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A hat trick.
Not only did the Raiders absolutely demolish the Metros 6-2, overtaking them for first in the division when they’re this close to the playoffs, but Rozanov scored three of the goals. All while Shane was on the ice, like a sucker punch to the gut. Each goal was paired with an egotistical, narcissistic celly, the other Raiders jumping on him like the star player he is. When the group dispersed, Rozanov’s sharp green eyes always found Shane no matter where he was on the ice, his gaze intense, heated, challenging. Almost bratty.
The game was just…terrible. Sloppy passes and turnovers that Shane hasn’t seen since his rookie year. Unfortunately, the Metros are a mess right now. This normally happens in March, the curse that Shane will never bring up for fear of it worsening. Two of their defenders are out with lower-body injuries. One forward broke his arm at practice and another forward mismanaged his rut suppressions and was forced to take off time. Their usual goalie got hit in the head last game, so he’s out on concussion watch for precaution. They’re still a good team in a good playoff position, but with numerous players out and the endless motivation found in the young kids on the Raiders, along with their resilient knees, they don’t stand a chance right now.
The first period was dominated by the Raiders. Four goals were scored, one by Ilya, two by a rookie, and one by Cliff Marleau. Despite having more shots on goals, the Metros couldn’t get past Boston’s massive goalie. Shane might’ve broken a stick out of frustration as the first horn went off, signalling the end of the period.
The second period wasn’t much better. Hayden managed to get a goal right before the period ended, but there was no catching up to the Raiders at that point. Shane tried to give the team an adrenaline boost in the second intermission, using his gentle but stern tone that he’s crafted over the years through being captain of this very team, but even he wasn’t feeling it. The only thing he was feeling was off-kilter whenever he was near Rozanov.
The third period included a goal from Shane, only further fueling the rage festering deep within his chest. It felt more like a consolation prize than anything, as if the Raiders felt bad for how hard they were destroying the Metros. But then, in a case of shitty management that Shane has the authority to fight later, he decided to switch up the lines midgame, scrambling everything Shane has worked for in the last fifteen years. Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating, but still. Between the disorganized lines and the decision to go empty net in the final minutes allowed Rozanov to sneak in two more goals, Marleau assisting one and a solo goal for the vet.
Shane is pissed. This is not how he wanted to end the week of home games before heading on the road for four games. He wanted to go out and celebrate with his team until he could play the old man card and get out early. Meet a cocky Russian alpha on his porch and brag about the win until the alpha fucked him into the sheets.
Now, his plans have to change. And he hates when things disrupt his plans.
The atmosphere in the locker room is mellowed and full of disappointment–in themselves, the team as a whole, hell maybe even in the entire game of hockey. Shane pats his fellow players on the back, trying to raise their spirits to no avail. The fire in his chest keeps building as he imagines the contrasted vibe in the guest locker room, no doubt full of cheering and large alpha pheromones. The Raiders are notorious for mostly picking alphas for their teams–though, to be fair, there’s still not enough omegas within the sport of hockey. Shane wasn’t the first omega to play, but he was the first to be named captain at the ripe age of 20.
Shane made sure to put it in his contract to never be traded to the Raiders. So far, the Metros have fought hard for him, and Shane knows he’s going to retire here. After winning at least two more cups.
Once Shane has some words with Theriault about the way he treated this team tonight, he leaves the arena hastily. He hates losing at the game he’s dedicated nearly all of his life to, disappointing fans and others that look up to him for being, well, himself. There’s a subtle thrum under his skin, zipping through his veins. Because Rozanov got a fucking hat trick.
There isn’t any silhouette waiting for him on his porch when he gets home, which makes sense. Shane wasn’t really expecting anyone except in all the cases where he was. Because why would Rozanov, the young (21 years old) hot-shot alpha who has the fourth-most points in the league this year and just scored a hat trick, spend his celebratory night at Shane Hollander’s house? That’s just crazy.
Shane really didn’t want to get involved with Rozanov in any way other than professionally. He admires the kid, really. Other than the cocksure attitude Rozanov carries with him at all times, Shane sees a lot of himself in the alpha. His hockey IQ is off the charts, he’s a fast skater, just as competitive on the ice. All Shane wanted to do was introduce himself to the rookie at the MLH awards, welcome him into a new environment, maybe mentor him from the sidelines.
But then Rozanov kept staring. And Shane blushed. He was at the stage in life where he knew he was gay, but also knew he couldn’t be gay. He was already an omega–he can’t be two minority identities. Not at the current moment in his career.
From there, everything happened quickly. Suddenly, Rozanov was knocking on the door of the hotel that night (Shane still isn’t sure how he knew his room number). Shane let him in to talk, to tell Rozanov just how much of a bad idea it is for him to get involved with someone almost 15 years younger than him. Hard to say all of that with Rozanov’s dick in his mouth.
Then they just never really stopped. They didn’t exactly text each other, but they would meet up after every game they played against each other. Shane might’ve texted Rozanov a few links to try and coach him, tell him to stop this overly egotistical streak that ends up hurting the Raiders, and his own play, in the long run. Rozanov never responded, and Shane thinks that’s for the better. He knew that if any Metro player were to find out he was advising the enemy, he’d quickly be stripped of his captain title.
(He did see a change in Rozanov’s game though. His hands held his stick just as Shane described, he was on the lookout for gaps between the goalie’s legs. It’s as if he followed Shane’s advice to a T and it was, admittedly, hot. Shane would never tell anyone this, especially Rozanov, but he always finished watching the games with his cock in his hand and a wet spot under him.)
Shane stomps into his home, his chest rattling with disappointment, arousal, and something else he can’t quite name yet. Annoyance feels too simple, but he’s not outraged, really. Frustration? But with who? Himself? His coach? Rozanov?
Rozanov.
Shane stops in his tracks, awkwardly hovering in his own kitchen. Usually, Shane internalizes anything and everything, never wanting to bring other people into his business unless they truly deserve it. He’s a fair person.
But, technically speaking, he does have a right to be upset with Rozanov. Rozanov, who checked him into the boards so many times that Shane’s hip is aching. Rozanov, who scored three fucking times and found Shane’s eyes through the metaphorical confetti. Rozanov, who isn’t here when he should be.
He takes out his phone.
Jane
Be no later than 9pm.
All Rozanov sends in response is a thumbs up, but it’s an immediate reply. Shane resists shivering like some sort of sex-crazed freak who hasn’t been laid in years. It’s only been a few weeks. With the man he just invited over. He really should not be this weird over it.
With his blood still thumping throughout his body, Shane manages to make himself some dinner. Nothing over the top, considering the time and the activities he’s going to be engaging in soon, but fuel nonetheless. The cans of Coke stare at him as he closes the fridge.
Eating dinner kills the time, and soon enough, his phone buzzes. His anger has calmed slightly in the aftermath, but with Rozanov just outside his door, he can feel it start to rise again. Fucking alpha and his stupid fucking pheromones and hockey skills and–
Shane opens the door, a scowl on his face. Ilya is leaning against the column on his porch, completely at ease with himself. There’s that crooked smile on his face that has made Shane’s knees weak from their very first meeting. It’s youthful and egotistical and makes Shane feel like he’s on fire.
“Hollander.” Rozanov takes two steps toward him. “Did not expect to hear from you.” Shane doesn’t mean to growl, but he does anyway. Rozanov’s eyes sparkle at the reaction. “Thought you would not be happy with me. ‘Cause of the game.”
Shane snorts, taking his eyes off of Rozanov’s lips and focusing them anywhere else. He lands on his eyes, and resists a shiver when he sees his pupils dilate the slightest bit, shadowing the blue.
“I never said I was happy with you, did I?”
Somehow, Rozanov’s smirk grows wider, eyes igniting with something dangerous. He takes another step, the toes of his sneakers brushing Shane’s. Shane doesn’t back down, standing up straighter and tilting his head up ever so slightly to be eye level with Rozanov. He’s only got a few inches on the omega, but Shane feels every single one.
“No? Is that why you invite me over to your house? Wearing, uhm,” Rozanov’s eyes observe him slowly, from his chest to his thighs and back up, hesitating on his mouth before making contact with his own eyes again. “Sweatpants I can see your dick in?”
Shane sputters, looking down and–okay, well. It’s not the exact truth because his dick is fully concealed but Shane might be half-hard, and grey sweatpants never hide anyone’s bulge well enough.
Instead of letting that show on his face, Shane snarls at the alpha. “Get in here, Rozanov.” He grabs the middle of Rozanov’s shirt, yanking him toward him as he steps back. Once both men are fully inside, Shane shuts the door, locking it with more force than he meant. Anger blurs the edges of his vision.
Rozanov’s shoulders tense slightly, his head swiveling to stare at Shane. His nostrils flare, and Shane knows that he’s taking stock of Shane’s scent, the notes of pine harsher than usual, the loss of sweet maple syrup that Rozanov practically gets a high on. Oftentimes, Shane intentionally uses that scent to his advantage, particularly when Rozanov is being a brat and won’t let Shane come until Rozanov has, a stupid fucking rule. With a little syrupy sweetness in the air though, Rozanov practically melts like putty in Shane’s hands.
“C’mon. You know where the bedroom is.” Shane doesn’t move from the door, staring at Rozanov’s back. Observing. Waiting to see how Rozanov will be treated tonight based on his behavior at this very moment.
Predictably, Rozanov turns, his shoulders looser than they were a moment ago, and that crooked smile painted onto his face. Before he even opens his mouth, Shane can see the rest of the night unfold in front of him, and it makes his dick twitch in his pants.
“You’re not being very nice to your guest, Hollander.” Rozanov gets a little ballsy, taking a step toward Shane but not yet close enough to touch. Shane shifts his gaze up, making heated eye contact with Rozanov. “Not just a guest. A winner in your house. And this is how you treat me?”
Shane swallows back the feisty comment that’s heavy on his tongue, not yet wanting to force Rozanov into submission. He wants Rozanov to get him fired up. Wants him to be bratty and mouth off so Shane can feel justified with his planned punishment. So when the begs that fall from Rozanov’s lips don’t feel like white noise, but something real. Something tangible.
“It has been too long since I’ve been here.” Rozanov’s eyes sparkle in the dim light of the foyer. He takes another step. The only muscle Shane moves is an involuntary twitch of his finger that lays against his bicep. Still, somehow, Rozanov tracks the movement. Shane’s heart rate increases. “Might get lost. End up somewhere I don’t belong.”
“You’ve never had a great sense of direction.” Shane’s thankful his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t show Rozanov that he’s affected by this weird foreplay they’ve got going on. “Surprised you even managed to find the puck tonight.”
Another step. His smirk widens. Rozanov’s eyes drop for a split second before returning, his stare all-consuming and hungry, as if he wants to devour Shane. Suddenly, the air smells like cedarwood and cigarettes, strong arousal that Shane is, unfortunately, all too familiar with. Slick leaks from his hole, and Shane prays that Rozanov can’t smell it. Can’t smell him.
“Found it more than you, didn’t I?” Rozanov breathes in, tilting his head. Shane would never say this out loud, but he’s effortlessly cute when he does that. Rozanov is blatantly attractive and overly confident about his looks, and Shane tells him that all the time within the heat of the moment. But he’s been reserving cute for a special occasion, wanting Rozanov in exactly the right mindset where he won’t chew his head off for the compliment. “Do you remember the score? Do I need to tell you again?”
Shane’s resolve is dangerously close to breaking. His fingertips are thrumming with the need to touch Rozanov, feel the heat of his skin, the hotness of his breath. Maybe even throw him around. But there’s also aggravation, the irritation after the game still front and center in his brain. At the reminder of the score, Shane pushes the urge to grab Rozanov and stick his tongue down his throat away, choosing to focus on the anger coursing through his blood.
“I will, if you need.” Rozanov takes another step and is finally close enough for Shane to count each individual eyelash. He even reaches out, ghosting his palm over Shane’s clothed dick, and Shane thanks whatever higher authority that he doesn’t outwardly react to the warmth. “Will do anything to make you remember.”
His voice drops then, a low timbre that’s eerily close to his alpha voice, a sound that Shane has only heard a few times before but makes his knees weak every single time. Somehow, as if his omega is finally in his favor, he avoids doing anything crazy like dropping to his knees and nuzzling his face into Rozanov’s knot.
“Anything?” Shane says, quieter, more vulnerable than he meant. His eyes skitter across Rozanov’s face. Rozanov nods once, sure. Shane leans forward, a breadth away from Rozanov's lips. The next words are more confident, though the same volume level. “You will go to my room and strip to your boxers. Sit on the bed.”
As if a switch has been flipped, the cocksure attitude bleeds out of the Russian. Rozanov nods again, but when he goes to turn, Shane grabs him by the chin, imprinting his fingers into the soft skin of his cheeks. His day old stubble pinpricks his fingers, but Shane only holds on tighter. His dick twitches as he watches Rozanov’s eyes go glassy at the dominant stance from Shane, a rare treat.
