Chapter Text
The sound of a clearing throat snaps Shane out of his cleaning–induced trance.
Shane freezes on his hands and knees, poised over the baseboard he’s been scrubbing with all his might. He looks over his shoulder and doesn't quite manage to stifle a grimace at what he finds.
Ilya, still all dressed up in his suit from the press conference, is standing in the closet doorway with a sharp glare. Ilya crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows as if to say really?
Shane knows he should get up and try to defend himself, try to hide the fact that he’s clearly been deep-cleaning the house ever since Ilya left. Instead, he's frozen. His whole body has locked up from the guilt of being caught doing something he was not supposed to, from disobeying.
After another moment of their silent stand off, Ilya sighs and steps into the room. “No, please, continue,” He says, sarcasm practically dripping off his words, “You’re not misbehaving or anything.” Ilya’s accent is heavier, his voice deeper, with disapproval.
Shane knows why. He's under strict orders from the doctors and, more importantly, Ilya—his captain and his husband—to rest. He's had an inexplicably unlucky, shitty couple of weeks. First there was the flu that ran through their entire team, but hit him the hardest. It sent him to the hospital with dehydration and a fever so high he was delirious. Then, when he recovered and was cleared to get back on the ice, he got slammed into the boards hard enough to bruise his ribs. He sat out another game and more practices, and when he finally, finally, got back on the ice, he tripped over his own skates and twisted his ankle. It was only a mild sprain, more of an inconvenience than anything else, but it’s like the universe is laughing at his misery.
He’s essentially under house arrest until his ankle heals, even though it’s fine. It’s barely swollen and hardly even hurts to use his full range of motion, but no he’s unfit to do anything but twiddle his own thumbs while he tries not to keel over from boredom. If he were still with the Voyagers, he'd be laughed out of the locker room for even considering taking medical leave for an injury so small.
And he has rested! For two whole days, he's done nothing but the light stretching that was recommended by the team doctor. The majority of his time was spent reading and laying in the sun and resting until he’s blue in the face. He just wanted to do something productive, and it had been a few months since he's had the time to properly deep-clean the house.
It doesn't mean anything that he only started after Ilya left for practice, when he knew Ilya had to attend a press conference afterwards and had already agreed to go out to lunch with the team before coming home. It's just easier to clean with fewer distractions is all. It has nothing to do with the fact that Ilya gave him that look before he left, the one that says don't do anything stupid, which is honestly so rich coming from his husband.
Shane gingerly places the sponge back in the bucket of soapy water. Against his better judgement, the guilt he's feeling morphs into indignation. He's a grown ass man—his husband doesn't have to order him around and he shouldn't put up with it anyway.
Anger and irritation is easier to manage than guilt and shame. He doesn't need this, Ilya's easy dominance and gentle care, because he can take care of himself. The more he's tempted to give in and let Ilya decide what he needs, what he wants, and what he deserves, the more of a burden he becomes. Ilya should be able to leave the house, captain his team, and hang out with his friends without worrying about coming home to his injured, fuck-up of a husband.
Shane rises to his feet with forced casualty, ignoring the brief but sharp burst of pain in his ankle. He brushes off his knees to give himself a moment to collect himself, then faces Ilya. “I'm just cleaning, Roz. I think I can handle it.”
Ilya hums in the back of his throat and leans against the wall just by the doorframe. He’s cool, calm, and handsome as he watches Shane’s little display. It pisses Shane right off.
Here he is, while Ilya studies him with something akin to indifference, filled to the brim with guilt and anger and nowhere to put it all but at Ilya’s feet. His beautiful, perfect husband who doesn't deserve to constantly deal with his mess.
Shame pulses in Shane's chest as if it were a living, breathing being and not just an emotion swallowing him whole. It would be easier if Ilya were angry at him, if he scoffed and rolled his eyes, if he yelled and walked away, because then Shane’s anger would be justified. Instead, he’s off-kilter and furious at himself because he’s broken into pieces and Ilya has to painstakingly put him back together, again. He must be so tired of doing this over and over and over, without there ever being a sign that there will be a last time.
