Chapter Text
Ilya had already been serving Shane long before they put a word to it.
Even when they didn’t dare to use the words “boyfriend” or “love” or even the phrase “can you stay the night?”, there was an innate push-pull between them. For years, Ilya would drop to his knees for Shane on a dime, would make him cum on Ilya’s fingers just because Shane begged so sweetly, would fuck him however he wanted, however he liked.
Sometimes, Shane wouldn’t even have to ask. Ilya would just slot himself in between Shane’s legs, hands already tugging his waistband down, his eyes begging to make Shane feel good. That was what it was about, for Ilya; he didn’t even care if he got to finish (well, he cared a little bit) if it meant Shane felt good. Oftentimes it wasn’t even the actual pleasure or sensation that got Ilya off, but the knowledge that Shane liked it.
So, naturally, when Shane presented the idea of a fully-written down, rules in place, 24/7 continuation of that dynamic, Ilya swore he felt his body ascending to another plane of being from pure joy. It sounded amazing being Shane’s, being meant to serve him and him only.
And maybe Ilya was so overjoyed with that idea that he really wasn’t paying attention during the consequences portion of that conversation.
He was listening, of course he was listening! He would never just ignore Shane; but the idea of actions, and then real, actual punishments for those actions had seemed like a far-off concept at the time.
Until now, when Ilya is staring at that stupid red sticker on the stupid fucking star chart.
It’s quite glaring, really as it’s the first red sticker among an array of glittery, gold stars. The chart had been up for a month and some at this point, and nearly every day had a gold star; he was trying, okay? He picked up his dirty socks and put them in the hamper, he properly loaded the dishwasher (without having to be asked), and he neatly put away their shoes in the mud room the way Shane liked. But Ilya knew exactly what this blip on his record was for, and it wasn’t for house chores. It was for rule number one. Well, technically, rule number two as well.
Ilya Rozanov-Hollander’s Rules (IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE):
1. Never lie, or omit the truth, to your husband; he only wants to help, and he can’t help unless he knows what’s going on.
2. Never put yourself, your friends, your teammates, or your husband, in danger of any kind.
3. Never disrespect your husband, your friends, your coach, or your teammates verbally, emotionally, or physically.
4. Always clean up after yourself.
5. When home, take Anya on three walks daily; at least two miles must be traveled to-and-from per walk.
6. Never over-exhaust yourself in the gym.
7. Never neglect your workouts.
8. Apologize properly for mistakes.
9. Never intentionally delay a punishment.
10. Understand that these rules are subject to addition, redaction, or change.
IF THESE RULES ARE BROKEN, THEN A FITTING PUNISHMENT WILL BE RECEIVED IN A TIMELY MANNER.
Punishment must be met with proper apology, thanks, and repentance as seen fit by your husband.
The list itself was printed—and laminated—several times over, and strewn across the house in various places; the fridge, the nightstand, the coffee table, the mudroom, and so on, so that it was objectively impossible for Ilya to forget any of his rules.
On Shane’s part, it was genius; Ilya’s wonderful, brilliant, evil husband made sure that Ilya could never wriggle his way out of a punishment with an excuse or a mumbled “I forgot”.
Ilya wished, just a little bit, that his husband was less evil and brilliant. He also wished that he had paid more attention when Shane had gone over his punishments in detail during their initial conversation; it was the one thing not typed and laminated along with the rest of his rules.
It turned Ilya’s stomach a bit.
He knew Shane loved him, that he would never, ever, ever hurt him, and Ilya trusted him with that. Ilya trusted him wholeheartedly with all of his decisions, always; a feat of mindless, puppy-like devotion that always seemed to be second nature.
But that phrase: punishment. наказание. It sent Ilya back to a dim-lit room in Moscow, a timid fire lighting a hearth, and bellowed, furious yelling coupled with the sick sound of a belt buckle meeting flesh. It threw Ilya back in an almost physical and metaphysical sense; it made his knees feel weak, but more than that, it made him feel like that scared, trying-to-be-strong little boy he so vividly remembers being.
The unknown of the punishment terrifies him, no matter how much he tells himself that the angry voice in his head isn’t Shane, that it could never be Shane. A piece of him, long buried deep, still hesitates.
