"Come here, solnyshko," Ilya says, voice firm, pointing at the spot between his legs with one hand, a glass of vodka in the other.

Shane goes to him, crawling on all fours, a dog crawling to its owner. He sits obediently, watching as Ilya tilts the glass to his mouth, tracking how his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, entranced. Shane doesn't really understand the appeal of vodka, why exactly Ilya likes it so much beyond it being a cultural thing for him, one of the only things that ties him to Russia that isn’t painful, but he can’t deny the image of him drinking it is appealing.

Ilya clicks his tongue and makes a come hither motion, signalling for Shane to kneel up so Ilya can lean down to kiss him. He winces, just slightly, at the aftertaste of vodka he can taste from his lips - an uncontrollable, momentary hesitation that is almost instantly suppressed, but of course Ilya notices anyway.

Ilya leans back, regarding him, his hard gaze making Shane’s spine straighten in anticipation, or maybe fear.

“Open your mouth.”

Shane obeys, parting his lips, eyes locking onto Ilya’s face.

“Tongue out, too. I want to look at you.”

He flushes, but he does what Ilya says, lolling his tongue out of his mouth, feeling even more like some silly puppy come to beg for scraps at Ilya’s hand.

He watches as Ilya takes another sip of his drink, but this time he can tell he doesn’t swallow it, holding the liquid in his mouth instead. He furrows his brow, momentarily confused, but then Ilya bends down again, and it clicks just a second before he actually does it that he's going to spit the vodka into Shane's open mouth.

He holds it there in his mouth, letting the acrid taste of it burn his tastebuds, waiting for the signal from Ilya that he should swallow, trying not to let his discomfort show. Shane doesn’t understand this inexplicable need of Ilya’s to force feed him alcohol. He hates the taste of it, but he loves Ilya more, so of course when Ilya motions for him to swallow it he does.

He opens his mouth again, proof he's done as he was asked, waiting for Ilya to praise him, but instead he looks down at him, his disappointment evident on his face.

"I thought you were going to be good for me?" he says, his mouth slanted in disapproval.

Shane's heart beats faster in his chest. "But, I was, Sir?"

"You are telling me I am wrong now too?"

"No, m'not, I'm sorry–

"If you are sorry, you will do better this time."

"Yes, I will, anything–"

"Mouth open."

Shane drops his jaw again, waits for Ilya to take another sip, braces himself for the shock of alcohol on his tongue. But unlike last time, Ilya grabs his face harshly, squeezing his cheeks until Shane is forced to open his mouth wider to lessen the pain. The pain makes him jerk, as does the surprise of the alcohol being spit into his mouth again before he's ready, but like before he swallows obediently, even though his cheeks and throat burn from the humiliation and the vodka, respectively.

Again, he waits for praise for following instructions, for Ilya's eyes to go soft and his hands to pet his head gently, but again he's disappointed.

"Why is this so difficult, hmm? Don't you want to obey me?"

"I do, Sir, I promise I do!" he says, desperate, his head fuzzy from the combination of the alcohol and the disapproval written all over Ilya's face.

"Maybe I am being too soft with you," Ilya muses, as if he hasn't spoken. "Maybe I need to take a firmer hand."

Suddenly he's being grabbed, his head held in the crook of Ilya's elbow, like he's a wild animal that needs to be restrained. He struggles, disorientated by the suddenness, which only makes Ilya grasp him tighter. He tries to jerk away when Ilya spits the vodka, gagging at the taste and closing his mouth against the stream dripping from Ilya's mouth to his. In response, Ilya pinches his nose shut, and then Shane is gasping, inhaling through his mouth desperately and coughing as he gets a mouthful of vodka rather than the oxygen his lungs desperately crave. After a few seconds he gets control of his panic, making himself go limp, swallowing the last dribble like a good boy.

Ilya releases his head and Shane slumps forwards, his breathing ragged. Vodka and spit dribbles down his face and neck, making him shiver at the coolness.

"See," he says condescendingly, "This is why you should obey in the first place, solnyshko, I would not have to be so rough with you if you were a good boy, hmm?"

Shane nods, still coughing the vodka from his lungs, unable to remember whether he had been good or not, having no choice but to trust Ilya to tell him right from wrong and up from down.

"You will obey first time next time, yes?" Ilya asks, pulling his head up by his hair, so he's forced to bear his throat. "No more silly protesting?"

Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.

Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.

"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.

(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)

"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."

And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.

It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.

Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."

"A little. It's fine."

"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.

"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.

"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."

And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.

"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.

Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.

Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.

Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.

"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.

"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."

Ilya, after a moment, only nods.

It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.

At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"

And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."

And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.