“Can you?”
Shane tilts his head, confused. “Handle it?” Ilya clarifies. Shane's jaw slackens enough for his lips to part. Ilya just raises his eyebrows and sniffs before scratching his nose. He's acting bored, like he doesn't see how Shane is fraying at the edges from the strain of containing his cluster-fuck of emotions. The threads break, his anger boils over, and he snaps.
“Fuck off, Rozanov!” Shane spits. “I don't need you!”
Ilya's expression shutters, morphing from careful calm to a cool, blank mask.
It's too far. Shane felt it the second the stupid words fell from his lips. In the wake of his outburst, the anger drains out of him until shame is the only thing that remains, putrid and filthy. He doesn't know what to say to explain himself or how to apologize without it sounding like a cheap ploy to get out of what they both know comes next. He can only stand there, listless and red in the face.
Ilya kicks off of the wall and steps out of the closet. Shane's chest tightens at the sight of him walking away. “Take off your clothes and bend over the bench. If you're not in position by the time I get back, you will regret it,” Ilya says. He barely glances over his shoulder as he does, but the brief moment of eye contact is enough to send shivers down Shane’s spine. The anger he wanted Ilya to feel is there, only it’s cold and distant. Ilya knows him, knows he didn't mean those stupid, spiteful words, but it doesn't mean they didn't hurt.
Ilya disappears from view, and Shane obeys with a numb sense of dread. His stomach is rolling, but he slips off his clothes and folds them neatly anyway. Bending over the bench can only mean he's going to be spanked within an inch of his life. Ilya leaving beforehand has implications that he does not want to dwell on.
Shane curls his fingers over the edge of the bench. The padded leather melds to his hands, and he tries to focus on the give of it instead of the way his ankle twinges, weak and sore. He swallows down the urge to cry, not only because it is far too soon, but because he deserves this.
He's bent over naked and vulnerable for a few, long, minutes before Ilya makes his way back to the closet. “Mm, good. You do not have a death wish after all,” Ilya says. It's clearly meant to be a joke, but his words come out stiff and tense. Shame burns hot in the back of Shane's throat as Ilya steps closer.
“I'm sorry,” Shane whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut as he sniffles because he will not cry. Not yet. Ilya sets something down on the bench next to him with a quiet thump, but Shane refuses to open his eyes. He doesn't want Ilya to think he is apologizing just because he wants to get out of whatever grave he has dug for himself.
“What for?”
Shane swallows against the lump in his throat and chokes back his tears. “For saying I don't need you,” he whispers, cheeks hot with shame. “I didn't mean it, baby. I need you all the time. All the fucking time.” Baby is not something Shane usually calls Ilya in these situations, but Ilya is not sir or even Ilya right now. In this moment, Ilya is his husband, his baby, who needs his reassurance more than anything else.
He startles when Ilya settles his hand on the small of his back, heavy and warm. Shane soaks up the small drag of his thumb and pushes his hips out further. He deserves whatever Ilya gives him.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Ilya whispers, his voice soft and vulnerable in a way he rarely is in moments like these. Afterwards? Yes, absolutely, but not during a punishment. Not like this.
The air shifts as Ilya bends down next to him. Shane gets a waft of his spicy, expensive cologne, and relaxes like one of Pavlov's dogs. Ilya presses a gentle kiss to the side of his head, and Shane blinks open his eyes. Ilya smiles, small but genuine, and kisses him again.
“I know you didn’t mean it,” Ilya confirms. Shane's bottom lip trembles as he blinks back tears. “I’m still sorry. I shouldn't have said it. I wasn't even mad at you, just…just everything is so fucked right now.”
Ilya nods easily, his hand still on Shane's back. “I know, solnyshko (sunshine), and I forgive you. You’re not being spanked for your words, this time out was enough for them, yes? You apologized, I forgive you, and now it’s over.” Shane nods as relief washes over him. Ilya left to give Shane enough time to work through his guilt, to process what happened and why.