“Sit, I said. Not lay down.” Shane’s voice is stern, leaving no room to argue. He can’t resist leaning in, gently kissing Rozanov’s pursed lips, too brief to even be considered a full kiss. The act almost counteracts the firmness of his words. When he leans back, Rozanov’s eyes are trained on his lips. “Okay?”
With his hold on Rozanov, he can feel the nervous swallow from the underside of his jaw. That’s enough of a confirmation for Shane. He lets him go, gently pushing him in the direction of the bedroom, away from Shane as if he’s nothing. Rozanov, like a dog with a tail between his legs, scurries off. Shane adjusts himself in his pants.
Ten painful minutes go by. Shane watches every second tick off on the clock next to the TV. He both loves and loathes the idea of Rozanov, almost naked, definitely hard and possibly leaking, sitting on his bed. Maybe his hands are folded together, head bowed, waiting like a good boy. Because that’s what he is, deep down; Shane knows that. Rozanov can be the brattiest person in the world, and often is, but Shane knows how to put him on a leash.
Both metaphorically and literally.
When those ten minutes have passed, Shane doesn’t waste another second as he makes his way to his room. He mentally prepares himself to see Rozanov, but nothing could prepare him for the view he gets.
Rozanov is sitting on the bed, exactly as Shane said, almost exactly how he imagined. His head is lowered, curls falling like some sort of angelic halo. His cock is thick in his briefs, the smallest dot of precome on the light grey fabric, showing his arousal. Instead of his hands being intertwined, though, they lay on his thighs, palm down. It’s a subtle display of obedience, a way to show Shane that he wants to be good–that he is good.
Shane hates that he has to punish him.
With a quick look to the bed, making sure to be just loud enough for Rozanov to clock him, he heads toward his closet. There’s a drawer in a hidden chest toward the back of the room, full of various clothes and the like. Some lingerie, some old clothes that he borrowed from exes to make his nests that now make him gag at the rancid scent.
But that isn’t what he’s looking for. He bends down carefully, not wanting to put weight on his left knee that never quite healed from a bad check a few seasons ago. He yanks open the drawer, wincing at the mess. He rummages through various articles of clothing and diverse textures until his hand hits soft leather. Bingo.
It was a gag gift years ago from Hayden and JJ, before Rozanov was even a blip on the NHL’s radar. After a particularly bad loss right before Christmas, Shane got pissed off his face and decided to drunkenly tell Hayden and JJ about a few of his…sex habits. Luckily, they already knew he was gay, but they didn’t know he was a freak. He hadn’t remembered the specifics of what he mentioned, but when Christmas came around, they gifted him this with boyish grins on their face.
A face mask of sorts. Shane has always viewed it as one thing: a muzzle.
Shane never used the muzzle before. To be specific, Shane never used any muzzle before. He’s not sure what his drunken brain conjured up that night, but whatever was said had Hayden and JJ, his teammates and closest friends, thinking that Shane either wanted to be quieted or wanted to quiet someone else (most likely to former, if they considered stereotypes of his second gender). He managed to take the gift in stride, only a slight flush to his cheeks, but quickly shoved the muzzle into his secret drawer, never to see the light of day again.
Maybe he’ll have to send Hayden and JJ a nondescript thank you card.
With the muzzle hidden behind his back, he walks out of the closet, mentally praising Rozanov for not moving a muscle. He places the muzzle on the nightstand next to the condoms and lube that he put out this morning, before the game happened. Before Rozanov decided to score a hat trick against Shane.
Shane clears his throat, lips twitching at the slight flinch in Rozanov’s shoulders. Other than that, he stays completely still, hair golden in the warm light, bare shoulders flexing and dimpled. Waiting for instruction.
Staying behind Rozanov, he strips himself completely, neatly folding his clothes and leaving them on the floor beside his nightstand, out of the way. He gently steps onto the bed, careful not to move it too much, not wanting to give too much of his movements away to the man sitting so patiently at the foot of his bed. Once he’s settled, back against the headboard, cock hard where it rests against his thigh, he whistles, sharp and high.
Rozanov perks up, head swiveling on his neck to look at Shane. His eyes are wide and already so glassy, the blue even more prominent and beautiful, as if Shane is looking at the vast open ocean. He doesn’t move, but his eyes slowly trail down Shane’s body, fixating on his groin just long enough to have Shane’s cock leak onto his thigh. Rozanov licks his lips before returning his gaze to Shane’s.
He pats his right thigh, a light slap sound echoing in the quietness of the room. His legs spread minutely as he stares down Rozanov, not even trying to hide the mixture of arousal and angry possession in his eyes. “Syuda, mal’chik.” Here, boy.
The impact of those two words is immediate and clear in the alpha, hitting somewhere deep in his brain. His eyes grow three shades darker, pupils reclaiming most of his iris. His hands twitch on his thighs, a quiet, low rumble emits from his core. The scent of cedarwood gets potent, heady and earthy, making Shane feel light headed in the best way. It’s as if they’re in a stand-off, two men staring at each other, mostly naked and aroused, neither one wanting to break first.
But then, without needing a second command, Rozanov moves.
It’s slow at first, the twisting of his body. His waist gets impossibly thinner for a second before his hips rotate with his upper body, and he’s suddenly at his full height in Shane’s bedroom, eyes blazing where they stare at Shane’s hand on his thigh. Shane doesn’t back down, feels no fear at the laser-focused, blistering look that has the potential to scare an alpha of a similar size.
Rozanov puts one knee on the bed, the soft mattress carving to his joint, dipping even lower as the second knee joins the first. His eyes haven’t left Shane’s body once. Shane’s eyes are flickering everywhere, all over the other alpha, wanting to memorize this moment forever. Rozanov lowers his torso toward the mattress, placing both hands to keep himself upright, eyes still intent on Shane through his lashes.
Then he starts to crawl.
Shane has to physically swallow down the animalistic moan that threatens to rip from his throat at the action. He watches every muscle and sinew in Rozanov’s body shift and quiver as he gets closer to the omega, eyes never straying, making sure Shane knows that he’s committed to whatever Shane has in mind. That, right now, at this moment, he’s unequivocally Shane’s.
It’s like watching a tiger stalk its prey, shoulders dipping low, back arching seductively. His biceps are flexing and bending in ways that make Shane’s gums ache, yearning to sink his teeth into the muscle until he tastes blood. Unlike a tiger, however, Rozanov doesn’t tear into his flesh, doesn’t rip him to shreds (physically at least) when he’s in proximity, even if Shane sometimes wants him to.
Rozanov stops mere inches from Shane’s face, his thick legs bracketing Shane’s muscular thigh, sculpted from years of being on the ice. Shane doesn’t lick his lips despite every natural instinct, despite Rozanov being right there, close enough to lick. They aren’t touching and Shane is painfully aware of the space between them.
“Sidet’.” Sit. Shane says, leaving no room for arguing. The word is foreign yet somehow familiar on his tongue, insecurity creeping in with a native speaker in front of him. Rozanov listens obediently, lowering himself to straddle Shane’s thigh, the fabric of his boxers feeling scratchy against his sweaty skin. They’re further away now, but the heat is still there, still blazing between them. A praise is on the tip of his tongue but he refrains. Compliments have to be earned and Rozanov hasn’t. Not yet.
Time stops for a moment. Shane Hollander, the prodigy hockey player of his time, the first omega captain to play in the league, spread out on the bed, cock hard and hole leaking onto the sheets below him. Ilya Rozanov, the hot-shot, firecracker alpha that doesn’t know when to stop, always relentless no matter where he goes (e.g., the ice rink, a hotel room with Shane), sat upon his thigh, staring at the omega with nothing short of starvation.
Without looking away from the lustful gaze upon him, he reaches his hand over to the nightstand, grabbing the muzzle. Rozanov seems to understand the silent command and doesn’t look away until Shane presents the muzzle between them, his gaze finally redirected. Shane takes a shuddering, soft breath.
“What is that?” Rozanov questions, his voice rough as if he’d been yelling rather than calmly taking orders. “Are we finally trying bondage?”
It sounds as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, turn this scene into something other than what it is, something less heavy and grueling and burning. Shane sees right through him, can feel the subtle quiver in his deep voice, the gentle twitch of his thighs against Shane’s own. Because of this well-built transparency between the two of them, Shane doesn’t let him get away with it.
He clicks his tongue inside his mouth, dropping the muzzle until it’s pinched between his fingers, the shape revealing itself piece by piece. Shane can tell by the look on Rozanov’s face that he still hasn’t figured out exactly what it is, his head tilting slightly, as if to get a better look. Shane sinks his fingers not holding the muzzle into Rozanov’s curls, gently massaging the scalp with his nails.
“Oh, puppy.” Rozanov’s eyes flicker to Shane’s immediately, desire engulfing the dark, dilated pupils at the condescending tone, “I never said you could speak, now did I?”
The moment it clicks inside Rozanov’s brain is written all over his face, a slow understanding where the furrow between his brow smooths, his lips parting. Shane waits two seconds, enough for Rozanov to look between the muzzle and Shane’s face, to raise his eyebrows. A silent question that Rozanov answers with a small nod. So obedient.
Tentatively, as if still waiting for Rozanov to reject him, Shane brings the muzzle up to Rozanov, wrapping the leather around his head. Rozanov doesn’t move, allowing Shane to do whatever he needs, and the sheer compliance makes slick gush out of his hole. His fingers are gentle where they brush against Rozanov, the softness of the leather barely digging into his skin, pressing against his curls. He’s being so still, so good for Shane that it makes him feel completely overwhelmed with power that it's almost too much to bear.
The leather winds around his head, the dark color a beautiful contrast against his tan skin, blonde hair, bright blue eyes. Shane never looks away from Rozanov’s beautiful, acquiescent face, the picturesque symbol of submission. Once the muzzle is pressed against him and fastened in the back, Shane delicately turns Rozanov’s head to the right, clasping the muzzle with a soft click right under his ear. He repeats the action on the left side of Rozanov’s face. He relents his gentle grip on Rozanov’s face, his chin dipping toward his chest. Shane returns his hands to his own thighs.
Rozanov–no, Ilya looks up at him.
The sight expels all the air from Shane’s lungs in an instant. Jesus fucking Christ. Nothing in the world could’ve prepared Shane for this view he gets to have. A view he curated himself.
The muzzle–this gag gift from his teammates–must’ve been crafted just for Ilya. Two straps cut across his temples, just above his ears and go right under his electric, glassy eyes, a band dampening the crook in Ilya’s nose. There’s a thinner band at the base of his neck, a stand-in collar that Shane so desperately wishes were real, claiming his ownership of Ilya Rozanov. From the collar, two identical bands follow his jugular and stretch out to the thickest width, sharp against his jawline and covering his cheeks and, most notably, his plush lips, effectively muffling anything Ilya would want to say. Unable to talk back, completely at the mercy of Shane.
Shane’s hands form fists where they lay, the urge to reach out and trace the places where skin meets leather, feel Ilya’s warmth against the cooler fabric. Instead, feeling way out of his depth, he takes a moment to let his eyes slowly wander Ilya’s half-covered face. Thinking about how, not even three years ago, Shane barely knew this man existed. There were talks about a young hot-shot from Russia, but considering the sport, Shane didn’t think he was that special. Another Russian in the game of hockey. Big whoop, right?
Fuck, how wrong he was.
Not only has he rocked the entire world of North American Hockey, but he thoroughly deconstructed Shane’s carefully built walls, a wrecking ball that Shane was never going to be prepared for no matter his age. Shane wonders what would’ve happened if they were born the same year, drafted the same year, and went through the ranks together. Would the league let them work together? Would they have pitted them against one another, a faux hatred they’d have to follow until they retire?
Ilya brings him out of his daydream with a quiet whine, desperate and quiet enough that Shane almost thinks he might’ve imagined the sound. But with the pleading in Ilya’s eyes and the strong woody aroma now mixing with Shane’s sweeter maple syrup, he knows that the noise was not only real, but completely unintentional. A sound from the depths of Ilya’s chest, something he never would’ve done in any other situation except this one.
Shane licks his lips quickly, making eye contact with Ilya again, the haziness in them making Shane feel indestructible. He runs a hand across his chest, pressing the heel of his palm against his nipples as he passes, a small, choked off moan leaving his lips. Ilya’s eyes are sporadic, moving from Shane’s face to the languid movement of his hand on his chest.
“A hat trick.” Shane murmurs, lips barely parting with the words. Ilya is tuned right in though, his eyes glazed over but intent, concentrated, and understanding every syllable. “Fucking ridiculous. Didn’t even apologize to me.”
Ilya makes a dazed noise from beneath the leather, a gentle furrow forming between his brows again. His hands twitch on his own thighs as if he wants to touch, cradle Shane like he’s something precious but resilient, like he’s done a hundred times before. Shane’s vision is thin as he looks up at Ilya, his gaze hooded and blazing.
“Is that your pathetic excuse for an apology?” Shane chuckle is low and condescending. Ilya’s stare ignites a wild fire under Shane’s skin. He continues to move his hand over his chest, pinching his nipples between his fingers and arching his back every so often, addicted to the way Ilya tracks his every move. “What? Nothing else to say?”
