This is gonna sound a little obsessive...

Swallowing thickly, Ilya looked around the bar. Now that last call had happened, the patrons were dwindling and the dance floor was quickly thinning out. Most people seemed satisfied–drunk, or else high on the feeling of staying out late enough to be a bit tipsy on the early-morning air.

But Ilya just felt more empty than ever.

He’d tried. 

Tried to find someone to bring home. Someone to even dance with. But no. Instead, he’d just sat and thought about Shane’s offer–the cottage. Two weeks. 

Alone.

God, he wanted it. So fucking bad.

As he sat, sulking, he spotted an abandoned can of Ginger Ale on the sticky bar–the same brand he pretended not to know that Shane loved most.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that last drink, because he quickly snapped a picture of it and sent it to Shane.

Ilya: There are other losers here like you

It was the closest he could get to saying ‘thinking of you.’ To texting ‘I miss you so fucking much my whole body aches.’ To confessing his love right there, on his phone screen.

But in a few minutes, Shane, who usually went to bed by midnight, replied.

Jane: Asshole

“Okay, is time for team vote,” Ilya announced, grinning as he entered the locker room. Most of the guys immediately stopped talking and looked his way, curiosity, amusement, and respect radiating off of them.

“Rozanov, I swear to god,” Shane tried to stop him, looking murderous.

But Ilya, as usual, was far too stubborn to be stopped once he started. “Hollander and I have gotten in serious fight,” he said morosely, causing most of the guys to look in his direction in concern. 

“What?” Luca Haas nearly shouted, an alarmed look on his face. “Are you–what–?”

“He’s being dramatic,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not even a fight. It’s Ilya being an idiot. I–”

“Is a very important fight, Hollander,” Ilya said with a smirk, but now people were laughing and murmuring behind their hands. “And we need…what is it? Ah, we need jury of peers to decide our fate. So. Here is story. Shane kicked Anya out of bed last night.”

A collective gasp made Shane sigh and shake his head, his stony face a little pink.

“Hollander! How could you?” Harris Drover called gleefully as he stood in the back with Troy Barrett.

“Exactly! Anya is perfect angel who always deserves most comfort. And here Shane is, pushing her from bed!” Ilya exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

More murmurs and betrayed looks made Shane lose his patience. “Ilya! You were literally inside me!” he hissed, jaw locked. “I didn’t want her to see that!”

The energy shifted. A few peoples’ jaws popped open, and most people exchanged shocked glances. 

Then, everyone burst into laughter.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m siding with Hollzy on this one,” Zane Boodram said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and chuckling.

“Same.”

“Yup.”

“Absolutely.”

“You are all traitors. Cowards and traitors.” Ilya growled, stomping away.

“Shane. Moya lyubov. Is supposed to be sexy,” Ilya says imploringly, sitting on the bed and trying to stay calm as he looks at his boyfriend and sighs.

“But that doesn’t mean it can’t also be accurate,” Shane retorts, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows. Ilya has to take another deep breath to stop himself from breaking into a goofy smile–Shane looks far too adorable in his teeny, tiny apron and grumpy expression for Ilya to take him seriously. 

“Accurate? What is not accurate?” Ilya questions, unable to stop a smirk from making his lips twitch up.

“They don’t serve chocolate-dipped strawberries in a five-star restaurant, Ilya!” Shane retorts. “And if anything, I, the waiter, should be feeding them to you!”

Ilya can hardly contain his giddiness and love for this man. “Is roleplay, Shane. Does not have to be completely accurate,” he reminds him.

But Shane just huffs, throwing himself onto the bed. “That makes no sense,” he mutters petulantly.

But Ilya sees his opening, jumping up to straddle the stunning man. “Would it make more sense if I tip you for your service with my dick in your mouth?” he asks, grinning.

It was getting harder to say goodbye.

Shane’d figured it’d be easier, once they were official. To part, knowing that there definitely was going to be a next time. But now? Now, it was excruciating. Because whenever he had to kiss Ilya goodbye, it was with the knowledge that Ilya belonged to him. That he was sending the most precious and fragile piece of his heart into the universe, unprotected, just praying that it would come back unscathed.

So yeah, maybe the last time they’d said goodbye, he’d gotten carried away.

Caught up in the moment, the feeling of Ilya inside him, the need to be inside the other man’s very soul.

He’d been loud. Groaning Ilya’s name so raggedly that it’d pulled Ilya over the edge after him, pulling him closerclosercloser, refusing to let go even in the sticky aftermath.

But it was just unbearable. How much he fucking loved him.