“Thank you,” Shane says, voice soft and reverent. “You…” He trails off as a tear rolls down his cheek, and Ilya thumbs it away. Shane sniffs and turns to look at Ilya again. “You always take care of me. You always know what I need and when and why, even when I don’t even know and even if I don't make it easy for you. I love you so much.”
“Oh…moy milyy mal'chik,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing along the span of his back, “Ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu. Ты такой славный. Ты делаешь так трудно наказать тебя.” Shane blinks and scrunches his eyebrows as he struggles to translate the sentence. His grasp of Russian is getting better, but when he is emotional and so close to subspace it’s nearly impossible for him to keep up.
“What did you say?” Shane asks, already adorably far away. Ilya chuckles and kisses the top of his hand as he stands up. “Moy milyy mal'chik. Ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu. Ty takoy milyy. Ty tak uslozhnyayesh' mne zadachu nakazat' tebya (My sweet boy, I love you so much. You're so sweet, you make it so hard to punish you),” Ilya murmurs, tugging on Shane’s hair to make him look up. “My sweet boy, I love you so much. You're so sweet, you make it so hard to punish you.”
Shane squeaks and straightens his shoulders. “You—you could skip it this time, sir,” he mumbles. Ilya's hand traces incomprehensible patterns across his back, slow and light enough to tickle. Shane is helpless to do anything but shudder and squirm through the sensation. Ilya chuckles darkly and rests his hand between Shane's shoulders.
“You know I can't do that, durachok (silly boy),” Ilya says. He presses harder and harder until Shane leans over as far as he can. His arms do nothing to support him, and he can only grip onto the bench tightly to keep his balance. Ilya hums approvingly and runs his hand down Shane's spine until he palms one ass cheek. Shane shivers and braces for impact, but Ilya doesn't do anything but squeeze and massage the muscle. Ilya continues for what feels like an eternity, and Shane relaxes into his touch.
“How much does this position hurt your ankle?” Ilya asks, squeezing his bottom one last time before grasping his hip. Shane opens his mouth, and then hesitates. Truthfully, his ankle is throbbing, but…doesn't he deserve it? He pushed himself too far just because Ilya told him not to, and then he spewed hurtful lies out of anger. What is a little discomfort in the wake of that? He’s being spanked anyways, and although he's not naive enough to think whatever Ilya placed on the bench isn't going to make him regret his actions, doesn't he deserve more?
He must hesitate for too long, because Ilya makes the decision for him.
“Do not lie to me, Shane, because I will know. You will not like the consequences,” Ilya warns. As if his tone was not enough, he lands a sharp swat on the meat of his behind. Shane yelps and flinches forward, more from surprise than pain. The reflex sends a sharp ache through his ankle.
“Yes,” Shane admits pitifully, “It hurts.” Ilya pauses before he runs soothingly over his prickling skin. “The spank or your ankle, malysh (baby)?” Shane sniffles and hangs his head heavily between his arms. “My ankle, sir,” Shane mumbles, shifting his weight guiltily, “I am sorry, but I can—I can handle it. Promise.”
“No, no, hush. Thank you for telling me,” Ilya murmurs, patting his swatted cheek, “You will take warm up here and actual spanking in the bedroom, okay?” Shane nods, though he knows his ankle will be swollen and irritated from all his flinching, even if it is just a warm up.
“Spread your legs,” Ilya orders gently, “Like that. And back up to your hands, yes, there you go. Brace with arms, not feet.” Shane moves as Ilya directs him with light taps and a firm hand. His legs are spread shoulder width apart and his hands press flat against the bench. He can balance much easier like this and still shift most of his weight off of his ankle. The relief is blissful.
“Thank you, sir,” Shane says, settling into the new position with a long exhale. “Mm, you will not be thanking me soon, moy lyubimyy (my beloved),” Ilya chuckles, stepping up to his side and wrapping a firm arm around his waist. Shane whimpers as he's pinned against Ilya, and knows he won't be able to move away anytime soon. “Shh, tishe, myshka (hush, little mouse), you will be okay,” Ilya murmurs, as he cups Shane’s ass. Shane shakes his head even though he knows Ilya is right.