The leather over Ilya’s mouth shifts as if he went to speak, but no words came out, only a quiet, wretched whimper. The noise goes straight to Shane’s cock, making it ache and leak profusely. Without looking from Ilya, his hand heads downward, through the neatly trimmed curls at the base of his cock, before his fingers wrap around his hard dick. He strokes once, Ilya’s eyes moving with the movement of his hand.
“Think I might give myself a hat trick.” Shane looks down at his cock, beading with precome and abnormally shiny. As he brings his gaze back up, he follows the curves and lines of Ilya’s body. The softness of his solid thighs where he straddles Shane’s, the dramatic curve of the inside of his waist (absolutely ridiculous for a hockey player to have, by the way), the obtuse bulges of his biceps. There’s still signs that Ilya is growing into his body, like the softness of his cheeks, the way his hands are way too big for the rest of his body, but that’s all insignificant.
He brings himself back to the moment with another stroke of his cock, thumbing slowly at his head and letting out a quiet groan. Ilya’s eyes are locked on the way Shane squeezes around his cock, watching the steady leak of liquid drip from the tip at the treatment. Shane uses his empty hand to grab Ilya’s chin, an action that’s usually a reversal between the two men, Shane giving his control over to Ilya in the best way. But not now, not after the way Ilya played tonight.
So he grabs Ilya’s chin, digging the leather into his sensitive skin and yanking upward, forcing Ilya to face him. The moan that leaves Ilya comes from the depth of his chest, loud enough to break through the thin barrier of the leather and Shane can hear it, clear as day. His eyes shut at the pain and they’re slow to reopen, blinking dazedly at Shane.
“And I want you to watch.” Shane keeps his voice low, almost dipping into his irresistible omega voice but not quite reaching it. He’s never used it with Ilya before and doesn’t plan to; the usage of an omega voice is mostly kept to bonded pairs, and they’re nowhere near that. Shane sometimes lets his mind wander…but, well, that’s a thought process for another time. “I want you to keep your eyes on my face while I get myself off. Every whimper, every twitch of muscle in my face. You made me watch every fucking celebration on that ice in front of cameras, Ilya.” He sees the way Ilya’s eyes impossibly darken at the use of his first name, a rarity during these moments.
“So now you’ll watch me. Right here, straddling my thigh like a good boy.” Shane releases his rough grip on Ilya’s face, tenderly brushing his thumb over the exposed nub of his nose. Over the fine hairs of his right eyebrow. His next words are whispered but land all the same, demanding and indisputable. “Ostavat’sya, puppy.” Stay.
Without taking his eyes off Shane, Ilya nods, settling his full weight onto Shane’s thigh. The full length of Ilya’s hard cock is now pressed against Shane, the tip leaking copious amounts onto his boxers, a giant splotch that Shane aches to lick, to smell. But he stays put, doesn’t give in to his compulsions, the natural instinct to put Ilya’s cock in his mouth whenever Shane is around him.
Now that Ilya has a firm command, Shane closes his eyes slowly, jerking his cock faster by a fraction, enough to make a difference but nowhere near what he needs to come. The room is silent except for the wet click of Shane’s cock and tiny gasps of pleasure every so often. Shane’s hole is slick and aching, wetness coating his inner thighs and definitely getting the sheets damp. Shane can’t be bothered right now, not when every breath feels like he’s on fire.
Shane takes his hand, the one not on his dick, and trails his fingertips through the slickness on his thighs, gathering a thin coating. He slowly brings them up to his mouth, sticking them in his mouth and groaning softly at the taste. It isn’t something he usually indulges in, but Ilya often praises how good he tastes, so…when in Rome.
His eyes open when he takes his fingers out, staring at Ilya’s beautiful, half-covered face. His eyes, while in a continuous state of daze, are practically glued to the glistening fingers Shane just had in his mouth. Shane smiles at the look, his cock spurting drips of precome. He gathers some more slick on his fingers, but instead of bringing them to his own mouth, he rubs them on the leather of the muzzle, right over Ilya’s mouth, right under his nose.
“Puppy wants a taste, don’t you?” Shane mutters, his eyes mesmerized at the sheen across the dark leather. He watches in rapt fascination as Ilya’s nostrils flare, his eyes crossing as he smells Shane at his horniest but being unable to do anything except watch. Ilya’s breaths are heavy, chest lifting and falling in deep, trembling movements. Jesus Christ, how did Shane get so lucky?
The muzzle moves slightly, the mouthpiece, as if Ilya…fuck. Shane gasps as he places his fingers over the muscle, his other hand moving faster over his cock, the edge getting near, and feels movement. A shift that barely grazes the barrier. Ilya’s tongue. As if he’s trying to lap up the slick on the muzzle, merely an inch away yet still completely unreachable.
“Holy shit, Roz–” Shane cuts himself off as he gets close, his cock twitching in his hand, his hole leaking profusely. Deliriously, he thanks past-Shane for setting up the guest bedroom with new sheets so he doesn’t have to sleep in his Ilya-induced slick for tonight. Another push from the tongue underneath the muzzle and Shane is gone, his legs attempting to close but failing, Ilya’s body barring him from reducing the pleasure–as if he’d want to. His eyes flicker around erratically as if he’s lost control, every single ounce of blood heading southward as he spurts onto his thighs, his stomach, up to his chest. The moans he lets out are unfamiliar, something whiny and desperate yet animalistic, as if they were ripped from his deepest parts of his lungs.
His hand drags him through it, never missing a beat, the slickness adding to the friction and enhancing the pleasure. Always one for overstimulation, he jerks himself even after the last drop of come trickles down his cock, his muscles twitching and stomach quivering from the force of his orgasm.
A short amount of time passes when he finally takes his hand off his cock, staring at the remnants of come streaking across his skin. He brings it up to Ilya’s face without looking at him, his eyes transfixed with his hand, and smears the liquid across the leather. When his eyes flicker up, he pauses, his heart suddenly beating rapidly in his chest for a different reason.
Ilya looks…off. He’s still, which isn’t unusual, considering Shane told him to stay, but his eyes…the blue is nearly absent, pupils seemingly as big as they can get. They’re glassy and distant, like Shane used to get after a handful of drinks back in his twenties, except Ilya hasn’t had much of anything in the last couple hours since he’s been here. Ilya isn’t really looking at him either, but more through him, as if…Oh.
He’s dropping, or close to it. Fuck.
Shane’s chest feels tight but he manages to stay physically calm, even though his mind is racing, and he slowly sits up to not disturb the alpha on his thigh. When Ilya doesn’t so much as move a muscle, Shane’s theory is confirmed. Shane is, for once, grateful of his age and experience around alphas to know what to do in this situation. How to bring Ilya, his Ilya, back to him safely.
Without even thinking about it, Shane unlatches the muzzle, gently pulling it from Ilya’s face and throwing it onto his nightstand, not caring what happens to it at this point. His omega is zeroed-in, laser-focused on protecting his alpha to worry about trivial things right now. Ilya blinks, slow and lethargic, but a good sign. He may not be fully under just yet.
“Rozanov.” Shane whispers, hands coming up to frame Ilya’s face, his fingers petting and caressing the pale redness where the muzzle was, attempting to erase them from his skin. Fuck, he knew he should’ve talked it through with Ilya before this, but he was angry and so incredibly horny that he figured it would be fine, that Ilya would be down for anything as long as it got his dick wet. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He hasn’t gotten his dick wet at all.
“Ilya. Puppy.” His voice dips lower, dripping in desperation, his chest aching at the thought of his Ilya in a place he can’t reach him. But he attempts to calm his own breath, ease the terrible thoughts of self-blame in his mind. He’d be useless if he dropped right now, too.
Shane leans in, pressing their lips together in the chastest, sweetest kiss that Shane thinks he’s ever been part of. It’s not the greatest kiss, considering one half of the party doesn’t participate, but Shane tries to coax him out, their lips meeting again and again, but never pushing too far. His tongue aches to lick into his mouth, but he knows that isn’t what Ilya needs right now. He doesn’t need sweltering kisses; he needs blanketing warmth, something to tell his alpha that he’s safe, he’s cared for. Loved, even.
“Ilya,” Shane continues to whisper his name over and over like an oath, the two syllables that bounce around in his brain more often than he lets himself admit, quiet between kisses. His fingers gently explore the sharp edge of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the warm apples of his cheeks.
He leans back at one point to see the glassiness has lessened, his pupils contracting against the blue of his iris. Shane’s heart flutters. He does something kind of crazy and probably wrong, but considering the circumstances, it’s a valid attempt. A familiar movement, slick on the pad of his thumb, and presses it against Ilya’s bottom lip. He doesn’t push it in, just leaves it there, heart caught in his throat as he waits, watches.
Time passes in slow motion but eventually, thankfully, Ilya shifts forward slightly, taking the finger into his mouth. His tongue is languid as he sucks the slick off, as if he’s still coming back to his own body, regaining control of his muscles again. There’s a burn at the back of Shane’s eyes but he refuses to cry, no matter how sweet this moment is. Rozanov, hockey’s current prodigy, golden boy, biggest brat on the ice, being pulled out of his drop by some of Shane’s slick on his tongue, his lips wrapped around the finger like a baby feeding for the first time.
Shane thinks his heart might explode for many reasons. Reasons he doesn’t really want to get into at this current moment. Maybe get back to him once he retires.
Finally, Ilya’s blue eyes, sharper than they once were, a familiar gaze, snap up at him from below his lashes, his lips still enclosed around Shane’s thumb. Shane can’t help the concern on his face, unable to hide behind his carefully built mask. Not when the situation was this serious, not when he had Ilya in his lap nearly on the edge of dropping. And Ilya knows this, Shane can tell just from glint in his eye.
“Ilya.” Shane sighs, relief clear as day in his tone, his shoulders dropping slowly, the tension releasing from every pore in his body. His fingers shake as they trace along the lines and dips and curves of Ilya’s face. There’s a stinging behind his eyes that he refuses to let out.
Ilya pops his thumb out of his mouth, the air making the skin cold, but Shane barely even registers the sensation. His eyes are sporadic as they dance over Ilya’s face, looking for any other sign that he’s dropping, that Shane hurt him.
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is coarse and gravelly from arousal and neglect, but the single word sends sparks through his body, the final confirmation that Ilya is fine. That Shane got him out of his headspace, an omega helping an alpha. His alpha, at least in this moment. “Shane, I am okay.”
Shane shakes his head, words escaping him. He drags Ilya into a hesitant kiss full of passion and nerves, everything Shane felt when Ilya was under, no matter how short of a time it was. This time, Ilya kisses back, though not as hard, not as lustful, still coming back to himself. Shane can’t be bothered because Ilya is kissing back.
They part with heavy breaths, chests heaving. Shane’s hands press against the hinge of Ilya’s shoulder and neck, a comforting hold. Ilya gently tucks his fingers under Shane’s chin, lifting him up to face him. Ilya is blurry when Shane looks at him, his eyes unable to hold back to tears now.
“Malysh,” Baby. Ilya whispers between them, thumb wiping under his eye, catching any stray tears that fall. “Holl-Shane, I am okay. Please, do not cry.”
“You almost dropped, Ilya, because of me. I took this too far, I knew that I shouldn’t have–” Shane swallows around the lump in his throat, his airway constricting and chest hurting.
“I dropped because we didn’t kiss. Not properly.” Ilya admits during Shane’s freak out, effectively cutting off Shane’s trainwreck of thoughts. Shane blinks once, twice, trying to clear the water from his eyes, and makes sure that he heard Ilya correctly.
“You…we…what?” His voice is thin and weary, rickety. His heart is rabbiting out of his chest at the quiet admission.
Ilya smiles, almost sad. “Alphas are not all big and strong like the stereotype. We, um, we need comfort. Intimacy.” His accent curls around that word, testing it out as if it’s the first time he’s said it. Shane gets a stab in his chest at the thought of Ilya being intimate with anyone else. “It was a very heavy scene and my alpha…my alpha felt ignored. Neglected?”
Neglected. Shane starts to tear up again, his mouth parting in shock. He didn’t even realize they hadn’t kissed. There was that brief brush but…that pales in comparison to what they usually do. In his blind rage, he just ordered Ilya to his room and muzzled him like a fucking dog. He’s so used to Ilya taking his mouth, claiming him, making Shane dizzy from a flick of his tongue. They didn’t even kiss. It was all his fault.
“Hey, Shane. No, don’t blame yourself, malysh.” Ilya kisses him three times in quick succession, loosening the tightly-wound knot that’s settled in his chest. “It was both of us. You were upset. I did not realize what you had planned.” Giant, gentle hands cradle Shane’s face. “But you brought me out. Your omega knew what my alpha needed.” Another kiss, this one longer with a little more tongue. “We are okay.”
“Ilya, I–” Shane shakes his head, distancing them as far as Ilya will allow, which is not very, only several inches. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe–”
Ilya surges forward, capturing Shane’s lips in a breathtaking kiss, one that Shane feels in every damn nerve-ending across his skin. Shane is powerless to push him away, his hand curling around Ilya’s bicep, trying to ground himself in the only way he knows how: holding onto Ilya and hoping that he can keep him afloat.
