Chapter Text
Ilya didn’t know when he stopped feeling so hungry. He used to feel it. Whenever he stepped onto a ring, he felt it. Creeping under his skin, feeling the need to win and be the last man standing.
However, things soon became boring for him. Too easy. And the harsh spotlight searing into his skull only made things worse in his head.
Then he caught a whiff of him among the crowd who were roaring and chanting his name. A glimpse of him with an arm wrapped around his waist, a nose brushing against his neck, and the fake, practiced laugh curling on his lips at the other man—it was enough. Blood surged back to Ilya’s head, a primal growl rumbling through his mouthguard. His fists clenched tight in the gloves.
And it didn’t take long for Ilya to turn the snarls and growls into a triumphant roar from the audience. His final punch landed clean on his opponent’s jaw, dropping him to his knees as the bell clanged and the whistle cut sharply through the noise. The ref drew Ilya’s wrist, hoisted it high, declaring him the last man standing.
‘Congrats, man.’ ‘Another night, huh?’ ‘Nice one, dude.’ ‘Congrats—’ The words washed over him, fleeting, as he slumped on a bench in his private room. Didn’t bother to offer more than just a nod or an empty smile in response.
“Another easy night for the Lion, it seems?” a voice commented. It jolted him a little; not much of a surprise, but he knew this one voice was different from just a passing wind. Marleau entered the room and sat himself down on a chair in front of him. “Yawned at the end. Time to fight someone who can actually hit back? And with more at stake and to gain?” The alpha continued.
“What do you want, Marleau?” Ilya asked calmly, but his words still carried a bite.
Marleau let out a low chuckle. “You know what I want, Ilya. Isn’t it kinda boring down here already? What’s left for you here?”
“I’m not changing my mind anytime soon, Marleau. I’m not interested in that offer contract,” Ilya said without missing a beat. He unraveled the tape from his hands, eyes never lifting.
“You can’t be satisfied with this, Ilya,” Marleau leaned forward, his strong scent filling the air, but Ilya had tasted stronger shit than another alpha trying to intimidate him with their scent. “Just brawling for blood, not sport, because you’re an alpha?” He reached for the tape, offering help. Ilya yanked his hand back, dodging him. “There’s a bigger world out there, Ilya. A real name to make. You deserve it.”
“All I need is wins. Money,” he said with full confidence, though it wasn’t even quite convincing for himself. ”I don’t need a couple buzzes around the media and the internet.”
Marleau sighed, slumping back in his chair as if conceding defeat. “What’s holding you back here, Ilya? You could have much more outside and a granted safety net. Things could go shit down here in one night and you’d lose everything!”
Before Ilya could answer, hushed whispers and frantic footsteps echoed from outside the dressing room. Not even a second, a man in all black entered his room and said, “Ilya, Gideon wants to see you tonight in his place.”
“A bit of a dull show, wasn’t it?” Gideon said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Sitting on his makeshift throne behind his desk, eyeing Ilya in a chair in front of him.
“I’m only here to win, not to put on a show,” Ilya replied. Repeating it couldn’t even convince him of his answer.
Gideon chuckled darkly. “But I pay for the show.”
“Winning brings real money,” Ilya stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Gideon’s eyes gleamed, lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
He flipped through papers on his desk, and only the rustling of the paper was heard. Then it hit Ilya, the familiar scent of wet meadow and something sweet.
Shane stepped into the room, his legs moving with grace, his black silk bathrobe clinging to his frame. A tray balanced in his hands, carrying two steaming cups of tea. He glided to Gideon’s desk, setting a cup down with practiced ease, not earning a glance from Gideon. Then he approached Ilya, his scent growing stronger, damning himself when he could sniff another scent that wasn’t his. The mark on Shane’s neck peeked behind the robe, something twisted in his gut.
“An easy win to start the season, Rozanov?” Shane’s brown eyes peered through his long lashes as he stood before him. “Or Lion, was it?” He added with a playful tone in his voice. Almost seducing in Ilya’s ears. Eyes brighter than the bulb buzzing over them.
Ilya swallowed the lump forming in his throat, wishing it could take away the scrunch in his stomach. “Yeah,” he managed, voice rough.
Shane’s smile was as pristine as the silky robe. He offered the tea, Ilya’s hand, clammy and all scratched, took the cup. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting second. He’d fought ten men in the ring hours ago, but nothing burned quite like this.
