TRASHBOY.zip

"Baby," Ilya says, "solnyshko, pretty baby." He slides a fourth finger in, watching the give of Shane's hole, the twitch in his thighs. The heat of him, oh God. Tight, pulsing around him, lightning through Ilya's fingertips.

Ilya is hard, yes, but his own cock is absolutely unimportant right now. He looks up at Shane, lying back on the bed like a living, breathing work of art. Arms up behind his head to show off his enormous biceps, mouth open as if he is surprised at how much his body can take.

Ilya meets his gaze, brow furrowed. Focused. "Good, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah," Shane breathes, so quiet. He is so full that he can't even moan, gives Ilya only little hitches in his breath, saliva pooling in his wet open mouth, dripping from the corner of his mouth. "Oh shit, Ilya, it's too—"

"Too what, baby?" Ilya asks, squeezing his fingers together, sliding his thumb into the crease of his own palm. He presses, slow, so slow, feels the heat of Shane pressing back so fucking tight against his knuckles, oh Jesus God—

"Too big," Shane gasps, rocking into it, and Ilya has fucked Shane enough to know that too big means just right. He kisses the inside of Shane's knee and stills his hand, lets Shane get used to the feeling of it, the fullness.

"It will be easier after this push," Ilya murmurs, looking at Shane. Sweating, out of air, breathing like he's just come off a 60-second shift, the most beautiful thing in all the world. "Knuckles first, and then you will take the rest so easy."

"Yeah," and Shane's head tilts back. Finally a grunt pushes out of him as Ilya pours more lube onto his hand and bullies his way into Shane's hole— Ilya's hole, really, only his. All of this, for Ilya. "Oh fuck, fuck—"

"You are so good," Ilya says tightly, teeth gritted, as he feels the tension in Shane, the resistance against his thick knuckles, his skin as thin as paper, soft like nothing else in this world. "Oh, fuck, solnyshko, so tight—"

"Shit," Shane moans, all the sound coming out of him now, no space in him left to hold it, "shit, shit, oh fuck—"

Ilya presses through it until Shane has taken everything, everything, thumb inside and the knuckle too and then, finally, his whole hand.

"Fuck, Ilya," and Shane sounds like he is almost on the verge of tears. Ilya looks up and there he is, gorgeous, eyes wet and mouth wet and everything wet wet wet for Ilya, a perfect space made inside his body just for him, his man. Eyes glazed over, Shane looks down at Ilya's forearm, the wrist bone nudging up against his own asshole. "It feels so full," he sighs, dreamily.

"Yes, beautiful," Ilya replies. He feels hot and cold at the same time, utterly entranced. He is the most powerful man in the world. He could kill any dragon. Shane pulses around him, tightening and then giving way, so easy, giving everything away to his Ilya. "Oh, fuck."

And then he moves. "Ilya," Shane moans, "fuck, Ilya, fuck, fuck—"

"Hn," Ilya grunts, fucking into him, and then twisting his hand, which makes Shane's body tighten even more, rearrange itself to match him, oh fuck—

"Feels so good," Shane slurs, eyes rolling back as he moves his hips into it, "fuck I'm gonna come, what the fuck, it feels so good—"

"Do you want me to touch you," Ilya asks, quiet, holding his breath so he doesn't miss a sound from Shane, "or you want to come on my fist?"

"On your fist— ah—" Of course his Shane, his perfect Shane, would do this to him. Ilya's eyes water. He watches everything, every movement, presses against Shane's prostate and watches his cock leak with it, God.

"Tell me," Ilya grits out, fucking him, watching his cock bounce with it, watching his tits move with the force of Ilya's hand, Shane's beautiful mouth open, noises coming out of him that he can't be conscious of. "Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," Shane gasps, "shit, it's so— it's so full, fuck—"

"Yes, you are so tight—"

"Your hand is so big," and Shane clenches down on him and Ilya's ears ring, all the sound leaving him except for his own heartbeat, Jesus Christ. He is so tight. It must hurt. It has to hurt. Ilya can't breathe. "Fuck fuck fuck it feels good, it feels good, it feels—"

"Come on my hand," Ilya groans, "I want to see you take it, my big hand in your tight hole, so tight even after I fuck it every day—"

"Fuck," Shane cries, and then he— oh God— Ilya feels it, feels the pulse, the tension, the tightness of him, and his beautiful cock twitches and leaks and comes, comes, all over his belly and his hip bones and it drips down onto Ilya's wrist Jesus Christ Jesus fucking Christ—

"Is it good," Ilya asks.