There’s a familiar tongue inside his mouth, beside his own, tangling together in a delicious, combative battle that Shane loves to fight. Normally, he’s a passive, despite playing hockey for the last three decades of his life, but in bed with Ilya, it’s a completely different game. Something lights up inside him when Ilya gets this way, a mix of compliance and ownership.
“Ilya,” Shane pants as they part, “We can’t continue. You almost dropped–”
Ilya shushes him with a soft kiss. “No. We will continue.” When Shane goes to protest, Ilya grabs his hand, moving it from his shoulder to his clothed knot, still hard and wet as if they haven’t been talking, as if Ilya didn’t drop. “Please. This is…this is the hottest thing I’ve done. Please, Shane.”
Shane opens his mouth only to close it again, eyes flicking back and forth between Ilya’s, looking for any sort of sign, any hesitance or…or maybe feelings of coercion? Shane has been conscious of their age difference since they met, painfully aware of the power imbalance between them. They may not be on the same team, Shane isn’t Ilya’s captain, but Shane has some leeway in the hockey world. Maybe Ilya is only sleeping with him to gain some capital, so Shane will talk him up and Ilya will win awards, or something. He knows that isn’t really how it works, but Shane can’t help overthinking every possible situation. Never knows what's really going on inside that beautiful, blonde head.
“Ilya, I’m–I can’t–”
His guaranteed embarrassing ramble is cut off quickly, lips clashing into his own, a tongue being delicately shoved into his mouth, licking behind his teeth. Shane forgets every word in the English language, fuck, even the French language, with this kiss. All he can think of is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
“I promise I am okay now. Tell me what to do.” Ilya’s voice is small, like he’s scared of disturbing the quietness in Shane’s mind. “Please. Call me puppy. Shchenok.”
Shane whimpers at the Russian falling from Ilya’s lips, so natural, so perfect. And then Ilya is looking at him with those damn puppy dog eyes and he’s fucking powerless. If there is a power imbalance between them, Shane’s never been the one at the wheel. He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes in an attempt to get back into the mindset he was in previously, the one that speaks a few Russian words and has a commandeering voice.
Once he opens them again, he knows that Ilya knows that he won.
“Okay, puppy.” Shane kisses him again, just once, trying to communicate that he still cares. Will always care no matter their situation. He begins to scratch at Ilya’s scalp, right above the ear, and Ilya leans into it, his head tilting and eyes fluttering shut. “Good boy.” He doesn’t even realize he’s whispered it until Ilya’s eyes open, pupils dilating.
Shane puts distance between them, kneeling close to the edge of the bed. The red marks are no longer present on his face, which is probably for the best. Shane isn’t sure he’d be able to handle a physical reminder of his negligence, of how his omega failed his alpha. But he’s okay, and Ilya’s fine and looking at him with something dangerously akin to adoration in his eyes. Shane forces himself to look down, recuperate a bit, calm his racing heart.
“You were very good, puppy.” Shane looks back up, feeling more confident, a puff to his chest that wasn’t there before. Ilya preens at the praise. “But that was only the first. I have two more, right?” Ilya looks at him, eyes wide and trusting, mouth bitten red. “Speak.”
Ilya’s eyes cross minutely at the singular command, the word seemingly settling deep in his chest. His lips are slow to move with his words, “Yes, sir.”
Fuck. Now that word, that term of endearment, that title forces its way into Shane’s brain, fitting itself right into the crevice where Shane keeps all things Ilya. At first, it was a small room, a few shelves, but as the meetups continued, Shane thinks he’s going to have to remodel. Sir. Jesus Christ. This boy will certainly be the death of him.
“Hmm.” Shane drags his eyes down the shortened length of Ilya’s body, the way his shoulders are hunched, thighs thick and flattened against his calves as he kneels on his haunches. His stomach has transformed into delicate, enticing rolls, his rigid abs gone for the time being.
Shane reaches out, keeping his hand steady as he curls two fingers under Ilya’s chin, guiding his head up. Ilya is always, objectively, handsome, but right now, he’s the epitome of compliance, blue eyes staring at Shane as if he holds the key to the world. There’s not much that Shane wouldn’t do for this boy in front of him, which is a terribly dangerous thought.
“Lezhat’, mal’chik.” Down, boy.
Ilya physically shudders at Shane’s voice, the lowest it’s been so far, rough and gravelly. Shane almost surprises himself by the way it echoes around the room, bouncing off the corners of his walls. But Ilya, being the good boy that he is, obeys beautifully.
Shane doesn’t think he could tear his eyes away if he tried. Ilya, his golden boy, laying on the mussed sheets, stretched out from head to toe, impossibly narrowing his waist enough to make Shane’s teeth ache. That ridiculous, thick treasure trail from his navel that disappears under the waistband of his boxers, teasing Shane whenever he sees it. And then Ilya looks at him from his position, his arms above his head, biceps bulging and flexing with his palms flat on the headboard, and licks his lips.
“‘M ready, Shane. For whatever you want.”
Air expels from Shane’s lungs involuntarily at the sheer compliance of the boy in front of him. With one last look at the thick line of Ilya’s cock (and the ever-growing wet patch), Shane starts moving as if in slow motion. He gets up onto his knees and begins moving toward Ilya, their eyes never parting. It’s arousing watching Ilya’s face, the way his mouth parts further and further as Shane gets closer, the way his eyes cross in a daze when Shane swings a leg over Ilya’s waist, but not putting his weight on him just yet.
A subtle, confused furrow settles between Ilya’s eyebrows. Shane takes a few deep breaths, calming himself. He wiggles up the length of Ilya’s body until his knees fit perfectly in the divots of Ilya’s armpits, the hair tickling the sensitive skin. His hips jerk forward slightly, the tip of his cock bumping Ilya’s chin, smearing clear liquid across the tiny dent that Shane loves to press his thumb into during their aftercare. Shane dips his chin toward his chest, looking at Ilya with a distant heat, purposefully keeping his lust at bay.
“Give kisses.” Shane commands, his voice steadier than he feels, his ribs ready to crack with every breath. The crease deepens between Ilya’s brow, Shane can practically see him processing the instruction. Hesitantly, he leans forward, pursing his lips and brushing them against the wet tip of Shane.
The laugh that punches out of Shane is patronizing, dripping with condescension. He threads his fingers through Ilya’s curls, soothing the scalp before pulling, yanking at his roots and reveling in the quiet, wounded yelp from the man below him.
“Oh, you silly puppy.” He shakes his head, releasing his tight grip on Ilya’s hair, returning his fingers to a pacifying gesture. “Not there. Tongue out.” Ilya’s face slackens as he finally understands what Shane wants. His mouths parts and–yes, fuck. Shane feels his hole slicken as he stares at the strong muscle, the tongue that Shane has had on every inch of his body, no exaggeration. “There you go, good puppy.”
Shane can’t resist running his leaking cock over Ilya’s tongue, intently watching the way the muscle twitches like he wants to chase after Shane, but he doesn’t because he’s good. A few more swipes of his cock across Ilya’s tongue, spreading his precome on his cheekbones, and he pulls back. That isn’t the purpose of this position, not today, at least.
Carefully, Shane maneuvers himself and Ilya to where he wants: Ilya’s arm beside his torso atop Shane’s calves, Shane’s hips now hovering over Ilya’s face. A moan slips past Ilya’s lips, no doubt because of the feel of Shane’s slicked up thigh on his cheeks where they straddle him. They’ve done this dance before, though never like this, never with Ilya under him, with Ilya as his puppy, and Shane…fuck, Shane doesn’t know how he got so fucking lucky.
Ilya looks up at him, eyes glassy and so blue, trusting. Shane’s dick lies between his eyes, twitching against the bridge of his nose. But Ilya is good, doesn’t move, just watches Shane with a fevered look. Shane has the insane thought of confessing everything he thinks about Ilya, but he bites his tongue, the words lodged in his throat. Instead of three words sneaking past his lips, two other words do, successfully reigniting the fire in his gut.
“Eat up.”
He feels Ilya breathe against his hole, hot and sticky, and then there’s a tongue against him and Shane’s vision whites out. Shane practically snaps in half, stomach caving in and back arching awkwardly. His arms reaches out at the last second to catch himself on the headboard, eyes blurring as sparks shoot up his spine. Ilya’s ravenous, his teeth snagging on Shane’s sensitive, wet rim, pain mixing with pleasure.
Shane is reduced to whimpers and moans almost immediately, his stomach twitching as he tries to keep breathing, his lungs working overtime. It’s been too long since Shane has had time to pay such close attention to his hole, mostly focusing on his dick, and fuck that was a mistake. It’s like he’s a teenager again, going through his first few heats and feeling keyed up over anything and everything, except now it’s a Russian hockey player in his early twenties. He’s hurtling closer to the edge as Ilya’s tongue works at his hole like some well-practiced instrument, the sounds of wet slurping harmonize with Shane’s high pitched whines. Shane almost despises the way Ilya is good at everything if he didn’t benefit so much from it, specifically this.
With a shaky hand, Shane grabs at Ilya’s hair again, lifting himself off of Ilya with great strength. Ilya whimpers at the loss, eyes half-lidded, his breathing heavy as if he ran a marathon. In a shocking yet scorchingly hot display of obedience, he keeps his tongue out. There’s a thick sheen on his chin that Shane wants to lick up like a madman, his mouth salivating.
“Ostavat’sya.” His voice has grown shakier, wavering with Shane’s last bit of strength but still certain. Ilya blinks once before staring up at Shane, willing and waiting for Shane’s next action, just lying there in buzzing yet quiet anticipation. Shane can practically feel the thrum of Ilya’s blood circulating through his veins.
After Shane breathes in for four and out for six, his hips start moving, grinding languidly against Ilya’s tongue, deliberately keeping his hips just high enough to not suffocate Ilya to death. The tongue is wet yet rough against him, the flat bed rubbing against him, the perfect fucking toy for Shane to tease himself with. Shane keeps his hand in Ilya’s hair, rooting him to the spot. Ilya looks fucking dazed and Shane feels dizzy as he sets his tortuous pace.
“Perfect toy.” Shane mutters without even realizing, words spilling from his mouth. “Laying here for me like such a good puppy, letting me take what I need.” He lowers himself incrementally, the tip of Ilya’s tongue threatening to push past his rim with every grind. An embarrassing whimper leaves Shane’s lips. Hair falls in front of his face, wet with sweat, but Shane can’t be bothered to move it, not when Ilya is unmoving under him, the perfect picture of devotion. For Shane.
His mouth is open in heavy pants, the steady, precise swaying of his hips taking all of his energy. The crown of Ilya’s hair is sticky with Shane’s precome, the liquid practically shimmering in his curls. Ilya’s eyelids are shut in what Shane hopes is bliss. Shane lifts up and back, taking his entire weight off of Ilya, and his eyes are slow to blink open, confusion clouding them. Shane thinks he might’ve whined if Shane didn’t press two of his fingers on Ilya’s tongue.
“Don’t worry, puppy.” He slowly inserts his fingers into Ilya’s mouth, internally cursing as he keeps going to the back of his throat, Ilya not moving a muscle. “God, you’re so good, Ilya.”
This time, Ilya’s back arches minutely, his forehead scrunching from the praise. But he immediately brings himself back to the mattress, settling under Shane like a dog curling up at your feet, complete contentedness as he attempts to suck on Shane’s fingers, drool pooling on the flat of his tongue.
“Want your treat?” Shane murmurs almost absentmindedly, mesmerized by the obedience shown by Ilya. Usually, he’s a firecracker that’s unable to be contained, checking people in boards with a sly smirk and partying until the last possible second. But here he is, under Shane as if he doesn’t want to be anywhere else, allowing Shane to penetrate his throat with his fingers.
When Ilya nods, Shane’s fingers finally trigger his (almost nonexistent) gag reflex, the choked, restricting sound of his throat like music to Shane’s ears. Shane smiles but retracts his sticky fingers, collecting as much spit as he can before bringing them up to his own mouth, tasting all that Ilya has to offer. Ilya stares up at him with unshed tears in his eyes, the blue even more pronounced. With an overexaggerated pop, Shane takes his fingers from his mouth, choosing to spread the slickness onto Ilya’s cheek and over his tongue. Ilya, like the good boy he is, takes it like a champ, only quietly whining at the taste of Shane on his tongue.
Shane can’t help but lean down, despite the awkward angle, and suck Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, a silent command that Ilya follows beautifully. Their tongues tangle, Ilya slow to move but passionate nonetheless, setting Shane’s skin on fire. He forcefully pushes himself off of Ilya, both men breathing heavy, their scents too strong to ignore now. Shane feels lightheaded with this entire night, however many minutes or hours they’ve been here together, in the little bubble they’ve created. Shane really doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
“Okay, puppy.” Shane says, both to himself and Ilya. Returning back to his position overtop of Ilya’s head, Shane gently pets Ilya’s hair. Without needing to be told, Ilya lolls his tongue out again, ready for whatever Shane tells him–move? Stay still? Be good? It’s a toss up but Ilya is prepared. “C’mon. Get your treat, moy mal’chik.”