He had never intended to hide the injury from Shane. He had just been checked into the boards on just the wrong side of too-hard, and had some blue-purple mottled ribs to show for it. Ilya had been checked over by the medical team, of course, and they had cleared him; rest for a while, light exercise, watch the ribs, etc, etc.
He hadn’t meant to tell Shane he was completely fine. He hadn’t meant to neglect to mention the bruising. He hadn’t meant to do any of that, and by the time he was stripping off his shirt at the end of the night, back in their home in Ottawa, he had completely forgotten. He was so bone-tired from the game that night that he hadn’t even noticed his husband’s stare as he climbed under the covers.
He never intended to lie—“a lie by omission is still a lie, Ilya”—and yet he had.
He had broken his—their—number one rule.
As his eyes bore holes into the offending red sticker on the fridge, the soft pitter-patter of socked feet redirect Ilya’s attention.
“Coffee done yet?” A sleepy Shane asks, rubbing his eyes with a fist as he sinks into Ilya’s side with a satisfied hum, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. He hasn’t noticed the object of Ilya’s attention; at least, not yet. Maybe he’d forget, a hopeful, yet still doubtful part of Ilya’s mind supplied.
Ilya hummed, eyes not leaving the chart. “No,” he rumbled, and despite his troubles, turned his head to press a kiss to the crown of Shane’s head. “Got distracted.”
“By what?” came Shane’s muffled reply. Ilya said nothing, and at his lack of response, Shane turned his head from where it had been pushed into Ilya’s neck. His eyes followed Ilya’s, and finally landed on the red sticker marring his perfect record.
“Oh,” Shane says, eloquently, sleepy eyes sliding shut again after looking at the offending piece of paper.
“Yes,” Ilya replies, equally as eloquently. His gaze doesn’t leave the chart, as much as he wants to study the floor—or the walls, or the ceiling, or anything else—instead.
Shane hums again, and rubs a hand over Ilya’s flank, thumb dipping under the hem of his t-shirt to brush Ilya’s skin. They stay like that for a minute, no sounds coming from either of them except the slow brush of Shane’s fingers over Ilya’s soft skin, still warm from sleep. Finally, Shane rises a little, and turns to face Ilya with a small kiss to his cheek. Ilya doesn’t turn, still fixated on the chart.
“You want to do it now, or after?” Shane asks, voice low and quiet. Ilya’s stomach turns a bit more, and he swallows. He doesn’t want to delay it, he really is hungry; but maybe Shane won’t send him away afterwards. Maybe they can eat breakfast together, maybe after Shane rubs arnica cream onto the welts that will form across Ilya’s back and shoulders.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
In the end, Ilya’s desire to get the punishment over with wins out against his hunger.
“Now,” Ilya replies, swallowing down the bile that threatens to escape. “Breakfast after.”
“Breakfast after,” Shane agrees with a nod. He presses another kiss to Ilya’s cheekbone—the final kiss Ilya would be receiving for a while, he assumes—before drawing back from Ilya’s side. His hand comes up to rest on Ilya’s other cheek, and turns his head gently so Ilya will look at him. Shane’s brown eyes are still soft, still kind; but now, they have a firm, hard edge to them that Ilya’s never seen before. “Okay.” Shane pauses to take a breath, and Ilya’s heart hitches. It takes everything in him to not fall to his knees right there in the kitchen to beg for forgiveness.
“I want you to go to our room. Get yourself ready for me, take as long as you need. I’ll be there in a minute. Okay?” His words are firm, eyes never leaving Ilya’s, thumb stroking Ilya’s cheek in a soothing manner. Ilya’s silent for a moment, eyes closing with another swallow. He doesn’t want to get ready, he doesn’t want to be punished; he wants to cuddle with Shane, with his Shane, wants to make it all go away. He wants to be good, to only be good, to never need punishment.
Shane taps his cheek again with his palm, gentle but firm, to regain his attention.
“Okay?” he repeats, eyes searching Ilya’s. Ilya nods.
“Okay,” he replies, voice hoarse.
He wishes it was okay.
-
Ilya leaves the kitchen first, trying not to hang his head or shuffle his feet as he makes his way to the bedroom, gently shutting the door behind him. Truthfully, he had no idea what Shane meant by get yourself ready for me; in a sexy connotation, sure, but in this one? The vague command made Ilya feel slightly sick.
