pin him to the nearest wall or bend him over the nearest piece of furniture while he drove into him with deep strokes that said I am here, see me, acknowledge me, feel me or I’ll make sure you can’t feel anything else. And maybe that’s what he deserved. He’d fucking… He’d almost killed a guy on the ice today for so much as touching his husband. His. It wasn’t Hollander’s place to try and resist that, the burning truth was that Ilya needed to tear through anything that tried to touch him. Only he was allowed to grip Shane like that, crack him open, ruin him and rip the smile off his perfectly freckled face, if only to replace it with fat messy tears and a stretched mouth. Only he was allowed to hurt Shane like that, because he was good, had been good, had always wanted to be so good for Shane and put his pieces back together with practiced hands. 

But he can’t say any of that to Shane. So, like a dog, he waits to be called on. 

Shane is still silent as he pulls their Brita from the fridge and sets down a glass. The sliver of skin that shows on his nape is taut — Ilya watches the muscles there pulse as he takes a long drink. He breaks away from the glass panting, running a shaky hand through his hair and collapsing in on his shoulders. Ilya wonders if Shane can feel his eyes on him, then thinks better than to ask stupid questions. He can hear Shane’s breaths as they puff shakily in the air between them, can see his beautiful back as it expands and deflates. Ilya looks to the tips of his ears for the tell-tale signs of panic, having learned to read him through the years by gentle coloration alone. To his relief, they are full of color, blushing prettily for Ilya against Shane’s will. He sees Shane’s body prepare itself to speak before words can leave his lips. 

“Why, Ilya.” His voice is exasperated, or at least it seems so, because the air exits Shane’s body like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. 

There hasn’t been this much tension between them since before they got together all those years ago. Ilya wants to go to him so bad it makes the room spin. Wants to drop to his knees before Shane and beg for a forgiveness he doesn’t want. Wants to be sorry he had done it, because that’s what Shane would want. He knows what Shane wants. Doesn’t he?

So, always perceptive, Ilya starts contemplating how to respond to whatever heated question Shane was definitely going to throw his way, once he broke out of this weird silence. He could hear his shouts already, the way they’d start soft and grow and eventually crack under the pressure of the argument. 

Shane would say he had humiliated them. Okay, that was fine, they had been humiliated before. He would say he was letting the team down, setting a bad example for the younger Centaurs that looked up to their Captain with near blind admiration. That would sting. He’d say that Ilya was souring their time together as a team, letting blood fall to the ice like acid into milk. How Ilya’s brazen display of protectiveness just gave the league another reason to alienate them, and homophobic fans another reason to cover their children's eyes. Worst of all, Shane would wish they could crawl back into the closet, lock themselves up in the secrecy he had fought so hard to protect. He’d never say it aloud, he was too kind, much too kind for Ilya, but he’d think it. Maybe he’d take his wedding band off for the night and rub at the indent on his ring finger as if it had burned him. God, Ilya was such a fuckup. Such a fuckup, most of all, because he couldn’t even bring himself to be even a little bit sorry for what he’d done.

He thought Shane must have put the kettle on without him noticing, because he hears the thin whistle of boiling water coming from the kitchen. But then he looks down and sees Shane shifting his weight from side to side, rubbing his thighs together ever so slightly like he always does when he’s–

Huh. Ilya closes the distance between them, drawn in by that high keen in the back of Shane’s throat like it had been an explicit command, a beckoning call like a dog whistle. He doesn’t speak, won’t until he’s absolutely sure he’s understood the situation. It’s rare he can’t read Shane in an instant, but this not being able to is… dangerous. Exciting. 

Ilya stands at his full height, not touching Shane but using his presence to bracket him against their countertop. Shane doesn’t look him in the eye, keeps his gaze low as he worries his bottom lip between white teeth. Fuck that. Ilya takes a bruised hand and makes first contact, idly grasping his husband's chin and angling his head up until he can see every contour, every freckle under the dim kitchen lights. There’s a high flush on his cheeks and a raw panic in his eyes as they dart around the room, looking everywhere but at Ilya. Who still hasn’t answered his question. 