Again, it takes a moment for Shane’s instruction to work through the slow gears of Ilya’s fuzzy brain, but once the command sticks, Ilya is quick to action. He’s bold this time, wrapping his arms around Shane’s legs to keep him steady, keep him still, and Shane allows it, overtaken with pleasure and fireworks behind his eyelids. Shane manages to avoid doubling over this time, prepared for Ilya’s thoughtful and tactful abuse against his hole, just letting pleasure light up every nerve in his body.
The fact that Ilya is able to eat him out with such vigor no matter their positions will always make Shane’s toes curl and breath shorten. He really never wants to let this boy out of his sight, out of his grip. Shane has a crazy idea of purchasing a collar with Hollander’s engraved, wrapping it around Ilya’s throat and yanking on it–
“Oh shit, Ilya, fuck, guh–” Shane’s moans break and bend, his breath shortening with Ilya’s relentless brutality against his hole. His cock is leaking steadily against Ilya’s forehead, every twitch creating another tacky trail of precome across his youthful skin, only light scars from years of hockey. “I’m so–close, shchnenok.”
He’s right there on the precipice, his cock practically turning purple and throbbing with every thrust of Ilya’s tongue. Shane grinds down on Ilya’s tongue the best he can while being held by his strong arms. His vision starts blurring, and he’s just about to give in, go over the edge, his cunt squelching–
Suddenly the pleasure is gone, Ilya’s calloused hands on his waist lifting him up and off. His breaths are heavy against Shane’s inner thighs, and Shane sees red, his hands twitching for more reasons than this involuntary edging. Shane shifts backward, a strong hand pulling at Ilya’s hair and he revels in the pained, breathless noise from the man below him. Good. Shane has half a mind to get up, kick Ilya out with a hard knot and never text him again. But then Ilya looks up at him with apologetic eyes, panting like an overexcited yet tired dog. He takes some pity on him, releasing his tight grip, but he can’t let Ilya continue without some sort of punishment.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” Despite his mean tone, Shane is searching Ilya for any signs of dropping again, but his eyes aren’t to that level of hazy yet. His heart is able to beat a little slower. “You had no right to do that, Ilya.” No response. Shane tightens his grip only slightly, releasing once Ilya’s face turns pained. “C’mon, boy, speak.
Ilya licks his lips, “Didn’t want you to come. Don’t want this to be over.” His voice is thin and hoarse, but Shane can tell he’s genuine. Ilya hesitantly kisses the skin above Shane’s knee, the closest part he can reach, and looks up at Shane with tears in his eyes.
Oh. Oh. Shane’s chest feels warm, the sensation spreading up to his shoulders and neck, the back of his eyes burning and his throat suddenly feels tight. His grip is nonexistent now, his fingers gently running through Ilya’s curls in a soothing, reassuring gesture. His other hand moves from the headboard to cup Ilya’s cheek, heart bursting when Ilya leans into the contact, kissing the heel of his palm, the thin skin of his wrist.
“Ilya,” Shane says quietly, “You’re being so good for me.” He can see the praise settle into Ilya’s skin, his lips twitching into a smile. “It won’t be over after this.” This. Does Shane mean this orgasm? This scene? This night? He doesn’t clarify, unsure if he could, choosing to let Ilya decide what he wants, what he means. “I promise, Ilya. Okay?”
Ilya nods and mumbles, “‘M sorry.”
Shane leans down, capturing Ilya’s lips in his own, licking inside. “It’s okay. I’m still going to have to punish you, but I appreciate the apology.” He presses a close-lipped kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet. Ilya chases after him when Shane moves from his orbit. Shane’s thumb softly rubs the skin of Ilya’s cheekbones. “Ready?”
He nods again, humming in agreement, like he’s right where he wants to be. Shane can’t believe he gets this boy, all to himself. There’s something dangerous brewing in his chest, in the caverns of his heart, and it feels an awful lot like love. With one last gentle pat to Ilya’s cheek, Shane returns to his previous position, but instead of sitting on Ilya’s face like before, he stays hovering, his hole right over Ilya’s mouth, his cock dripping onto the bridge of his nose.
“Tongue out again–good boy.” Shane praises at the immediate obedience, taking the opportunity to shove his fingers back in Ilya’s mouth. “Get them nice and wet, puppy. No, I didn’t say to close your mouth.” Ilya looks at him in confusion, but eventually starts swirling his tongue around the digits, gathering as much saliva as he can onto them. “There you go. So good for me, thank you, puppy.”
Once his fingers are sufficiently lubricated, he takes his fingers out and twists his arm around, circling his soaking wet hole. Truthfully, he probably didn’t need to have Ilya suck on his fingers, but where’s the fun in just…fingering himself? He has to make Ilya regret taking charge, make him beg for Shane, make him desperate.
He inserts the two fingers, his head rolling on his neck at the intrusion, not anywhere close to feeling full but putting on a show for Ilya, able to sense the scrutinizing stare from the alpha. There’s notes of cedarwood in the air, a clear attempt to make Shane forgive him. It doesn’t work, the only effect the scent has is on his hole, secreting even more slick.
“Fuck, Ilya, you feel so good.” Shane says distractedly, eyes shut in bliss as he fingers himself. Ilya’s breath is hot against him, and Shane revels in the fact that his tongue is still out, always wanting to be a good boy for Shane. Shane’s good boy. He crooks his fingers, jolting as he hits his spot, despite the angle not being quite right. A curse spills from his mouth and enters a third finger, the resistance nonexistent.
Always so easy and open for me, Hollander. A deep Russian accent curls around his ears, settling deep within his chest. Shane smiles at the imaginary voice, knowing that he could say one word and Ilya would spew dirty talk into his ear, make Shane feel adored and humiliated at the same time, something only Ilya has been able to do to him. But there’s a power here that Shane is rejoicing in, the ability to make Ilya plead for any attention from Shane. It’s fucking hot.
Shane starts fucking himself in a steady pace, subtly entering his pinky into his hole and finally feeling a stretch. It’s harder to hit his prostate this way, his wrist not able to bend just right, but it’s worth it when he looks down to see Ilya’s eyes crossed as he stares at Shane, glassy and potentially even dizzy with this whole situation. Shane doesn’t blame him.
He fucks his hips backward, choosing to fuck himself on his fingers. The action causes his dick to sway in front of Ilya, and Shane moans as he watches Ilya’s eyes track the movement, a drip of precome landing on Ilya’s tongue and making its way to the back of his throat. Oh.
“Lizat’, please, fuck.” Lick. Shane’s head is spinning and dizzy as he watches Ilya lick and suck at the tip of his cock, and Shane is so close, so fucking close. Ilya keeps his tongue flat as he licks the slit, swallowing down Shane’s precome like it’s the most delectable meal he’s ever had. Shane curses and moans and whimpers until he can’t hold back anymore.
Shane practically shouts in pleasure, standing up on his thighs, his hole right above Ilya’s tongue. His fingers are quick and efficient, fucking himself through the aftershocks. There’s extra wetness than usual when he does this, his body trembling as slick spurts from his hole, landing everywhere–his thighs, Ilya’s neck, Ilya’s tongue. Shane’s eyes roll back in his head, pleasure shooting through every nerve ending, fireworks exploding behind his eyelids.
Eventually, his hole is spasming around his fingers and he can’t take it anymore, the overstimulation too much. He pulls his fingers out, grimacing at the gushing sound that follows, no doubt soaking Ilya. That punishment might’ve backfired.
Shane sits back on his haunches, deciding to put his full weight on Ilya’s stomach, knowing the other man can handle it. Ilya doesn’t even twitch at the weight of a hockey player well past his prime on him. He lays there, chest heaving.
His face is soaked, a thick layer of Shane’s slick covering almost every inch of skin from Ilya’s cheekbones to his collarbones. There’s come in his hair. His eyes are shut and his tongue is still out, as if waiting for something else, waiting for whatever Shane will continue to give him. Like he didn’t give Ilya the best squirt of his fucking life.
“Gospodi, ty poslal mne etogo muzhchinu, chtoby razrushit' moyu zhizn'. Spasibo tebe.” Ilya murmurs, his words slurring and a little delirious. Shane’s specific learning of the language only took him so far, the garbled words heading right over his head. He realizes he doesn’t really care what Ilya is muttering, not when he feels like a string ripped in half. Ilya looks completely unraveled, a slow pulling of every fiber of his thread until he had been effectively undone.
Shane squeezes his waist as he dismounts, standing from the bed. There’s a quiet, tortured noise from the alpha, and Shane turns to see Ilya watching with painful eyes, like the thought of Shane leaving him is the worst idea in the world. Shane’s heart breaks a little bit.
“Just going to get some water, okay?” Shane whispers, scared to break their delicate after. He leans down and gently kisses Ilya’s lips, tasting himself on his tongue. It’s difficult to pull away after that, but Ilya’s eyes are shut in bliss and his lips are upturned, so Shane’s work is done.
Well. Almost. There’s one last step to his plan. After he gets them both some water because hydration is important.
With every step toward the kitchen, Shane’s cunt squelches and his thighs stick together. Each step is shaky and uncertain. Shane’s quick to grab the two glasses of water, needing to get back into bed with his alpha immediately. His omega is protesting at him for leaving Ilya in there all alone, out of view, but Shane knows that they’ve both lost a lot of fluid over the last…oh. Shane finally looks at a clock for the first time since Ilya got here. They’ve been in the bedroom for just shy of two hours, the digital clock blinking 10:57pm.
Two hours. Shane isn’t sure they’ve ever spent more than an hour taking each other apart. They’ve always been efficient, to the point, ripping off the other’s clothes and just going at it, practically primal. Don’t get him wrong, he loves that. Loves to be manhandled by Ilya immediately upon entrance with a cock in his mouth to follow.
But it’s something else entirely now that he knows what it’s like to take Ilya apart in a slow manner, meticulous even. To feel his skin vibrate under Shane’s fingertips, see the way his eyes glaze over as he takes in Shane’s command. Being temporarily owned by Shane, even if it’s just for the night. He’s not sure how he’ll be able to go back to the prompt and systematic dance they’ve done before.
Shane blinks himself out of his reverie, taking the glasses and walking back to his bedroom. There’s a whimper at the back of his throat, threatening to break through, at the sight of Ilya. It hasn’t even changed, the alpha still panting on his back, covered in Shane’s slick with a hard line present in his boxers, but that’s what makes it even more special.
God, Ilya is so good. Shane thinks Ilya’s going to ruin his life.
He places his own cup of water on the nightstand, sitting on the edge of the bed to look at Ilya. There’s a slow blink and then a sea of blue staring up at Shane, an easy smile overtaking the man’s face. He licks his lips and moans quietly, and Shane slicks up realizing that he was tasting Shane. Jesus.
“C’mon, sit up, time to drink.” Shane murmurs, reaching out to touch Ilya, his hand on his waist. Needs some sort of physical closeness, something to ground him during this night where Shane feels a little out of his depth. Not with the sex stuff exactly, but he feels…well. He feels so much toward Ilya. Not just admiration for his hockey skills, how it reminded Shane of a younger him, but Ilya as a person. He could be hitting the town in Montreal but instead he’s here with Shane’s slick on his face and a throbbing cock that’s silently weeping for any sort of attention from Shane. He wants to kiss his face and make Ilya his.
Ilya takes the glass of his hands, swallowing half of it down in two gulps. Shane drinks much of his own glass, placing it next to Ilya’s on the nightstand. A pathetic excuse for domesticity that shatters Shane’s heart just a little bit more.
Hands are on his waist, an impressive amount of strength pulling him closer until he’s practically in Ilya’s lap. Now that he’s close enough to Ilya’s face, his nostrils flare as he picks up on the scent. The scents, plural. It smells overwhelmingly of maple syrup but there’s hints of cedar, of Ilya, of them together. Earthy and woody and if Shane was a stronger man he might be able to resist–
The moan that expels from Shane’s chest is animalistic, primal, a noise that he’s never made before. He practically smashes his lips against Ilya’s, his sensation enhanced now that he’s able to taste their scents, entangling on his tongue and making him feel drunk, dripping with desperation.
“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane groans through heavy breaths. Every inhale forces their scent–theirs–into Shane’s nose and up into his brain, overtaking every nerve ending and neuron that’s available. The mixing aroma must be affecting the alpha just as much, if not more, if the slight wheezes have anything to say about it.
Shane pushes Ilya back down onto his back, the alpha going easily like warm putty in Shane’s hands. His eyes never leave Shane as the omega moves down the bed, finally straddling Ilya’s thighs. The closest he’s been to Ilya’s dick in a while, and he watches in awe at the subtle twitch the shaft gives under his boxers.
“Have you been hard this whole time, puppy?” Shane asks, leaning down to hover his face over Ilya’s cock. The middle of the dark patch on his boxers darkens even further, clear evidence of Ilya’s arousal and it makes Shane leak a little. Ilya nods in response, an audible swallow filling the silence. “All for me?” Ilya nods again, more fervently.