"Yes, yes, oh fuck," and Shane finally, after an eternity, relaxes and settles, legs splayed out. "Oh holy fuck."

Ilya breathes. He looks at him. Ruined, yes. Content. Sated. The most gorgeous man on earth.

Shane lets him look for a long moment, and then says, "okay, I'm— I think you need to pull out now."

"Yes, sweetheart." Ilya is so careful, waits for Shane to exhale before he slips out, kisses his thigh afterwards. He leans down to rest his head against Shane's hip bone to look up at him, starry-eyed.

Shane strokes a hand through his hair. Ilya sighs happily. "Did you like that?"

"Yes," Ilya sighs, "so much." And then: "You are the world's number one bottom. You should become professor of bottoming."

Troy traces the outline of the bruise on his chest in the locker room shower. Half the guys are done, and the other half are on the other side of the showers, so Troy has plenty privacy—at least, plenty by hockey standards.

This hit is brutal—not the worst he's had, but top three, probably. Definitely a cracked rib, maybe a bruised collarbone. He should probably get some painkillers into himself before the adrenaline wears off, but he can't seem to make himself move.

Troy's dad liked it when he got hit. Not in a weird way, like the Brock U18 doctor that the kid from Kawartha couldn't talk about. He never said anything, but he didn't like going into medical even when it was really fucking bad, 'cause he said the guy from Brock was weird about it, and everybody knew what that meant.

Anyway, Curtis Barrett wasn't a pedophile. He was just a mean asshole. He liked when Troy got hit because getting hit toughened a man up. "Kid's growin' up," he would say to Mom whenever Troy limped in from practice, and Mom wouldn't say anything, because she didn't like it, but what she liked didn't get much airtime in the Barrett household.

"You should see doctor," Rozanov says, and Troy flinches. He didn't notice Roz coming up. He looks up, and Rozanov leans against the shower wall, hands by his sides. Nonthreatening. "Sorry. Did not mean to scare you."

"You didn't." Now that Dallas is on trial and Troy's come out, everybody thinks Troy is a sad little baby who got manipulated into being a dickhead by enemy #1 Dallas Kent. It's not true. Troy was responsible for it all.

Rozanov watches him, and Troy looks away. Not to the side or anything dramatic, just lets his eyes slide off Roz's face. They're both still fucking naked. "Team doctor is very good. Nothing to worry about."

As if Troy was worried. The Toronto doctor was a nice guy, too. His problems have nothing to do with hospital beds. "Okay. Thanks."

"Don't drown in shower," Rozanov says, and then, finally, leaves.

Troy soaps his pits, his thighs. The hit is starting to ache really bad. Thinking about bruises always makes him think of Dallas. Dallas also liked it when he bruised, just like Curtis. Probably because they're both, essentially, fucking assholes.

Troy recognized one of the women from Dallas's trial. Troy didn't want to watch it, but he did, watched everything he could get his hands on without going into the courtroom, felt like it was the least he could do. She'd come to one of the parties just before a two-week break back in the 2017-18 season. Right after Scott Hunter, when Dallas was on a rampage about fags invading his sport or some bullshit. Troy had given her a beer. He wonders if that was the drink that put her over the edge, the one that made her too drunk to fight back.

His stomach twists. Troy wishes he could've stopped it. He would give anything to have taken her place. Maybe that was a fucked up thing to think.

Three years ago Troy got high-sticked. No concussion, just bruised all on one side of his face, from his swollen eye down to his busted lip. Dallas had put a hand on him in the locker room, thumb over his cheek, fingers gentle and cool against Troy's hot, reddened skin. "You look like someone's wife, bro," he'd said, and the guys laughed and laughed and laughed. Troy, spineless and full of shame, had laughed too.

He scrubs a hand through his hair to rinse out the shampoo and turns off the water. Harris won't like the bruise. Troy could try making it sexy if he wanted. "Your man got in a fight for you," he could say, which was kind of true. Troy defended his honour. Hockey was all about honour and rage, hockey was the leash that tied them together.

Apple farmer Harris wouldn't like that, though. Harris came from a family where nobody hit a bruise just to make it last longer. Harris would just say, "My baby," and pull Troy's face into his thick chest and stroke his hair. Not like Dallas, who would've dug his fingers into the ache until it tipped over into something sharp and stinging, fireworks in the night sky. Nights out with cold shot glasses pressed against the bruises, Dallas telling Troy what to drink, what to swallow. Troy looks down helplessly at his own dick, twitching. He has to leave. He has to get out of here.