“I don't want a spanking,” Shane whines. He knows he sounds petulant and bratty, but he can't help it. He knows he earned much more than Ilya's hand, and if he needs a real warm up, not just a few swats, then he is not going to like whatever plans are in store for him.
Ilya tuts under his breath and swings his hand down without warning. Shane flinches, tensing, as Ilya’s palm smacks against his skin. Hockey’s made his pain tolerance very high, so a warm up never really crosses into pain, but it’s still not very pleasant.
“I know you do not want,” Ilya says, while peppering little smacks all over Shane’s bottom, “That is the point.” Shane whines again, just to make his displeasure really known, and earns himself the first real spank. Shane gasps and leans forward, trying to wiggle away, but Ilya keeps him pinned in place. “No whining, Shane,” Ilya orders sharply, “This is nothing. You continue to be a brat and you will get more. Do you understand?” Ilya spanks him again, hard enough to make a loud thwap.
Shane gasps and cries out as the sting melts into a blunt, forceful ache. That was not a warm up strike. “Yes, sir,” Shane whimpers, gripping the bench so hard his knuckles turn white. Ilya hums approvingly and rubs gentle circles over the irritated skin. “Good boy. I know this is no fun,” Ilya says softly, with a little pat to the stinging curve of his bottom. “But you need it, so I give it to you.”
Ilya continues spanking him with soft, rhythmic smacks until Shane's ass is flushed and pink. Shane is left squirming and making wounded noises in the back of his throat as the stinging swats melt together until nothing left unblemished. From the skin just below the small of his back and all the way to his upper thighs, is hot, prickling skin. Shane hasn't had such a thorough warm up in a long time, and he dreads whatever Ilya has planned.
“There. Nice and warmed up for me,” Ilya says, with a final sharp pat. Shane grimaces and hums with a little nod of his head. Ilya helps him stand and holds him when he gets a little dizzy from the head rush. He must have been bent over much longer than he thought.
“Okay. We can be done now,” Shane says, with a coy smile. He knows there's no way in hell, but he might as well try. Ilya laughs, a beaming grin spreading across his face as he shakes his head. “You are cute, Hollander. Nice try.” Shane pouts, but he doesn't really mean it, and Ilya can tell. He doesn't get scolded, and is just treated to a softer smile and another disapproving head shake.
“I should warn you, you’ve earned two spankings,” Ilya says. Shane blanches and a pit of dread starts to form in his gut. “Two?” Ilya cups his chin and tilts his face back towards him. “Yes, milyy (sweetheart), two. One for disobeying and another for lying about it.”
Shane sputters indignantly. “I did not lie!” Ilya raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “Oh, so if I had not come home early, you would've told me what you got up to while I was gone?”
Shane looks away, caught out. “Hmm?” Ilya asks, ducking down to meet his gaze. “No. No, sir, I wouldn't have,” Shane admits, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Yes, I know. So, is lie,” Ilya agrees.
“But,” He sighs, failing to hide a fond smile, “You have been a good boy, so you will have the second spanking tonight before we go to bed. With my hand.” Shane flushes and nods, chewing on his bottom lip apprehensively. Ilya’s smile grows as he steps aside and gestures to the bench. Shane has pointedly been ignoring whatever is there, but now he follows Ilya’s direction and looks.
Fuck. It’s his fucking hairbrush. It usually sits on top of their dresser as an innocent, pointed, reminder to behave. Usually, just a subtle point or nod in its direction is enough to snap Shane out of whatever he’s gotten himself into. All of that is to say, it’s rarely actually used. The few times Shane has gotten spanked with it always lurk in the back of his mind, reminding him of the hot pain that sizzled over his skin for over a week, how the curve of his bottom bloomed purple-red with sore, tender bruises. It was a bitch to hide in the locker room, too.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers, shaking his head desperately as he instinctively reaches behind himself. “Shane,” Ilya mimics lightly, pulling Shane back towards him with a gentle tug, “You will be okay.” Shane whimpers quietly. “Please don’t, sir. You can’t make me.”