Shane hums quietly, his head pulling toward Ilya’s cock as if connected by a thread. This close, he’s able to smell Ilya, all woody and musky, cedar and man all bundled up into one spectacular scent all for Shane to enjoy. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and he takes a gentle lick right over the head of Ilya’s cock, quick to pin down Ilya’s hips when they jump from the contact.
“Tsk.” The click of his tongue is soft but firm, Ilya muttering an apology and keeping still the best he can, though his skin is quivering under Shane’s palms. “Stay still, moy shchenok.” Shane returns to his previous action, licking at the damp fabric of Ilya’s boxers, his precome seeping through the material and landing on Shane’s tongue.
This right here, this wetness from Ilya’s cock, is the accumulation of the last two hours. All of this because of Shane. His teasing, the muzzle, his weak Russian pronunciation, riding Ilya’s face like a man on a mission. Sure, the orgasms are nice, but this is his real reward–seeing the physical evidence of the effect he has on Ilya, a dark blotch of precome on his boxers. The perfect gift.
It’s almost as if Shane’s become the puppy, lapping at Ilya’s clothed head like a dog with a spoonful of peanut butter, trying to get every last drop stuck to his tongue. His head is dizzy with the action, the taste of Ilya, the intoxicating scent of him in his most aroused state. He’s smelled Ilya’s sweat before, his regular stench from being an alpha, but it’s rare that he gets to smell the musk of his groin, the most natural thing to walk the earth.
“Sh-Shane, I’m clo–, fuck, I’m close.” Ilya babbles above him, his voice breaking, urgency bleeding through the cracks.
“So close already?” Shane mocks, shaking his head in faux disappointment. The effect hits Ilya as if it was real, a humiliated blush creeping up his cheeks, shining through Shane’s drying slick. That…that’s a rarity. Shane can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Ilya blush, and the real number is two–neither of them being in the bedroom.
The first time Shane approached him, his cheeks reddened the subtlest amount, barely anything, but Shane caught it, obsessed with the way the color contrasted against his eyes. The second was after Ilya won the Hart Trophy in his second year. Shane congratulated him with a firm, professional handshake, but they were too close for comfort. To an onlooker, it would look like a veteran giving the young player some well-deserved praise, but the words Shane whispered in Ilya’s ear…well. They were dirty enough to make Ilya’s cheek flush.
And now Shane can officially up his count to three.
Shane puts distance between himself and Ilya’s dick, moving his hands from holding Ilya’s hips to the waistband of his boxers, dipping under the thick material to tease the sensitive, neglected skin. A whimper punches out of Ilya as if the gentle touch is physically painful, but he doesn’t lean into Shane’s hands like he expected.
“Wanna be a good boy for me? Apologize for disrespecting a veteran player? A captain?” Shane shifts his hands lower, the waistband now digging into the skin of his wrists. The tips of his fingers hit coarse hair and he pauses, choosing to play with the downy hair a bit, watching as Ilya’s eyes shut from the sensation. So close and yet so fucking far.
“Not,” Ilya licks his lips and takes a breath, voice stronger with the next words, “Not my captain.”
Shane raises his eyebrows but his smile widens. Secretly, he was hoping Ilya would take his bait, turn back toward his usual bratty self and fall right into Shane’s trap. He didn’t expect it to be that easy, especially with how gone Ilya has been since they’ve entered the bedroom. At least Shane won’t feel much remorse for his next course of action.
“No? Not your captain?” His tone is haughty, Shane involuntarily puffing out his chest as his fingers grip onto Ilya’s waistband, gradually dragging the soft material down and down, stopping when the base of his knot gets revealed. Saliva fills his mouth almost immediately at the reddened bulge, his throat aching with previous scenarios, when Shane wouldn’t hesitate to get on his knees and swallow Ilya down until his nose was buried in Ilya’s coarse hair. He resists the urge this time, though.
When Ilya shakes his head again, eyes flashing with something playful yet dangerous, Shane lets out a soft laugh. Languidly, Shane peels the boxers from Ilya, tucking the waistband below his balls. His cock sways as it gets released from its confines, sufficiently wet, his length glistening with the amount of precome leaking from his slit. Shane can’t stop the delighted giggle at the image of this alpha completely undone because of Shane, despite no stimulation. Ilya doesn’t take offense to the noise, his back arching off the bed minutely at the slight humiliation of his knot.
“If I’m not your captain,” each word is said with resolution as Shane moves back up Ilya’s body, bypassing any contact with Ilya’s dick to make the alpha even more desperate. He settles himself just above Ilya’s cock, the rest of his sentence getting cut off by a soft groan that slips through his lips at the feeling of Ilya’s treasure trail brushing against his inner thighs. He manages to compose himself as he rolls his head slowly on his neck, reveling in the fact that Ilya is watching him like a hawk.
Once he looks back at Ilya, he raises himself up, but doesn’t move from his spot. The tip of Ilya’s cock is poised at his entrance, Shane can feel his warmth emanating toward him. There’s less than an inch of distance between them, all Shane would have to do is shift backward and Ilya would be inside him.
“If I’m not your captain, tell me why your backhand has gotten stronger?” Shane grinds his hips against Ilya, not giving either of them nearly enough stimulation. Nonetheless, they both groan with the sensation. Ilya’s hands move to Shane’s thighs, subtly urging him to sink down, but Shane bats his hands away. He grabs Ilya’s chin in a tight grip, “No, Ilya. You will not touch. You will answer my questions and let me use you like a good boy. Got it?”
Ilya nods furiously, his lips squished together because of Shane’s grasp. Shane’s eyes flick back and forth between Ilya’s, not allowing himself to define the emotion welling up in those blue eyes. He’s sure the emotion is being reflected in his own eyes, no matter what it is.
Shane relents his grip, choosing instead to pet at the soft skin of Ilya’s jaw, his forefinger feeling a small scar from an unknown accident. Did Ilya cut himself shaving a few mornings ago? Did he get a puck to the face as a kid and the evidence never quite healed over? Did his mom come rushing from the house, with bandages and warm hugs, just like Shane’s mom did for him? The questions are on the tip of Shane’s tongue but he bites them back. That isn’t what this is, at least not right now.
“Good boy.” Shane thumbs the corner of Ilya’s lips, his own lips twitching when Ilya’s tongue peeks out to lick at the finger. He completely removes his hand from Ilya’s face, straightening his spine and feeling every bit of power he has over Ilya at this moment.
“Now, answer my question, puppy.” Shane descends, his hole rubbing against Ilya’s cock. Their gazes are interlocked, unmoving from the other, an invisible string keeping them connected as Shane sinks down, allowing just the tip of Ilya inside him. Immediately, Shane wants more, his body craving to be full of Ilya, feel him inside his stomach. Shane hasn’t had too many knots in his lifetime, too focused on hockey for the last thirty plus years of his life to really get some, but no cock has ever come close to Ilya’s.
Occasionally, Shane thinks about an alternative life. One where Shane is fifteen years younger, or Ilya fifteen years older. They’d still be hockey stars, of course, because there’s not many timelines where Shane doesn’t play hockey. Would they have been drafted at the same time? Maybe they would’ve been best friends on friendly teams, or maybe even on the same team if luck would have them. A Russian alpha with a smart mouth and an aggressive play and a Canadian omega with a calm demeanor and a hockey IQ high enough to compete any veteran or rookie. Maybe they’d be star-crossed rivals, unable to get close without cameras on them, watching their every move, waiting for one of them to punch the other with all the built up hatred they have.
However, there isn’t one timeline where Shane doesn’t fall head over ass for this alpha. Not one timeline where Shane doesn’t find Ilya devastatingly attractive. Not one where Shane isn’t drawn to Ilya like a moth to a flame. And isn’t that the craziest thing? Shane isn’t sure there’s any version of Shane Hollander without his Ilya Rozanov right beside him.
He’s brought back into the moment by Ilya whining frantically under him, his eyes full of a question that Shane understands perfectly. No words pass between them, only heavy breathing and whimpers and whines and yet Shane reads him like a book, listens to him like his favorite song.
“Why did your backhand get stronger?” Shane demands to know, slipping down on Ilya’s cock until he feels the subtle ridge of Ilya’s head push past his rim, and he stops. Using all of his strength, he keeps himself still, not giving either of them any stimulation. “You’ve shifted your feet. Your passes are better. Tell me.”
A bumbling whine slides past Ilya’s lips, his brain effectively melted from the hours of teasing, of Shane being a little mean to him. Shane brings his hand up to Ilya’s chest, softly flicking at his nipple in punishment, his cock dripping out a thick glob of precome, dropping onto Ilya’s lower stomach. Ilya’s back arches under him, but miraculously his cock stays still inside Shane.
“I, um, I followed your advice.” Ilya gasps out, his voice trembling through every word as if he hates this small admission. Shane brightens, allowing himself to fall further onto Ilya’s cock, only an inch. He watches in gratifying amazement at the choked off, almost pained whimper that Ilya elicits with the movement. “I didn’t, yebat’, want to at first. But then I tried, and–guh–I was playing better. My coaches, they, uhm, they noticed and told me to keep doing whatever it was I was doing. But then you stopped and I–oh my god.”
His words got faster as his confession continued until all his breath was compressed from his lungs, his voice tapering off into a gorgeous whine when Shane, who had been slowly shifting downward through Ilya’s long-winded ramble, sat fully on Ilya. Shane stares at the involuntary quivering of Ilya’s body, the way his stomach jumps with every quick breath, his fingers twitching. There’s a spot of drool pooling at the corner of Ilya’s lips.
“And then what?” Shane questions, his voice deeper than he’s ever heard it, dripping with lust and desire, needing Ilya to confess every little thing until three words slip past those lips, confirming everything Shane wants to hear. “I stopped and what did you do?”
Ilya shakes his head, his throat bobbing with an audible swallow. Feeling a little daring, Shane drags his hand, a steady weight, up Ilya’s chest until he can gently wrap his fingers around the base of his throat. Not squeezing, but there, heavy and possessive. Ilya looks at him with fire in his eyes, and his cock twitches inside Shane.
“Govorit’, now.” Speak. “C’mon, puppy. Any day now.” Shane presses his fingers against his neck, not enough to cut off any circulation but enough for Ilya to twitch as if he’s been electrocuted. “What did you do, my sweet boy? Hm?” When Ilya stays quietly, his eyes dazed as they look up at Shane, he gets worried that he might be dropping again. Except, when he goes to remove his hand, Ilya is quick to grab his wrist, keeping him there with a ragged whimper.
Shane’s heart beats a little slower, knowing that Ilya is just being a brat. He smiles like a cat that’s got the cream, leaning down a little, giving Ilya the smallest bit of stimulation on his otherwise disregarded cock.
“I won’t move until you tell me what you did.” Shane’s voice is quiet but it sounds like a gunshot in the silence of the room, only their heavy breaths to fill the void. Ilya’s breathing is a short staccato, like he can never get enough air in or out, completely overwhelmed with Shane on top of him, treating him like an afterthought yet being his sole focus.
There’s a peek of a pink tongue across Ilya’s bottom lip, and then he’s speaking, the words materializing from the depths of Ilya’s brain, somewhere he keeps hidden from everyone, perhaps even himself. Shane hopes that one day he’ll be able to get in there, take a look around, see how much information pertains to him.
“I started watching old games. Games you played before I even had memories. I did, um, marathons.” Shane stills on top of him, a confession he wasn’t prepared for but wants nonetheless. Ilya’s needy, hungry cock twitches inside Shane, his rambling continuing. “Watched your first game as–as a metro. Took notes of differences in your play.” He swallows around the next words, trying to keep them down, but with a slight squeeze at the base of his neck from Shane, the words tumble out. “Every single play I do is from you. Down to the specific angle my feet should be when I shoot the puck. All of them are yours.”
Shane can’t help the slick that practically gushes out of his hole, accumulating a sizable puddle on Ilya’s groin. The words stick in his head, nestling themselves in the nooks and crannies, subtle but there. This confession, the words hoarse but genuine, has the potential to rewire Shane’s fully formed brain, more than Ilya already has.
“Jesus, Ilya.” It’s a reverent whisper, barely audible over Ilya’s heavy pants. There’s almost no words that Shane can say to sum up everything he’s feeling, everything he’s thinking right now. Ilya has, in the few years Shane has known him, resolutely carved a place for himself in the spaces between Shane’s ribs, curling up on the curve of his rib like a cat in front of a heated fireplace. Completely at ease. Shane takes a careful breath, his ribs shaking delicately, not wanting to disturb him.
“Please, Shane.” Ilya begs, his pleas vague, clearly just trying to get Shane to do something, anything to give him stimulation. There’s a throbbing inside Shane, he’s not sure where it’s coming from. It could be his heart, not yet over Ilya admitting he studied all of Shane’s games, from his rookie year to current day. It fills him with unimaginable power and, inexplicably, humiliation.
Shane was good when he was young, and he knew he had all eyes on him as one of the best players the league has ever had, but the thought of Ilya, this big, strong, prodigal talent watching his every move, even if it is several years after the fact, makes his insides feel like molten lava. That means Ilya saw his devastating, mortifying loss against Edmonton in his first ever playoffs. He watched the way Shane lost himself the succeeding season, his stats horrific for the weighty expectations put on his shoulders, both by himself and the entire Metros fanbase. Ilya saw everything.