“Why,” Ilya replies. The intonation is flat and hoarse in the back of his throat. It’s not a question anymore. He grips his chin harder, pulls his lower lip down with his thumb ever so slightly. He waits for any sign that he should pull away, set up the couch and crash there for the night without another word. There is none. Shane’s flitting eyes settling on Ilya’s mouth, and it’s only then that Ilya can see the cloudiness in them, the blown out pupils that scream how fucking gone he already is. 

Without warning, Ilya forces a rough thigh between the smaller man’s legs, pressing it hard against his crotch in search of more evidence that this was affecting him as much as it was Ilya. Shane cried out, the sudden burst of sound startling against their strained silence. His hands shot up to grip Ilya’s shoulders as his muscular thigh moved torturously hard against the straining erection it had found. His head momentarily tucked inward as well, but Ilya was having none of it. He wanted to watch the rest of the control drain from his husband’s eyes, to make him pay for ignoring him the whole fucking night and for failing to thank him properly for his fight on the ice. He felt himself snap into domspace so abruptly it almost made him feel a little sick, before the heat of the adrenaline forced any sensation other than the points of connection between him and Shane out of his head. He yanked his chin back up and stepped even closer into Hollander’s space, pressing against him until there wasn’t a single place they weren’t touching. But he didn’t stop there, instead crowding him until Shane was painfully pressed against the ledge of the countertop, nowhere to move but forward as he humped into the press of Ilya’s thigh with a heavy sob. 

“You ignore me all fucking night. In locker room, in boring car. Now at home you don’t acknowledge me. And yet here you are, so fucking hard you’re whining for it, asking me stupid question like why.” 

Shane moaned as Ilya dug his fingers deeper into the soft flesh of his cheek, pulling his lips open even further. “M’not-”

“Not what, hmm?” Ilya cut him off. “Not being grateful to your husband, who is always defending you? Not dropping to your knees in front of whole team to say thank you?” 

“I can defend myself, you know.” It’s a weak retort, but it does what Shane needs it to do. Because Ilya is picking him up with strong hands under his thighs and carrying them to their bedroom with the urgency of a man on a conjugal visit. He’s growling in his ear as he hauls him upstairs, Russian expletives taking up the space where English is no longer strong enough. Shane only picks up on some of it, his head already floating at the feeling of weightlessness in his husband’s strong arms. Arms that would, he thinks to himself with a shudder, kill for him at the first chance. 

Once hye’s deposited on the bed, Ilya starts fiddling rapidly with his belt, sliding it out of his slacks in one long thwap that makes Shane’s hindbrain itch. But he doesn’t fold it in half, doesn’t turn Shane onto his stomach. Instead he pulls Shane to the ground with a rough hand as he rips his fly down with the other. Any instinct to tease, to set the mood with soft kisses and lingering hands is completely gone. He grabs Shane’s hair and yanks his head back, exposing the long line of his throat as it contracts against his labored breathing. The sight robs Ilya of any patience to undress himself properly, instead he settles for pulling himself through the hole the open zipper has left. Shane watches with rapt fascination, Adam's apple bobbing with unspoken need. 

“I know you can defend yourself, Shanya, but you won’t. Is not the point, anyways.” He takes a moment to grip his cock, painfully red and leaking at the tip, before slapping it roughly against his husband’s flushed cheek. His heart purrs at the sight of precum sliding against the stunning smattering of freckles there. “The point is, you are mine. Someone speaks to you, they speak to me.” Another smack, on the opposite cheek this time. “Someone insults you, they insult me.” His thumb finds Shane’s tongue and yanks it out of his gaping mouth. Ilya rubs his leaking cockhead against the warm wetness and shudders as his tongue catches the sensitive ridge there. “Someone hurts you, they hurt me.” Shane closes his eyes as his face attempts to crumple, reaching both hands down to palm himself through the painful confines of his own pants. A thin line of spit rolls down his chin before meeting him on the floor. Ilya chuckles before knocking his hands away from his crotch with a stubborn knee. “So needy. But if you can just stand there and watch me take care of you on the ice, you can do the same here. Is not polite to touch what doesn’t belong to you.” He feeds his dick an inch further into Shane’s open, waiting mouth, breaking the whimper that has started forming there. His eyes, glazed over with want, pout up at Ilya through his lashes, but he takes his hands and clasps them behind his back in perfect surrender. Ilya’s blood turns molten at the shameless display of obedience, and he takes a second to admire the sight beneath him before it all blurs under the heavy sedative of pleasure. “Da, good. Now, suck.” 