For a moment, Ilya stood frozen, staring at his and Shane’s bed, still rumpled from their late night and later morning. But, as if on autopilot, Ilya moved from the bed to the closet; with a slight tremor in his hands, Ilya pulled open the top drawer of his dresser—they each had a designated dresser, even though Ilya was in Shane’s clothes most of the time, and vice-versa—and took out one of his brown leather belts.
The leather was deceptively soft in his hands as he brought it over to their bed and set it down. It was, as much as Ilya hated to admit in this moment, a nice belt. It was sturdy, soft, well-worn and flexible, and Ilya was very certain that he was going to burn it after his punishment was over.
As he stared at it, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the brass buckle, his mind flip-flopped between scenarios of what his punishment could entail. He tried to think back to when he and Shane had laid out the consequences in their agreement; but all he could remember was how he had focused on how the light caught Shane’s nose just so, how it made his freckles stand out beautifully in the evening sun.
Ilya was, without a doubt, regretting that now.
As much as he told himself that Shane wasn’t like his father, that his sweet, patient, loving Shane could never even think to be like his father, Ilya couldn’t see an alternative. The only punishment he had known as a child and as a teenager was the sting of a belt buckle striking the tops of his shoulders, of a slap to the face or a kick to the ribs.
Shane wouldn’t do that, right?
He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but he might-
Ilya forces an exhale and rolls his shoulders back, trying to force down the nausea he feels bubbling up. The best course of action would be to do what he knows, right? That’s what Galina says, at least, to do what he knows; though Ilya somewhat doubts that her logic could be applied to this situation. Regardless, it’s the only bit of logic that Ilya can muster up in the moment, so it’s what he holds onto.
He spares one last shaky rub over the buckle before carefully, slowly lowering himself onto the floor in front of the bed, back facing the door. His lungs threaten to close up and hitch, but he forces them open, forces air down, and wills himself to stay in place instead of bolting downstairs to beg his husband for forgiveness.
Ilya removes his shirt quickly, folding it with Shane-like precision before he places it down gently next to the belt. It’s what his father preferred him to do, if he told Ilya to wait in his room; maybe it’ll garner him some favor with his husband.
Or maybe he won’t even punish you, maybe he’ll forgive you-
Or maybe it’ll be worse, what if he never wants to see you again-
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut tightly, as if doing so with enough force will erase what happened, and what will happen, entirely.
-
Shane takes his time in the kitchen, letting Ilya settle in whatever manner he pleases before meeting him in their room. Shane wants to give him time to adjust; the prospect of the first punishment is daunting even to him, so Shane can’t imagine what Ilya must be feeling.
They agreed to have breakfast afterwards, but Shane knows that Ilya must be hungry, as it’s closer to noon than it is to sunrise. As he rubs the last bit of sleep from his eyes, Shane opens the fridge to take out two bottles of water and some pre-sliced fruit. He sets them down on the counter before retrieving a plate and a bar of chocolate. Ilya thinks he’s sneaky, hiding the box of chocolates in the back of the pantry, and Shane doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he found them hours after Ilya hid them.
The memory makes Shane smile a bit as he arranges the strawberries and chocolate into bite-sized pieces on the plate. He loves Ilya, loves him with every piece of his body, mind, and soul, and probably a bit more. It’s why they agreed on their rules, on their dynamic. Shane loved Ilya, and wanted to see him loved, protected, and safe. Ilya loved Shane in return, and would give anything to see him happy. That, coupled with the fact that Ilya, in turn, likes to feel safe and cared for, is what led them to agreeing on rules and consequences, on boundaries and negotiations.
The reminder that Ilya once thought of himself as unlovable or undeserving of safety makes Shane feel both sick and enraged; but he can’t let himself dwell on it. He can take care of his husband now, he can show him that consequences can be discussed and mutually agreed upon. Truthfully, Shane has no idea what discipline or punishment looked like for Ilya in the past. Ilya never mentioned it, and Shane never asked, so it was never discussed.
It had crossed Shane’s mind that maybe, maybe he should’ve asked about it before. But they had moved on; Ilya wanted to get the punishment out of the way, and Shane would grant him that wish. If Ilya wanted to talk about it later, they could talk about it later.
But for now, Shane will take care of his husband. Afterwards, they can talk.