But he didn’t realize how needy he’d been until a text arrived on his phone the next day.

Unknown Number: Montreal Jane

He froze, shocked and a bit terrified.

Shane: Who is this? Unknown Number: Cliff Marleau Unknown Number: Damn girl Unknown Number: Look what you did

And then, a picture. An attached picture of Ilya in front of the mirror in what must’ve been the Raiders’ locker room, his torso bare. His expression in the reflection was electric, the uninhibited grin on his face lighting up the whole room. 

But the best part?

The picture gave a clear view of long, possessive marks scratched down Ilya’s sculpted back. Etched over his beautiful muscles and pressed into his perfect flesh, Shane had, in the heat of the moment, used his nails like claws, marking what was his.

Suddenly, he broke into a crazed grin that matched his boyfriend’s.

He is also aware that he is a large man, a hockey player, and any type of violent-looking motion is going to be judged and he'll be called short-tempered or violent.

The violence of hockey helps. Sometimes, he likes getting slammed against the boards or pinned there while fighting for the puck. But that doesn't help him off ice. He has a punching bag, but its not the same. Wrestling with Ilya or Ilya laying on top of him also helps, but it's not perfect.

A couple years into their marriage, he tells this to Ilya. He works hard on sharing these things, that he'd usually worried about being judged for, to his husband. Ilya's already so vulnerable with him that he tries to return the favor as well as he can.

A week after he tells this to Ilya, he walks into their home gym to find Ilya attaching velcro strips to the walls in the corner Shane usually does yoga in, where there is no weights, equipment, or mirrors . There's a stack of huge gymnastic mats next to him, velcro on their edges. There are also boxing gloves on top of the stack.

"If anyone sees," Ilya says without turning around. "They will think this is for boxing. I recently took this up, you see."

Shane swallowed. "What is it actually for?"

Ilya grabbed a large mat, taller than him even, and pressed it against the wall, pulling to test that it's firmly stuck on there.

Ilya then takes a couple steps back and throws himself into the wall.

Shane takes a startled step back. "What are you doing?"

"Didn't hurt at all," Ilya grinned, now sitting on one of the mats on the floor. He bonked the back of his head back against the mat. "Completely safe."

Shane cheeks flushed. "I don't need this."

"Okay," Ilya bonked his head harder. "Its for me, then. Maybe I let you use it sometimes."

"Ilya...," Shane walked over and climbed in Ilya's lap, face in the crook of his neck.

"Shane," Ilya said back, wrapping his hands around him. "You know there is nothing you could do that I would think is weird?"

"This is weird."

"Well," Ilya hummed. "I have had my tongue in your asshole, so this is-"

"Shuddup!" Shane slaps him on the shoulder.

The set up goes unused until a couple weeks later, when Shane is feeling like there are ants under his skin. He tells Ilya he's going to work out in the gym, but based on the blush on his cheeks, Ilya understands what he's saying. Ilya tells him he'll go for a run, recognizing Shane wants privacy to test this out.

When he gets back, all he asks Shane is, "anything hurt?"

That is the best thing any gay boyfriend of mine has ever told me.

when the centaurs play low-ranked teams they don't really have a rivalry with, they're totally gonna fuck around. shane and ilya on wing, bood in the center, and shane and ilya are competing against each other to score the goal. they’re all collaborating to get wyatt the most goalie goals in league history through a mix of dubiously legal curling tactics and fucking with the fourth line. fuck it, empty next because wyatt is on the other side of the ice. (crucially, the only reason he’s there is because shane and ilya peer pressured him into it. he does NOT want to be out of the crease) shane is living his best life doing two minute shifts but staying on the ice to tell the younger players what to do. they’re trying to score goals exclusively with backhand shots (ilya and shane are top of the league in them respectively and shane IS trying to change that). shane and ilya are slamming each other into the boards with a player from the other team in between them. fuck it, hold ilya out of the first few rounds, then throw him in the fourth line. scare the shit out of the other team and make the 4th line step it up. pride night pride line. ilya is telling everyone how he’s going to suck shane’s dick and shane is pretending to be embarrassed but secretly loves it. there is ABSOLUTELY a secret hollanov challenge that determines what type of sex they’re having. sometimes it’s arbitrary.

this does backfire on them once or twice, and they accidentally lose to buffalo because they were so locked in on the goalie goal (achieved) but uh. buffalo definitely snuck some pucks in when wyatt was playing offence. (weibe yells at them and actually punishes them for that one, yeah it was funny but what the fuck were you doing, we’ve lost four games this season and one of them was to buffalo???)