The command is somewhere between an admission and a slap to the face, one Shane takes like a gift. He closes his lips around the girth of Ilya’s cock, more drool leaking out around his husband’s length as he hollows out his cheeks. Ilya’s groan above him spurs him on, and he laves a practiced tongue against the underside as he begins to bob his head, head pulling against the hand that Ilya still has anchored firmly in his hair. The slight burn at every pull makes him pulse in his boxers. The bliss only lasts a second, though, because Ilya pulls him back roughly before he can get even halfway down his husband’s impressive length. 

Ilya tuts him, condescension dripping off his tone. “No, malysh. Stay there. Open. Good. You will let me do the work, like always, da?” He places a second hand at the nape of Shane’s neck, pulling roughly at the short strands there. “You don’t need to do anything but look pretty tonight. Let me take my prize yeah? My prize for staying in penalty all fucking night for you.” Shane’s moan sends a wave of vibrations through Ilya’s cock, and he has to take a second to recenter himself before this whole event is over before it’s even really started. It’s a struggle against time itself every time he’s with Shane — no amount of experience could make up for the perfect picture of this boy on his knees, just for him. Thanking him with his mouth. 

But Ilya wants more than what just a few minutes can give. And as much as he wants to claim Shane’s throat with his cum, the need to bully his way into his body and prove his possession there is even stronger. 

If Shane’s expecting Ilya to fuck forward into his relaxed throat, he’s about to be shocked by the force with which Ilya pulls his head onto him, instead. He keeps his hips completely still and uses Shane’s throat like a toy, sinking past the comfortable heat of his mouth into the vice of his throat with every pull. Shane’s shoulders shake with the feeling of being used, and fuck, he has to touch himself, has to get some sort of pressure on his dick before he comes like this, against nothing but the biting teeth of his pants like a fucking teenager. But he keeps his hands behind his back, because Ilya told him to. 

Ilya’s accent strains alongside the taut muscles of his abdomen. “Look at you, so good for me. You like this, yeah? Of course you do. Always making me do all the work myself. Can’t even suck me off properly unless I’m showing you what to do, hmm? Need to sit there and let me use you like a warm hole?” 

The garbling affirmation around his cock makes his chest swell with pride, the doubts of the evening sliding off him in waves of pleasure. Pleasure at the sensation, yes, but mostly pleasure at having Shane Hollander, hockey’s golden boy, submit to him like this while his bruised knuckles are buried deep in his mussed hair. He’d give him the world if he weren’t already gripping it in his hands. He watches as Shane’s elbows twitch, the beautiful boy trying so hard not to disobey and tap out against Ilya’s thighs. He can’t imagine it’s very easy to breathe, not when Ilya’s burying himself nearly to the hilt with every thrust of his face and forcing tears to well in his dark eyes. He’ll let up. Soon. 

He pulls Shane in a final time, sinking him down impossibly deeper as he ignores the gags other than to revel in how they contract that sweet throat around the head of his cock. He holds him there, thumbs on either side of his face stroking comfortingly as Shane’s nose is obscured in the thatch of curly hair at the base. 

“Breathe for me,” he commands, and Shane does, heaving in the scent of Ilya through his nose as fresh tears join the sloppy mess around his stretched lips. His prone body shudders heavily at the introduction of oxygen, but it does nothing to clear the haze in his eyes. “Should just keep you like this,” Ilya breathes, voice finally cracking out of the level tone he’s been maintaining. “See how long you can sit with my cock stuffing your mouth full. Want this all the time.” 