Shane walked back to Gideon’s side to sit on the armrest of his chair after offering him a smile. Ilya chugged the cup to ease the tension.
“So,” Gideon, who was done flipping through the pages, broke the silence, “How much do I owe you?” He asked, tone businesslike.
Ilya’s eyes flicked to Shane, who was already watching him, that soft, enchanting smile playing on his lips, his skin glowing like honey in the dim light. His features were perfectly sculptured yet softened by a delicate warmth. Ilya gripped the mug tighter, the fresh blisters on his knuckles stinging against the porcelain.
He tore his gaze away, clearing his throat. “Just what we had agreed on.”
In the dim glow of the wine cellar, bottles clinked softly as Ilya shoved Shane into a rack. Shane glanced around, eyes darting to ensure no glass shattered, but his focus faltered as Ilya’s lips found his neck, warm and insistent. Ilya’s hand slid under Shane’s thigh, pulling him closer, their bodies flush. Shane’s strong legs almost wrapped around his waist.
“Easy there, tiger,” Shane murmured, his voice a breathless mix of whimpers and moans as Ilya sucked gently, leaving faint marks on his skin. “Not too hard—ahh—just ones I can cover with makeup, Rozanov!” Yet, despite his words, he tilted his head back, baring his neck further, inviting more of Ilya’s touch.
“It’s been so fucking long,” Ilya growled on Shane’s skin. The burn earlier ignited into something more ablaze, but Ilya indulged in it. He let himself burn with it. “Fucking missed this,” his voice croaked as he inhaled the omega’s scent deeply, filling his lungs with him.
“It’s only been two months.” Shane whispered, his hands casting through Ilya’s hair, tugging gently to guide his lips across his skin. Ilya’s name lingered on his breath every time a soft moan escaped his pink lips. “Rozanov—ahh.”
Ilya’s mind was too foggy with lust and need that he forgot about the permanent mark already perched on Shane’s neck. Something more primal and wild lurched as he grazed his teeth on it. Shane hissed softly, a weak sound, shaking his head as Ilya lingered possessively on the spot with deliberate focus. “Why don’t you cover up this one?” Ilya murmured, his voice low, almost a growl rumbling from deep within.
Instead of answering, Shane mewled, “Hurry up, want you,” his lips searching for Ilya’s under the dimness.
Ilya chuckled, a low, rough sound, before capturing Shane’s lips in a kiss. It was wet and rushed, exchanging all the pent-up heat and unspoken want they couldn’t share with anyone. Their breaths mingled as they poured their hunger into the moment they could steal briefly just for themselves.
Shane’s scent clogged his nose, all sweet and something spicy—almost burning this time. He drank in the soft, sinful sounds spilling from Shane’s lips, swallowing them through the kiss. As Shane shifted, struggling to steady himself against the rack, Ilya’s free hand roamed lower. With a slow, deliberate tug, he slid Shane’s underwear down, drawing a shudder from Shane that echoed in the quiet clink of bottles.
“Shit Hollander. You’re so wet already,” Ilya said against his lips, a little teasing as he traced the slick already smeared on his skin. His robe was drenched with a mix of sweat and slick. “Did your slick start oozing out when you were watching me in the ring earlier?”
“Rozanov,” Shane gasped, his voice breaking on the edge of a plea, his body arching into the touch. His hands tightened in Ilya’s hair, pulling him closer, as if afraid the moment might slip away.
Deliberately ignoring the omega’s aching cock, Ilya’s calloused fingers glided over the silken heat beneath him, teasing that made Shane’s hips twitch in anticipation. Ilya paused, letting the pad of one rough fingertip circle the tight ring of muscle before pressing in, slowly, and carefully.
The contrast sometimes felt like mocking Ilya, because those same knuckles he used to split lips and shattered noses in the ring were also the ones he used to coax him open with a tenderness he didn’t even know he possessed.
But he let it. Maybe because it made him feel more alive than winning any tournament every other week. Ilya didn’t wanna stress over it too much.
It didn’t take long before Shane writhed under his fingers. With three fingers slipping in and out of him as he tried to stand on his wobbly legs. “Need you now,” he whimpered through what sounded like a sob.
Ilya could barely control himself at the sound of Shane’s need. With a low growl, he pulled back, hands gripping Shane’s hips. He lifted Shane effortlessly, their lips crashing together again as he carried him a few steps to a sturdy wooden table tucked against the cellar wall. Bottles rattled faintly as Ilya set Shane down, the omega’s legs parting instinctively, the robe falling open like shed armor, baring flushed skin and the slick shine between trembling thighs.