Ilya laughs under his breath, his eyes swimming with a mixture of fondness and an attempt to be stern. “I can and I will,” he disagrees, turning more serious, “I do not take your health lightly, myshka. You put that at risk and you were going to hide it from me.” Ilya’s eyes are firm as he grasps Shane’s chin. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Shane. It isn’t even the second or the third time because you do it so often I cannot keep count.” Shane shrinks down a little, mouth drying under the weight of his disapproval.
“But, is easy fix. You just need more…incentive to behave,” Ilya explains, eyes growing heavy lidded, “So, we will use the brush now and my hand tonight, and then see where you are after that.” Shane feels like he might melt into the floor right out of Ilya’s dominant grasp from the humiliation boiling in his blood. He thought this was an overreaction, but clearly Ilya has been thinking about this for a long time.
“That’s not what an incentive is,” Shane says. His voice cracks, and his tone is more whiny and petulant than he meant. The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches as he raises his eyebrows, and Shane pales. “I didn’t mean—”
Ilya tilts his head and laughs through his nose, amusement brimming in his gaze. “Oh, I see, not wanting a sore ass isn’t enough for you?” Shane relaxes, smiling and shaking his head. “I didn’t say that.” Ilya’s smile turns a little mean and Shane shivers as arousal tightens in his groin. “You do not act like it, neposlushny mal’chik (naughty boy). This will change that,” Ilya promises, his grip growing tighter.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane whimpers. “Later,” Ilya smirks and swipes over his bottom lip before letting go of his face with two sharp pats. Shane’s breath hitches, and he stares at Ilya with all the pitiful desperation of a wet cat. Ilya shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the bench. Shane can only watch, full of conflicting anxious dread and hopeless lust, as his husband rolls up the sleeves of his crisp button up and takes off his belt in one fluid yank.
Ilya turns back to Shane with a smug grin because he knows exactly what he’s doing to Shane, cruelly teasing him before tanning his hide, and unbuttons his shirt a few notches. “Well? Come on. Bring the brush with you.” With that, Ilya walks by him and steps out of the closet. Shane takes a moment to let out a shaky breath, rubbing his hand over his face. But, he doesn’t take long because if Ilya thinks he’s stalling, it’ll only be worse. Shane scoops up the brush with a grimace, already mourning his mostly painless gait as he steps into the bedroom.
Ilya has just finishing settling against the headboard. Ilya gives him a quick once over and pats his thighs, but gives nothing else away. With a deep breath, Shane walks up to him and holds out the brush. Ilya takes it without a word, so Shane gingerly settles himself over his lap. This part is always unnecessarily humiliating, having to expose himself in such a vulnerable way. Ilya shifts the position of his legs to prop Shane’s ass up and heat pools on the back of Shane’s neck. His chest burns, so he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face between his crossed arms.
Ilya rests one hand on the swell of Shane’s ass and places the other between his shoulders. Shane shivers at the slight pressure, at being held down so easily. The hand that is resting on his bottom gives the pink flesh a nice squeeze. The worst of the sting has died down, but Shane knows that won’t last. Ilya spanks him once, just a little smack, but Shane still flinches. It didn’t really hurt, but it set the swarm of bees in his belly ablaze with anxious anticipation. This is really happening.
“Are you ready?” Ilya asks. Shane takes a deep breath, inhaling until his lungs ache and then exhaling until there is nothing else to push out. “Yes, sir,” Shane replies weakly. His voice is muffled between the mattress and his arms, but Ilya still hears him.
“Okay,” Ilya agrees. The hand on his ass is gone and, a moment later, is replaced with the cold, unforgiving press of the brush. Ilya rubs circles over his ass to help him adjust, to help him relearn the size and prepare himself. Shane tenses and relaxes with each pass, as he expects the jolt of a strike at any moment.