He lets Shane take one more breath, lets him gag sweetly around his girth one more time before releasing his hair and pulling back slightly as an invitation. But instead of pulling off, Shane stays put with his lips wrapped around Ilya’s cock, eyes locked on him with determination. Ilya laughs, because he’ll scream if he doesn’t. He gives a shallow thrust before pulling Shane back himself, watching as thick lines of spit follow and keep them connected. Ilya throws his head back at the visual, glancing back down immediately when he feels soft slurping cleaning him and gentle kisses being pressed fervently against the weeping head. It takes everything in him not to come all over his husband’s face at that moment. 

The fucker has a fucking smile on his stupidly beautiful face, and Ilya is more in love with him every day. 

“Fuck, you fucking love this, don’t you.” Shane nods urgently, letting the tip drag along the line of his nose as he does so. And when he opens his mouth to respond yes, only a hoarse croak comes out. “Fuck. Ruined that pretty throat, didn’t I?” Shane’s response is soft and far away: “Fuck me.”

And, hell, Ilya would do anything this man told him to without a second thought. He strips the smaller man and pushes him into the bed on his back, following him down and capturing his bruised lips in a searing kiss. Shane’s hands claw into his back, arching into him as Ilya’s body fully covers his own. Ilya returned the favor, dragging blunt nails down the supple flesh at the inside of Shane’s thighs until red bloomed there. He was spread out like a fucking meal, knees hanging off the bed and bracketing Ilya where he stood, still dressed, at full height in front of him. The stark difference between their states of dress made Shane shiver, feeling at once insanely vulnerable and insurmountably free. His eyes drifted to where Ilya’s hard cock was still exposed, shiny and slick with his own spit. In a moment of insanity, he wanted to beg Ilya to just take him like this. He thought he could. He had some loyalty to prove, after all. 

Ilya, as always, seemed to read his mind. “Don’t think you deserve the prep, after the fit you threw tonight. Don’t think you want it either, so eager for me. You think I should, malysh? Force my cock into you? Already got it wet enough.”

“Nngh, please. Please, Ilya, m’ready. Just fuck me.” The reedy, broken voice that comes uninhibited from Shane’s throat makes his cock jump and has him swearing softly in Russian. 

Shane’s heart is pounding, eyes squeezed shut as he prepares for whatever it is Ilya is going to do to him. He startles when something cold and hard hits his chest out of nowhere. 

“So proud, aren’t you, Hollander? Always up for a challenge. Do anything to have my cock inside you, hmm? Even if it hurts you?”

“Yes, yes. You can do anything you want to me.” 

Ilya reaches up and pops open the lube, squeezing a little bit of the cold gel onto Shane’s chest before using it to flick mercilessly over his sensitive nipples. The little brown buds are already starting to go red around the edges with the attention. “Mmm, I know that. But do you?” 

Shane opens his eyes, cocking his head at the deep knife of doubt in Ilya’s voice. “Of- oh fuck- of course.” 

And Ilya really wants to believe him, but he remembers how Shane had yanked him away from Burt on the ice. Hadn’t looked over at him in the penalty box after winning the game. Had ignored him all fucking night. The last of Ilya’s already-frayed reserve snapped at that moment. The ache in his knuckles melts into a flying pleasure as he squeezes his fists so hard they go white alongside his vision. He remembers, in particular, that question Shane had asked him. That stupid fucking- 

“Why,” he demands from where he’s towering over Shane’s naked body. He’s gripping his hips so hard he’s sure everyone will see the bruises in the locker room tomorrow. And fuck, if that thought doesn’t make him pulse. 

Shane’s answer is without hesitation: “Because, fuck, because I belong to you. M’yours.” 

“That’s right. Mine to fuck. Mine to hurt. I’ll kill anyone who tries. Tell me you believe me.”

“Yes, believe you, Ilya. I saw it tonight. Made me- turned me on so bad. Didn’t know what to do about it. Thought you’d think there was something wrong with me.” Ilya grabs his face and presses his open mouth to Shane’s as he babbles. It’s barely a kiss, but it’s good. It’s too much. It’s not enough. 

“Oh, malysh. I am the one who is wrong. Do you know how good it felt to punch his teeth in? How sweet it was to hear him cry? Was so hard for rest of the game, watching you, seeing you skate through the blood that fucker left on the ice. Would’ve fucked you right there, shown everyone what you are.” 