“Fuck Hollander, you’re so pretty,” Ilya muttered, more to himself, drawing a whimper from Shane.
“Just, hurry,” Shane begged.
Their movements were frantic, driven by their suppressed hunger. Ilya shed barriers with hurried hands, pressing himself closer. Shane’s fingers clawed at Ilya’s shoulders, urging him on with breathless gasps. The table creaked as Ilya thrust into him, their bodies joining in a swift, intimate rhythm. Shane’s moans mixed with Ilya’s low groans, the air thick with their shared heat and the sharp scent of need, each movement a desperate claim as if they could make this fleeting moment last, uncertain when fate would allow them to be together again.
As they were reaching their climax, Ilya nibbled at the skin on Shane’s neck. Always the perfect spot for him to paint him with red and purple, just as a trace that he had him for a brief moment.
“Fuck, Rozanov, —ahhgn.” Shane cried to him, voice breaking as he sensed Ilya’s intent. His mating mark, stark above his scent gland, pulsed under Ilya’s hovering teeth. “N-No,” he whimpered, a weak protest, even as his hips arched, chasing the rhythm of Ilya’s thrusts.
Ilya growled softly, teeth grazing the mark and holding himself back by gripping onto Shane’s legs from actually breaking him through the skin. Their bodies surged together, the table groaning beneath them. Shane’s moans sharpened, a desperate edge as he clung to Ilya, nails digging into his back. Ilya’s breath grew ragged, his thrusts quickening, driven by the wildfire of their need.
In a shared, shuddering instant, they tipped over the edge—Shane’s cry muffled against Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya’s low groan buried in Shane’s neck as he spilled deep inside Shane. The world narrowed to the heat of their release, the clink of bottles fading as their bodies trembled in the dim cellar, clinging to the fleeting claim of their union.
Once Ilya caught his breath, he pulled out from Shane, earning a few soft whimpers from the omega before he left a few gentle strokes to his waist. Ilya then buried himself again in the crook of Shane’s neck. “Is your scent sweeter than usual?” He asked, breathing in his scent.
“Maybe,” Shane answered simply. His hand started patting Ilya’s sweaty hair.
Ilya’s shoulders shook as Shane chuckled. “What?” Ilya asked, lifting his head to look at Shane.
Shane shook his head, “Just wondering what would anyone say if they see the unbeatable Lion like this.”
Ilya shrugged before plopping his head into the crook of Shane’s neck again, “Fuck them. Who cares.”
Shane’s laugh was soft, almost swallowed by the cellar’s hush. “Do you know there’s a bruise on your temple here?” His fingertips drifted to Ilya’s temple, feather-light. “You should clean this. Alcohol, maybe.”
“It’s fine, just a bruise,” Ilya muttered, but his hand slid to Shane’s hip—and Shane hissed, sharp enough to freeze him. “Shit. Was I too rough?”
“No,” Shane cut in, wincing. “It wasn’t you.”
Ilya got up to look at him under the dimmed light, “Let me see,” he said, deadpan.
“It wasn’t you, it’s been here for a while,” he said, covering himself up more with his robe.
“Hollander,” Ilya asked, tone low, his jaw clenched, “Was it him again?”
“It’s just a bruise,” the words slipped from Shane almost with emphasis.
At times like this, it was what made Ilya realize that the two were nothing but two bodies fulfilling their needs, seeking warmth through each other in the shadows so no one could see.
“Fuck,” Ilya snapped lowly to himself, rubbed his face harshly, then stood up to collect his scratched clothes before putting them on.
Through the silence, he heard Shane ask, “I heard Marleau reach out to you again.” There was something guarded around him in his voice now. “Are you considering his offer?”
“No.”
“Why? It has much more for you to have.”
“I’m here just to win. Don’t care about anything else,” he said as he zipped up his pants, still with his back facing Shane. He heard Shane say something behind him, but it was left muffled. He didn’t bother to ask him to repeat. “You should go back to your bed, Hollander. Before he realized you’re missing,” he paused, “This can’t be comfortable for your bruises.”
“Will I see you again next week?” Instead, Shane asked. He stirred to the side, away from Ilya.
“Only if I win.”
“Win then, it’s all you care about anyway.”