“You will take thirty, and you will count each one.”
Shane’s face burns as his heart drops to his stomach. “Thirty!? Ilya, I–I can’t—oww!” At the first strike, Shane yelps and jerks forward. The brush always lands with a blunt, burning thwap and this time is no exception. Shane is still catching his breath when the next one lands right in the same spot. Shane grunts and claws at the bedsheets, angry at the dirty move.
Ilya waits a beat, and then tsks under his breath. “Zero,” Ilya counts, and aims a sharp hit to his other cheek. Shane cries out and curls his toes as he desperately tries to keep still. “What—!? But I–I, sir, I—”
Thwap!
Shane kicks his legs in protest as the next spank lands heavy and unforgiving on his other cheek. He can feel the heat pooling his skin, blossoming red-hot in the beginnings of a welt. “Shane, count,” Ilya orders, pushing down between his shoulders, “Is all you need to do. Just count.” Shane shakes his head as a knot of emotions swirl through his chest. He can't. It's so humiliating and overwhelming and he can't—
“Ah! Fuck!” Shane whines, kicking his feet in protest. Ilya pauses again, rubbing the wood against his stinging skin. “Zero,” Ilya says, and pops the brush against his upper thigh. The sting is sharp and biting, and lingers. “Ilya!” Shane cries, slamming his fist onto the bed, “That is not fair—”
“Stop fighting me, moy rodnoy (my dearest),” Ilya says, setting the brush down. “I don’t care if it is embarrassing—” Ilya slaps his hand down against Shane’s red bottom, unyielding even in the face of his squirming attempts to get away. He lands spank after spank, without so much as a pause, as he speaks. “—or difficult or whatever silly reason you are thinking. You will count, like a good boy, because I tell you to.” Shane whimpers under his breath, the sting building and building until Ilya’s palm claps down fire. With one last punishing smack, Ilya picks the brush back up.
Shane cries quietly under his breath, tremors wracking through his body as he clenches and unclenches his hands in the sheets. Ilya shifts his free hand from between Shane’s shoulder to pet through his hair. Shane inhales sharply at the gentle touch and melts underneath Ilya’s warm, steady caress.
“Do you need to safeword, Shane?” Ilya asks quietly. “There is no shame in it, I promise. I will be happy to hold my husband and make him feel better, yes?” Shane sniffles and rubs his tear-streaked cheek against the comforter as he shakes his head. “No, sir. I'm green. Keep going, please.”
Ilya hums and scratches across Shane’s scalp, who arches into the touch like a happy, sleepy kitten. Ilya smiles and presses his hand back between Shane’s shoulders before patting the brush against his swollen backside. Shane whimpers and tenses until Ilya slaps the brush against his sore bottom.
Shane hisses through gritted teeth before falling silent. Anticipation builds as Ilya rubs over the new red mark, waiting for him to speak. He wants to count, but it's like his voice is caught in his throat, like there's some invisible barrier in his mind that is stopping him from spitting them out. After a few more silent beats, Ilya sighs, soft and knowing, and spanks him again.
“Count, Shane,” Ilya orders. His firm, unyielding tone finally breaks through the barrier in Shane's mind. There’s no choice but to speak, not when Ilya leaves no room for anything else.
“One,” Shane rasps. He feels dismantled and hollowed out in the best way. It's like the weight of existence has been lifted off his shoulders and scraped from his insides, leaving behind only soft, weightless bliss. “Good boy, milyy (sweetheart), so fucking good for me. Keep counting.” Ilya pats his back encouragingly, and wastes no time before starting up again. Shane’s whole body flinches as he cries out, “Two!”
“Mm, yes, like that. Good boy,” Ilya praises, with a proud smile. Ilya’s approval sinks into his head and leaves him feeling warm and molten, even as the hot sting lingers long after the brush whacks against his skin. Ilya follows with another strike. Shane flinches and chokes back an anguished cry. “Ow—fuck! Three!”