And he’s still here. He’s in bed with Shane, eyes that can be so sharp, effectively ruined, glassy and dazed as they silently plead with Shane. Ilya watched Shane’s entire life through hockey film, an intimate act in this career, and he still came to Shane’s house when his entire team is out partying.
“Okay,” Shane says, mostly to himself, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to the present. Back to the whimpering alpha under him. “Okay, Ilya. Calm down, boy.” He’s powerless to Ilya’s whims now, leaning down to press a rough yet passionate kiss to Ilya’s slick lips. Miraculously, Shane’s slick is still damp on Ilya’s skin, settling into him like some sort of weird moisturizer. Shane takes a moment to lick around the bottom half of Ilya’s face, tasting his own slick on his tongue mixed with the saltiness of Ilya’s sweat. They make a really good palette and Shane, briefly, wishes Ilya wasn’t inside him so he could hide just how wet that thought makes him.
Shane finishes lapping at Ilya’s cheeks, jaw, and chin, every inch of skin now glistening with Shane’s spit instead. Ilya’s preening with it, effectively being groomed by his–an omega. Shane convinces himself it’s a biological reaction despite his heart stuttering in protest. He shifts down to Ilya’s chest, but pauses before continuing his methodical cleanup, looking up at Ilya and seeing him already staring at Shane.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen, puppy. I’m going to clean you of my slick,” Ilya lets a quiet whimper slip but quickly swallows it down, Shane continues, “and use you as my personal toy. You will not thrust, you will not put your hands on me. You will not come. You will be good for me and ostavat’sya, okay?”
Ilya flinches at the Russian command but otherwise nods, removing his hand from Shane’s wrist and placing them at his sides obediently. He removes his own hand from Ilya’s throat, licking the slick off his palm while staring at Ilya, eyes never wavering. Once that’s done, he breaks eye contact, focusing instead on Ilya’s sharp collarbones, the slick pooled in the carved divots. Then, as he licks into the delicate, sensitive skin, he starts moving his hips, a slow, languid grind that keeps Ilya encased inside Shane but provides some gratification after hours of nothing.
There’s an irregular beat to the way Ilya’s chest rises and falls under Shane’s tongue. He tries to memorize the rhythm, see if he can finally nail down the tempo of Ilya Rozanov, an alpha that’s always moving and random, never allowing anyone to get close. That is, until Shane Hollander. But even he has a hard time, at least when Ilya is on edge like this, his knot throbbing against Shane’s rim, begging for any sort of stimulation.
Leisurely, Shane sits up, carefully stacking each vertebrae until he’s tall above Ilya, hips still rolling in their lazy movements. There’s almost an audible crackling in the air, a hallucination of the tension between the pair. Shane blinks once, then twice, the taste of himself and Ilya melting on his tongue. Their scents are still intermingling, aerating throughout the room. All of his senses are overwhelmed with them and Shane has to calm himself, subtly squeezing at the base of his cock to avoid an embarrassingly quick orgasm.
Ilya watches his hand, his eyes burning with delight for a second before darkening again, pupils dilated in a way Shane has only ever seen in cartoons. He looks beautiful like this. The crown of his head is damp with sweat, the curls turning brown under the exertion. The blue that reminds him of the lake near his cottage is essentially gone, replaced by the night sky during the summer, shimmery and mesmerizing. Lips that are bitten to shreds, redder than any rose Shane has ever seen, shining with spit that isn’t just Shane’s and isn’t just Ilya’s but something greater, a mix of them. It looks like Ilya has freckles in this light, and Shane has the insane idea to trace them with his finger, caressing them like something precious.
Instead, he lifts himself with great strength until Ilya’s cock threatens to leave him. He watches an array of emotions flit across Ilya’s face, confusion, pleasure, pain. Without pretense, eyes burning a hole through Ilya’s, he releases his core muscles, falling hard and fast.
Ilya quietly curses in Russian, the words bouncing off Shane’s ears and into his chest, settling there and refusing to budge. The alpha is beautiful as he struggles against his instincts, surely every neuron in his brain shouting at him to touch and grab and claim the omega in his lap. Shane’s cock twitches with a spurt of precome, adding to the ever-growing pond on Ilya’s treasure trail, the hair glistening.
Shane continues his slow yet punishing pace, not quite a rhythm but not erratic, a beat that Shane feels thrumming through his blood. His prostate is aching inside him, Ilya’s cock practically punching the gland, bruising one of the most sensitive parts of Shane. Every roll of his hips evokes a wounded noise from Shane, a terribly masochistic, addicting behavior. Oversensitivity begins to creep at the edges, seeping through the cracks, and there’s nothing in the world that could stop Shane from his effortful movements atop Ilya.
“So good, puppy. Magnifique, tout pour moi.” Gorgeous, all for me. His brain has effectively been turned to mush, seemingly leaking from his ears as all rationality exits his mind. Words become slurred, incoherent to himself as he swings between languages, attempting to find anything to verbalize this moment. He fails, words continuing to bleed together.
On a particularly rough grind, Shane’s eyes roll back in his head, pleasure shooting up his spine. The world spins for a second before his arms shoot out, catching him before he falls atop Ilya like some pathetic, deflated balloon. His palms push against Ilya’s pebbled nipples, a shattering groan leaving his lips at the stimulation. Shane moves one hand up, pressing against the columns of his throat, his thumb rubbing against the middle of his neck.
Not for the first time tonight, Shane imagines a thin black strip stretched across the tan skin. Shifting his hand up, he plasters the webbed part of his hand against the imagined leather, watching the way Ilya’s eyes turn white as if he’s thinking about the same thing. Would Ilya let Shane claim him like that? Wrap leather around his neck and yank him around, create indents that fade with time? Their time is already so limited that Shane wouldn’t even see the aftermath of the collar, wouldn’t be blessed with it. It’s unrealistic anyway–Ilya’s teammates would definitely notice if he walked in one day with a fucking collar imprinted onto his skin.
Nonetheless, Shane lets himself imagine. If this is their last time, which he thinks every time, he can let himself go for a daydream. Visualize a world where they can claim each other with love bites on intimate parts of the body, where they can bite into each other’s neck, where they’re most sensitive, a permanent, unchangeable declaration of what they are to each other.
“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane mutters before he even realizes, the words tumbling from his mouth. “How do you say ‘collar’ in Russian? Speak, tell me, please.”
He watches in slow motion as Ilya licks his lips, and Shane can’t resist leaning down to suck on his tongue. It’s passionate and fiery and terrifyingly intimate. He pulls back before his feelings get caught in the crossfire, a string of spit threatening to reveal everything Shane has tried so hard to keep hidden.
“Osh–” Ilya swallows, the word seized in his throat but he pushes through it obediently, “Osheynik.” His pupils dilate impossibly further, leaning into Shane’s hand at his throat, practically begging to be owned by him.
“Want to get you one. Osheynik.” The word is unfamiliar in his mouth, the pronunciation laughable, but Ilya doesn’t make fun like he usually would. Doesn’t give him that award-winning, lopsided smile and a smart-aleck phrase that would make a blush creep up the back of Shane’s neck. No–he whimpers, nodding his head frantically, the tips of his fingers brushing against the nooks of Shane’s knees, goosebumps lie in his wake. “You’d look so pretty, puppy. Right? All dressed up for me?”
Ilya nods so fast Shane is nervous he’s going to sprain a tendon in his neck. He presses down again, digging the soft part of his hand into his throat, and then releases, watching in amazement at the brief white that transforms into an irritated red. Not a perfect mimic, not by a long shot, but the sight is enough for a moan to claw its way out of his throat.
He rolls his hips faster, the friction mind-boggling, every drag of Ilya’s cock against his walls feels like he’s being constantly set on fire. A livewire, sensitive to touch, flailing around uninhibited and dangerous. His forehead hits something hard but the pain doesn’t register, his hips seemingly moving on their own. Ilya is a whining mess underneath him, every inch of his trembling with the need to touch, to fuck up into Shane like he wants to. But he’s obedient, a well-trained dog waiting for his treat.
“I’d get you some tags.” Shane is breathing heavily, his muscles screaming at him from exertion despite being a professional athlete for the last three decades. “I’d put my name and number on there. Make sure that when people find you, lost and alone and pathetic, they know you belong to someone. To me.”
There’s some utterance below him, Ilya clearly trying to articulate his thoughts but failing. Shane lifts his head with great strength, a wet strand of hair falling in front of his eye. Ilya is staring at him, his jawline squished from the angle, and Shane can’t resist nipping at the bunched skin, wishing he could devour him. But he can’t leave marks, no matter how badly his canines ache with the want, so he forces himself away. Ilya’s lips are still moving, but there’s no words.
“Sweet puppy.” Shane slows his hips, finally gaining some control over them. His hole sore, his dick weeping for release. There’s slick everywhere, stuck to his thighs, Ilya’s groin, making the drag of Ilya’s cock slippery and perfect. Shane traces a finger along Ilya’s twitching lips, finally noticing the tear tracks on Ilya’s temples, disappearing into his hairline. Oh.
“Fuck, so sweet.” Shane enters his fingers into Ilya’s mouth, eyes crossing at the immediate wet warmth surrounding the digits. “Don’t even have to muzzle you to keep you quiet. Just have to fuck myself on your knot, right? All pliant for me?”
Ilya whines around his fingers, his cock kicking inside Shane. A tongue licks between his fingers, and Shane rubs the pad of his fingers across the dull divots of his molars, up to sharp peaks of his canines. He wants their imprints on his neck, his shoulders, the meat of his hips. He wants them to draw blood on his inner thighs, the imagined pleasure-pain creating fireworks behind his eyelids.
He removes his fingers, sitting up to his full height. The angle changes slightly, Ilya’s cock a constant pressure against Shane’s prostate now. He moans softly, his eyes shutting for a brief second before opening again at half-mast. Ilya is like a wet dream below him, drenched in sweat and quivering, every breath causing his chest to balloon. There’s light half-moon marks on his chest, littering the skin above his nipples beautifully.
Keeping eye contact with the alpha below him, he wraps his wet fingers around his cock, the fingers that were just exploring Ilya’s mouth. The spit makes a great substitute for lube, keeps it a little dry, just how Shane likes it. It feels like his cock hasn’t been touched in years, the first touch like an electric shock shooting up his spine. He arches his back with a rather embarrassing mewl, slick seeping out of him.
“Think it’s time I get my hat trick,” Shane starts moving his hand, the two fingers not nearly enough to bring him over the edge, a self-tortuous tease from tip to base and back, “Don’t you agree, puppy?”
A tear escapes from the corner of Ilya’s left eye. Instinctively, Shane licks his lips as he watches the droplet soak into his hair, practically tasting the salt on his tongue. A sick and twisted feeling blooms in his chest at seeing another tear fall. As fun as this has been, he thinks they’ve both reached their limit of this particular scenario.
“Okay, puppy,” he whistles softly, more so a breathy noise between his teeth than anything else, and his heart warms when Ilya’s eyes clear a bit. With a calming breath, he releases some of his pheromones, leaning down to make sure Ilya gets the syrupy sweetness. Their lips brush. “Be still. I’ll take care of you.”
Not waiting another second, Shane lifts himself only to drop heavily, nailing his prostate on the first go. He continues the steady, slow pace, his fingers matching the rhythm in such a way that makes him want to cry, his eyes stinging with the agonizing pleasure. The muscles in his neck turn to putty, his head rolling backward as he shuts his eyes, allowing his other senses to take over.
It’s as if there’s a rope inside him, stretching from the nape of his neck to his tailbone, that is threatening to unravel with every lazy, rough stroke of his cock and languid shiftings of his hips. The room has disappeared around him, everything centering to his body, the overwhelming sensations that make him feel boneless yet strong, a juxtaposition he’s often familiar with when in a bed with Ilya Rozanov. The alpha is quietly whimpering beneath him, the cedarwood scent turning into something smoky, a sign that he’s nearing the finish line. Shane can’t let him beat him twice in one night.
His eyes open slowly at a particularly harsh drag of Ilya’s cock, the beginning of a knot pressing against his swollen, abused, overly slick rim. His head falls forward as a gasp leaves his throat, scratching the edges and dissipating in the air. The air is thick with their scents, with the general stench of sex that’s gone on for too long, and Shane salivates. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
Shane leans down again, plastering his chest against Ilya’s, their nipples brushing delicately. Ilya flinches as if he’s been punched in the gut, his face grimacing in a confusion mixture of pain and pleasure, but when he gazes down at Shane, all he sees is pure adoration, pure love. It does terrible things to Shane’s heart.
The rope is close to fraying. His cock is trapped between their stomachs, the head gently rubbing against Ilya’s stomach with every stroke. The friction is damn near unbearable, every touch, no matter the pressure or speed, is excruciating, sending pleasure blooming to his extremities.