Shane cries out and bucks against Ilya where he’s arching and grinding himself into his crotch. “What- what am I?” 

Ilya reaches around to grab two handfuls of his ass where it’s arching off the mattress. “My bitch. My little fight slut.” He brings a hand down hard on the outside of Shane’s thigh, and Shane fucking screams. He’s begging so much the words tumble on top of one another, falling out of him at a speed his ruined mouth can’t keep up with. Ilya shuts him up by finally, finally, grabbing the bottle of lube again and bringing it down to squirt a thick line against Shane’s hole. The smaller man gasps at the cold sensation, gripping onto Ilya’s other hand like a lifeline. Ilya brings the hand up to his lips and kisses across his knuckles tenderly, admiring the contrast of his unmarred skin against the ruined flesh of his own. He releases him gently and steps back. Shane whines at the loss, looking far too adorable in his confusion and sitting up on his elbows. 

Ilya puts both of his hands out in a reversed surrender position, showing off the violent bruising and red cuts that cover his huge hands. Hands that are so skilled on the ice and off of it, Shane thinks. Hands that had drawn blood tonight, for him. Ilya watches as Shane’s head bobs between his shoulders, as if in a trance. He fakes a pout and flexes his fingers. “Hurts, baby. Gonna need you to finger yourself open for me tonight, okay? Think you can get yourself ready for my cock?” Shane whimpers. His fingers were fine, but they never did the job like Rozanov’s did. Could never reach where he wanted them to, where he needed it the most. But he wants so, so badly to be good for him. So he nods, once, accepting defeat. 

Ilya’s breath quickens when he brings the first finger down to circle at his tight entrance, fluttering slightly at the touch. He couldn’t believe how sensitive Shane was there, how easy it was to make him come just from the teasing press of his tongue on him. Shane lets out a high hic as he sinks the tip of his pointer finger into himself, prodding softly with it at first the way he always did when alone. But he wasn’t alone, and Ilya made sure to remind him of that. 

“Why so slow, baby? Look at my cock. See how hard I am for you? You gonna make me wait? I think I deserve a little urgency, after everything.” His eyes are trained between Shane’s legs, speaking orders directly to the space he so desperately wanted to fuck into. Like Shane was nothing but a hole to him. “Fuck yourself like I would. Two fingers, da, like that, I know you can take it.”

Shane fucks himself in earnest, the two fingers breaching easily. It floods him with need, even if the angle is a bit off and the thickness not nearly enough. He scissors them apart a few times, before fucking in so roughly he can hear the wet sound of it start to fill the room. He flicks his eyes up to watch his husband, who’s slowly fisting his cock and looking more than a little bit wrecked. He’s ripping the fingers out of himself before he’s ready, needing the stretch, the burn, anything to feel even an ounce of what Ilya had put himself through in his honor. Ilya’s face searches his own, looking for hesitance, but his voice and eyes sing only one thing: “Need you.”

Ilya stands over the edge of the bed while he pulls Shane’s hips off the mattress to meet him. His husband’s hands are bent by his head in a show of perfect submission, his eyes full of trust and gratitude and so much love Ilya thinks he’ll disintegrate under the lovely weight of it. Holding him up like he weighs nothing, Ilya presses the blunt head of his cock to the wet opening. His jaw drops open. The ice breaks. Ilya sinks in with one slow stroke. The ice fucking shatters. And Shane, he’s melting under him, red in the face and ignored cock bouncing with every rough thrust. Ilya can feel himself sweating, can feel the chords of his neck straining, the veins in his forehead threatening to pop. Hollander’s so fucking tight, and he tells him as much. Shane clenches around him sweetly and lets his tears run freely at the liberating, clarifying burn of the stretch

They’re both seconds from coming when Ilya finds it in him to speak: “Tell me what you liked about it.” 

Shane’s eyes are nearly crossed, but the little shit still has the gall to be bashful. “Ilya-” 

“Tell me or I’m pulling out, and I’ll come all over you instead of inside like you need.” Shane mewls and thrusts his ass back against Ilya’s cock with what little leverage he has, his shoulders the only part of him still on the bed. 