Everything starts to blur together. Shane keeps count of each strike, but loses track of anything else. The pain in his backside builds into something dense and all-encompassing, and sounds are ripped from his chest without warning. Shane is barely holding back his pleas for it to be over. Each thud rings out loudly in the room and blood roars in his ears. He wants to be done, and he’s not even halfway through. His face feels hot and wet, and his hands uselessly grasp at the sheets while his legs kick aimlessly.
“Fi–fifteen!” Shane whimpers, smearing more hot tears into the bedsheets beneath his face. Each thudding hit leaves him more broken than the last. He wants to fling himself out of Ilya’s lap and fight, scream, anything, to escape, but there is nowhere else he would rather be.
Ilya shifts his aim to Shane’s unblemished thighs. The brush catches the skin just under the curve of his ass, still clipping the welted edge of it, and Shane wails. “Sir, no!” he sobs, jolting as he throws his hands back in a futile attempt to cover himself. Ilya catches his wrists and pins them to the small of his back before he can even get close to his butt. “Shane,” Ilya warns, squeezing his wrists, “What count was that?”
“Twent–ty!” Shane cries, breath hitching as he pants. Ilya hums approvingly. “Very good, sweetheart.”
Shane doesn’t even have time to bask in the praise before another hit cracks down. “No! No! Ow!” Shane shrieks, thrashing as if he were electrified, “Twenty—twenty-one, sir, please, no mor—!” He’s interrupted by another sickening thwap, right over the previous strike. Shane yells the count and writhes at the burn that settles deep into his bones. The pain in his thighs is sharper, more cutting, than anywhere else.
At twenty five, Shane breaks. His sit spots and upper thighs feel like they're on fire, and he can't stop crying. It's so much easier to just give in, to fall limp and take each strike Ilya gives him, because that is his only job now. He doesn't need to worry about hockey or his injuries, he just has to take it and count.
Shane presses his face into the bed as his body shakes uncontrollably. He hasn't cried this hard in so long, and it feels so good to just let go. The ache of it all sinks deep into his bones until he’s reduced down to nothing but base, human instinct. All he knows is the quiet whoosh of the brush through the air before it rains fire on his raw skin.
He doesn't even register when it all stops. He’s lost in a soft, gooey haze, like he's floating on just-melted marshmallows. He’s warm and good and safe. It seeps into his skin and washes away every last bit of his guilt and shame until nothing but peace remains.
Reality comes drifting back some indeterminable amount of time later. He sinks into consciousness in bits and pieces, and his thoughts gather slow and syrupy.
There's warmth beneath his cheek, rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Ilya. Shane hums happily and snuggles in closer. Ilya’s hand runs down the span of his back, the touch grounding and steady.
His pain comes back in increments. First a stinging prickle to a faint ache, and then a blunt throb that spreads over his entire backside, thick like molten lava. Shane makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat and tries to shift away from the pain, but even that small movement burns.
Shane hisses with a jerky flinch, and blinks open his sore eyes. His head hurts from a good, long cry, but his skin is clean and dry. Shane smiles to himself. Ilya wiped his tears and wrapped him up in his arms and made sure his bruised bottom wasn't touching anything that would aggravate his sore skin. Ilya took care of him.
“Are you back with me, moya lyubov (my love),” Ilya murmurs. Shane nods slowly, almost loopy, and hums as Ilya drags his blunt nails against his scalp. Ilya chuckles warmly, the soft rise and fall of his chest jostling Shane.
“How are you feeling?”
“Mmphf. Tired. Sore. ‘m butt hurts.” Shane nuzzles against Ilya's fuzzy chest hair and lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Yes, I am sure it does,” Ilya agrees, squeezing the back of Shane's neck, “But you are okay?” Shane sighs sleepily and nods against his chest.