“Fuck, puppy, Ilya–” Shane groans, grinding his hips in an erratic motion–the telltale sign that he’s getting close. His cock is beginning to cry and twitch with overstimulation, his two previous orgasms catching up to him. Usually, all he can manage is two orgasms within a short period of time, unless he’s in heat, which are always planned. His body is tired, aching as he continues the sloppy strokes on his cock, the muscles in his thighs burning, telling him to stop.
Then he looks up at Ilya. His beautiful Ilya. The tears are constant now, falling from the corners like rain drops on windows. Carefully, Shane reaches up a hand, cupping Ilya’s cheek and feeling the wetness on the tips of his fingers, wiping at the thin skin under his eye with his thumb. Ilya keens at the touch, his cheeks reddening, blinking slowly as another tear drips, right onto Shane’s thumb.
“You’re beautiful.” Shane whispers, not even registering the words before they leave his mouth. His hips move quicker now, the rope on its last thread, his final orgasm rapidly building in his gut. He removes his hand from his cock, choosing to rub against the precome that’s accumulated on Ilya’s lower stomach.
The change of friction is immediate, sudden, perfect. Shane lets out a high-pitched whimper, his eyes blurry with pleasure. Ilya must register the shift, must smell the sweetness leaving Shane’s body, as he licks his lips, his hands suddenly pressing against the meat of Shane’s thighs. Shane can’t find it in himself to admonish the alpha, the tears in his blue eyes softening the omega toward any disobedience.
On a particularly rough grind, Ilya’s hips twitch upward, clearly involuntary if Ilya’s immediate, barely coherent apology has anything to say. Shane doesn’t respond with words, can’t respond with words, just leans forward and kisses him, all soft tongue and sharp teeth, all of their previous skills lost in the light of pleasure. Ilya attempts to kiss back, to give Shane something, anything, but it’s half-hearted, his brain not firing at full speed. It’s still one of the best kisses they’ve shared.
Shane feels overwhelmed with sensation, his third orgasm approaching like a ship arriving to port for the first time in months. It’s slow, almost tortuous but he can see the land, all he needs is a strong gust of wind, something to bring him right there–
The final push comes in the form of Ilya, as most things do. A soft, gentle hand caresses down his back, fingertips settling in the dimples of his back and pressing ever so tenderly. The touch isn’t even sexual, he doesn’t force Shane to grind on his dick or anything, but it’s so effortlessly intimate, that Shane unfurls like a loose spool of thread, his entire body shaking as he comes hot across Ilya’s lower stomach and gushes around his knot.
It’s never been like this–that in-between moment where he’s not quite there, mentally speaking. He feels deep underwater, like the ship got caught in the current and was swept under. Everything is sluggish, his muscles and tendons aching with the pressure of exertion, desperately trying to get to the surface, to make himself float.
Cedarwood. That’s what brings him out. Ilya is shaking like a damn leaf in autumn, the last one on the tree that’s terrified to fall. He feels Ilya inside him, trembling and thick and hard. There’s pressure against his rim, the preemptive promise of a knot. Ilya has been so good and Shane has to reward him. Shane got his three orgasms, Ilya deserves his.
His lips are soft against Ilya’s skin, starting at the thin skin below his ear, languidly moving down to the thicker part of his neck, and only barely hesitating when he licks at his gland, tasting whiskey on his tongue. Never before has he done something like this, so close to biting down, breaking Ilya’s skin and marking him as Shane’s. He’s sure that his sex education teacher from high school would simply clutch at her pearls if he could see him now.
The next words are purely biological, just from proximity to Ilya’s mating gland. They don’t mean anything. They don’t have to mean anything if Ilya chooses. If Ilya chooses someone other than Shane. But they slip past Shane’s completely melted brain before he’s able to do anything, before he can take them back and be normal. Or as normal as they can be in their situation.
“Come for your omega, please. Please, alpha.” The words are whispered right into Ilya’s gland, his front teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He’s cognizant enough to refrain from biting, but it’s a close thing.
Ilya obeys beautifully, the slurred command barely out of Shane’s mouth before Ilya’s knot is inflating at Shane’s rim. Shane is quick to sink lower, ensuring that he gets what he wants. Ilya’s moan is hoarse and broken, his hands gripping into Shane’s hips so tightly that Shane hopes there’s bruises tomorrow in the shape of Ilya’s calloused fingers. Another gush of slick exits his hole at the intrusion, a violent shiver shooting through Shane’s body. He can feel Ilya spurting inside him, and it feels like so much that Shane has half a mind to reach down and feel at his lower stomach, see if there’s any distension occurring. If only he could get his muscles to work.
He continues to lap at Ilya’s shoulder, secreting his scent to calm the alpha, wishing to make him feel safe and adored. Shane didn’t go easy on him during this session, and he’s sure to be in the floaty space for a while, probably even after his knot goes down. But Shane kind of wants to stay here forever, his alpha purring under him, filled to the fucking brim with the most perfect knot.
Time goes by. It could be a few seconds, a few minutes, maybe even a few hours. Shane explores Ilya’s neck and shoulder and face with his lips and tongue–nipping at Ilya’s jawline, threatening to bite at his jugular, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. Eventually, Ilya starts to respond, but it’s slow and syrupy, like it’s more based on instinct than cognitive actions.
Ilya’s knot deflates, though the thick cock continues to twitch every so often inside of Shane. It seems like Ilya is still hard inside Shane, but one look at Ilya’s face and Shane knows that he’s completely spent. Shane doesn’t even think he could go for another round, not unless he commanded Ilya to fuck his face, but Shane isn’t even sure that the alpha could handle that.
Shane peppers kisses around Ilya’s lips, licking against his teeth every so often until Ilya finally starts to respond. Warmth blooms in Shane’s chest at the first twitch of Ilya’s lips, chasing after him. The first time Ilya’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip, the thick muscle trembling against Shane, it feels like heaven on his tongue.
Their lighthearted petting and kissing turns into a heavier make out session. Ilya rubs his hands up and down Shane’s sides, across his stomach, his thighs, even brings a hand up to Shane’s neck and chin, holding him in place with a gentle grasp. It reminds Shane of their first kiss, the way Ilya confidently took charge despite being a nineteen year old. Shane felt way out of his depth anyway, having never been with someone like Ilya before, so he was grateful to turn off his brain and enjoy the way Ilya slid his tongue against his own.
Once Shane’s bones feel like gelatin for more reasons than one, he forces himself to pull back from his satiated alpha. He watches as Ilya blinks his eyes open as if it takes all his strength. The blinding smile that Ilya shows him is worth more than anything.
“Hi, puppy.” Shane whispers, nervous to break their carefully crafted bubble. He sinks his fingers into Ilya’s curls, gently scratching at his scalp. Ilya leans into the touch. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.” Ilya tilts his head, his lips brushing against the thin, sweaty skin of Shane’s wrist, right above the prominent vein. “Brain is, ehm. Not working right.” Shane moves his hand from Ilya’s scalp to the nape of his neck, scruffing him and feeling the alpha melt in his arms. It makes heat spread throughout Shane’s body. This powerful, strong alpha that can check a man double his size into the boards and not even get a bruise, and he’s purring at a simple palm along his neck, completely content and slow blinking. Shane can’t resist leaning forward, brushing their lips together in a tender kiss.
“My omega…” It’s a murmured, seemingly half-hearted noise, but Shane’s ears perk up at the slow movement of Ilya’s lips, feeling the words embed into his own lips. Ilya’s chest rumbles, his purring intensifying, as Shane deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth, trying to dislodge any other words or confessions from Ilya’s throat. Maybe if Ilya can admit his feelings first, the words stuck in Shane’s chest would feel looser. “You were gorgeous, malysh. My perfect omega.”
Shane whines into his mouth, his cunt clenching around Ilya’s flaccid cock. He drops his head to Ilya’s shoulder, nosing at his gland, getting his scent right from the source. It makes Shane release some of his scent as well, Ilya’s chest vibrating as the scent hits his nose. The hands on his waist tighten, and Shane hopes they bruise.
Suddenly, Shane feels incredibly silly. Here he is, at 36 years old, settled into his career as a generational player, with more money than he ever needs, and he’s scared to tell a 21 year old how he feels. Everything feels monumental yet simultaneously inconsequential. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, and he needs to tell Ilya–
Ilya blinks at him, his eyes ever so trusting. He’s never looked as young as he does right now with that post-orgasmic haze emitting from his skin. The words get wedged under his tongue, bypassing his lips and the open air. Ilya smiles, though his eyes are knowing, as if he can see the swirl of anxiety in Shane’s brain. A hand comes up to cup Shane’s cheek, his thumb rubbing at his cheekbone tenderly.
“You are scared.” Ilya states, his voice deep and rough, but it covers Shane like a warm blanket in the cold of winter. “My omega, volzyublennyy, talk to me. Please.”
Shane licks his lips, trying to get any moisture back into his mouth. Everything just feels like…so much right now. Ilya’s thumb swiping gently across Shane’s cheek as if he’s something fragile, his hole twitching involuntarily around Ilya, those blue eyes that are so young. But they aren’t naive. If there’s one thing about Ilya, he refuses to be treated like a child, despite his age. And Shane doesn’t want to treat him like that. He…he deserves to make his own decisions, and Shane should be an adult and just fucking say it already—
“I really like you.” Shane doesn’t blink as the words crawl from his throat, hopefully hitting Ilya with certainly rather than fear. “I know this is probably, like, crazy. I’m going to retire in a few years and you’ll have another decade at least in the league. But, fuck, Ilya there’s…there’s something about you that I can’t get out of my fucking head. I don’t want to tie you down, not emotionally, or make you feel like I’m coercing you into some sort of fucked up age-gap relationship–not that we have to be in a relationship but, well, anyway. You have so many people, omegas, alphas that are probably lining up to be with you, and they just want to have one night with you. And you’re young, you should have flings and whatever, but I can’t…I can’t be that for you. Not anymore. I can only be more with you.”
By the end, Shane is panting as if he double-shifted out on the ice. His throat feels raw, the vulnerability inside of him must’ve grown thorns on the way out of his mouth. Suddenly, everything feels too much, and he forces his eyes away from Ilya, away from his steady gaze and perfect lips, the rosiness of his cheeks.
Fingers slip under his chin, lifting his head slowly. Ilya is still there, obviously, looking at him with a weird glint in his eye. Shane wants to name it, wants to be optimistic over that small bit of hope. He can’t help but feel like a kid again, a rookie that just wants to be loved and appreciated.
Ilya doesn’t say anything, just gently pulls Shane toward him with his fingers, their lips meeting in the softest kiss Shane thinks he’ll ever experience. The knot in Shane’s chest loosens fully, unraveling all of his anxiety through the single kiss. Shane can feel himself physically melt into the kiss, their mouths parting to languidly lick, silent emotions being transferred through spit and saliva. He doesn’t feel as silly anymore.
When they part, there’s a thin string of saliva still connecting them, but Shane can’t find it in himself to break it. He stays close, Ilya’s hot breath against his mouth, chin, and cheeks. Once Shane feels less breakable, he flicks his eyes up to Ilya’s, and finally feels confident enough to name that look.
Love.
“I am crazy about you, Shane.” Ilya whispers, his lips barely moving. The saliva is still there, breathing with them. “I do not let just anybody tell me what to do in the bedroom. Or call me puppy.”
Shane huffs out a breath that’s close to a laugh. The corner of his lips twitch up, but he’s afraid to smile, a small ball of anxiety still apparent in his chest. His eyes flick back and forth between Ilya’s, but they don’t falter. Ilya speaks again, his massive hand cradling Shane like he’s a prized possession.
“I have not…” His voice comes out shaky, like he’s nervous to admit too much. But he clears his throat, restarting with more confidence. “I have not fucked anyone in months. After our last time, I…I tried to. But I noticed myself being picky. One girl didn’t have freckles. One girl had freckles but they were not in the right, um, pattern?” Configuration, Shane thinks, but his cheeks are burning with desire. “I realized that none of them looked like you.” Ilya leans forward, licking into Shane’s mouth for all he’s worth. “None of them tasted like you.”
Fuck. The room fills with the sweetest maple, an involuntary reaction to being emotionally claimed by an alpha. Ilya moans into the next kiss, and Shane can’t stop the whine that slips into Ilya’s mouth.
“We don’t have to…we don’t have to label it. But I do. I want you, Ilya. If you’ll have me.” Shane parts, removing himself from the close proximity. He wants to take in every reaction, see if there’s any sort of hesitation on Ilya’s face. If there’s any at all, Shane won’t take offense. Ilya is young, he has options. Why would he want to settle for some midlife omega close to the end of his hockey career?
But the only emotion Ilya is showing is adoration. Pure and certain. He pulls Shane back down for a kiss, messy but sweet, tasting of them. “I want you too, my omega. For as long as you’ll have me.”
Forever, Shane’s omega purrs, his chest rumbling with the finality of that word. That is definitely a conversation for another time, so Shane just kisses Ilya again, their teeth clashing from their matching smiles. He feels Ilya’s cock twitch inside him, and his own body responds with more slick than he should be able to produce after three mind-blowing orgasms.
Anything is possible with Ilya Rozanov involved, though. And Shane can’t wait to test the limits.