He shudders before responding in that shaky, fucked-out voice of his, and Ilya just has to thrust back into him with all the force he has. “I liked– ngh, fu-fuck, Ilya, right there– I loved how fast you were on him, didn’t even give him a chance to fight back.” 

Ilya’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He felt half-crazy in love. “And? What else?” 

“Liked hearing him scream, watching him scream with you on him, fuck Ilya it turned me on so much.” 

“Yeah?” Ilya responded. “Even though it left me like this? That’s pretty fucked up, Shane.” 

He holds his knuckles out for Shane to examine, and Shane falls apart at the sight. “YES, fuck. Love the blood. Watched you wash it off yourself in the shower and almost, fuck, almost jerked myself off in the stall. Couldn’t help it. Wanted to lick it off you, clean you up.” 

Fuck. Ilya was going to come. And so was Shane, from the way he was panting and the words that rolled out of him with no filter. But there was something else he needed to do first. “You wanna taste, my little slut? Open.” Shane doesn’t have time to nod before Ilya is pushing bruised fingers into his throat to the last knuckle, pulling a soft gag from Shane before he’s sucking on the digits fervently, moaning as the metallic taste blooms on his tongue. Ilya’s thrusts get impossibly harder, impossibly less coordinated as he chases his pleasure like a man on the run. “Love you so much,” he croaks, approaching orgasm breaking him down to his basest parts. “Was I- am I good for you?” Shane can barely talk around the fingers stuffed in his mouth, but Ilya understands the yes, my good boy perfectly. It makes his heart seize. It makes him come harder than he ever has in his life into Shane’s pliant body. It’s not until he’s fucked himself through it and into the violent shuddering of Shane’s hold that he knows he’s come, too. 

Ilya collapses into his husband’s chest, pulling the fingers from his mouth with a soft pop before wrapping his arms around his midsection. He’s breathing even heavier than he usually does after sex, and he’s terrified for a fleeting moment that he’s going to cry, softening dick still buried inside Shane. Shane breathes deep and strokes soothing hands through his curls. 

“Hey. Hey. You’re okay, baby. M’right here.” Ilya suddenly feels very small in his arms. 

“Did I hurt you?” His voice is miles away. 

“You did everything right.” It’s not an answer to the question Ilya asked, but it is the one he needs. He stays there for more time than is comfortable, but neither man makes a move to separate. Ilya kisses the center of Shane’s chest, nuzzles into it like the secrets of the universe are buried there. He lets tears fall. He refuses to let the ice freeze back over. 

_____

After, when they’re cleaned up and just a few strides from sleep, Ilya asks Shane what Burt had said to him. It hadn’t occurred to him to inquire before, and it didn’t matter, not really, not when Shane’s smile had fallen and that had been the only thing in the world. He feels him tense beside him for a moment before relaxing. Such a good boy, talking about his feelings even though it was always so hard for him. Ilya braced himself for the sort of chirps he’d been used to getting even before they’d been outed and started playing on the same team. The kinds of words he’d been raised on like spoiled milk from a bottle. 

“He said-” Shane starts. Breathes. Ilya strokes his pretty face, touching where he knows the freckles are even in the pitch black of their room. “He said it didn’t matter how many goals I scored against them. That the Metros would always be lucky not to have a- not to have someone like me on their team anymore.” 

Ilya swears he can feel his heart break in his chest, the ghost of violence resurrecting itself where it lay dormant like a hibernating bear. “Fuck. Now I will actually have to kill him.” 

To his shock, Shane chuckles. After everything he’d been through with that team, he’d come back stronger with the Centaurs. He was loved there. More than he could ever possibly know. And Ilya was so, so fucking proud of him. 

“Yeah, but beating them’s more fun, no?” 

“True.” Shane kisses him sweetly. “I still like you as my attack dog, though. S’hot. Makes me feel like yours.” 

Ilya’s breath hitches, and he lays his head on Shane’s chest, feeling the soft sleepy rise and fall there. Like being rocked as a baby in a basket on the wide, wild sea. “And I’m yours.” 

He can feel Shane’s smile against his hair. “Yes. You are.” 

And there, in Shane’s arms, Ilya knew that he was enough.