“Good, lyubimyy (beloved), that is good,” Ilya says. “You did very well for me.” Shane grins unabashedly as the praise settles over him like a warm, thick blanket. Ilya runs his hand down his back once again, but this time he settles his palm over one bruised cheek. Shane groans softly as the pain flares into something raw and bright. It hurts like a bitch and it feels so fucking good. “You are such a good boy,” Ilya coos, squeezing the tender flesh, “So, so pretty over my lap, crying as I turn your skin nice and red. Moy rodnoy, moya lyubov, moy Sheyn. Ya lyublyu tebya tak sil'no, sil'neye chem umeyu vyrazit' (My dearest, my love, my Shane. I love you so much, more than I know how to express). I love you so much, more than I know how to say.”
Shane hums as Ilya’s words wash over him, settling over every inch of his body like a warm, weighted blanket. He’s high off of it, like each word drips right off of Ilya's tongue and whisks away any coherent thought he could possibly have. Ilya caresses his bottom in long, soothing pets. He's never felt more relaxed, more cherished, than right now.
The thought and fear of being a burden, of being too much, of being wrong, has long since left his mind. He's with Ilya and he is good and he is safe. Nothing could ever hurt him here, in Ilya's arms.
Time slips away again, each moment blurring together into an endless haze of buzzing, warm intimacy. Everything is easy and calm. The comfortable silence between them is only broken by their soft breathing, the gentle caress of skin, and the rustling of sheets. Shane isn't sure if he dozes off or simply lays there, slowly easing back into the present.
Ilya absently scratches his fingers between Shane's shoulders, and shivers rolls down his spine.
“Shane?”
“Mm?”
“How does a bath sound?”
Shane instinctively scrunches his nose. Ilya must feel it, because he laughs and kisses the top of his head. Shane readjusts his cheek against Ilya's chest, pressing a soft kiss to his heart, and slides one of his hands to rest on his shoulder. Ilya settles his free palm into the curve of his lower back.
“Mm? Shane?”
Shane whines almost inaudibly and picks his head up, eyes fluttering lazily as he focuses on Ilya. Ilya smiles, the small and sweet one that is only for him, and Shane forgets how to breathe.
“What do you say, pretty? Just think—the hot water, the sweet soap, your sexy husband naked and wet behind you…” Ilya trails off as he wiggles his eyebrows, and Shane snorts and rolls his eyes, even as his face heats up and betrays him.
It does sound nice, in fact, it sounds fucking heavenly. It's just that, well—
“I'm all dirty,” Shane mumbles, before his words are swallowed up by a yawn. Ilya huffs and makes a face, but it's quickly replaced by a teasing smile. “Oh, no, I will be trapped in soapy water with my sweaty husband, whatever will I do? Please. Save me.” Shane swats his shoulder with a weak glare, and lowers his head back down to pout on Ilya's chest.
“Nooo, come back!” Ilya whines, poking at Shane's cheek until he's annoyed enough to pick his head back up and glare. “There he is,” Ilya coos, making an obnoxious kissy face, “My pretty husband, moy malen'kiy kotik (my angry little cat), I missed you.” Shane shakes his head, but obliges his request. Ilya hums happily, even just from the quick peck, and it makes Shane feel warm and gooey inside.
“We can shower before or after. I don’t care which.”
Shane smiles, leaning his forehead against Ilya's, and nods after a breath. “Maybe after?”
“Yes, done,” Ilya agrees. “C'mon, let me up. I will carry you.”
Shane shifts off of Ilya, even though the loss of contact feels like a physical absence, like Ilya is somehow a phantom limb. “I can walk to the bathroom myself,” Shane argues, even though he's honestly not sure if that's true. “Maybe so, but you will not,” Ilya sings, already scooping him up off the bed. Shane yelps as he's picked up and hauled into the bathroom.
“You're ridiculous,” Shane mutters, as if he's not hiding his flushed face in the crook of Ilya's neck as butterflies flit through his tummy.
“You love me.”
“Yes,” Shane breathes.
Ilya sets Shane down in front of the bath, mindful of his ankle. Shane watches him fiddle with the spout to find the right temperature, and smiles. He lets his eyes slip closed. The restlessness that’s itched under his skin for days is finally gone, and his brain is blissfully blank.
He feels so, so, much better.