Chapter Text
Shane enters the hotel room in complete silence, sitting down on the edge of the bed with stone hard seriousness etched across his face. He clasps his hands together, back ramrod straight, and Ilya feels his blood run cold. Whispers of his previous fears start to rustle in his mind, and he swallows a gulp.
“This looks serious.”
“It’s not—I mean—sort of, it—could you, just, sit down for a second?”
Fucking hell, it is bad. Ilya feeds off the flatness in his voice, years of experience in knowing Shane telling him that he’s masking his nervousness. Okay, cool. No problem. He may have gotten caught up in the sunshine of the weekend, but this is a much needed reminder of how fragile things are, how quickly they can dissipate. Ilya obliges, sitting down on the hotel room dresser with crossed legs, and gives Shane the floor to speak. He tries to ignore the tightening in his back.
“It’s not just me, right?”
“Not just you, what?”
“You feel it too, don’t you?”
He refuses to be the one to admit anything first, refuses to feel the wind on his face as he eventually plummets back into the dark pit he got himself in. He wants—no, needs Shane to say his piece first. “Feel what?”
“Last time we were together, it was… different.”
“What was different? That you ran away?” It’s difficult to keep looking at him as the words tumble past his lips, a touch too revealing, and he turns his head to the lamp on the bedside table.
Shane huffs. “Look, I—I’m sorry I freaked out, okay?”
“Freaked out over nothing,” he plays it down, even though they both know it’s a lie. The shade of beige on the wall behind the lamp does wonders for the room.
“It wasn’t nothing, don’t act like that man, this is hard enough without you being an asshole.”
Ilya rolls his head over to Shane, his alpha making sure he looks the picture of boredom. Inside, he’s petrified. “What do you want, Hollander?”
Shane leans back, closing his eyes and releasing a sigh like it weighs a tonne. Like he’s about to release a bomb in the room. Ilya’s defenses shoot up, wolfishly rearing for a fight. He knows he shouldn’t be freezing up like this, but in the soft warm lighting of this hotel room, vulnerability washes over him in gentle waves that he refuses to let Shane see. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the discomfort is thick in the air.
Ilya decides to push him. “We get together, we fuck, it’s simple.”
“Simple?” Shane asks in disbelief.
“It’s simple for me.”
“Bullshit!” Shane calls his bluff. Silence falls between them for a moment, Ilya refusing to start the conversation again.
Shane takes the hint. “I think I’m gay.”
The words startle him, and he laughs without thinking. There he goes again, getting him worried and worked up over nothing.
“Hmm. Oh yeah? What—what makes you think that?”
“Fuck you,” Shane says with surprising vehemence. “You’re not gay.”
“No, not completely—”
“Yeah, well, I think I am. Completely.” The weight of the words lay heavy in between them, not lost to Ilya, but he still can’t make sense of where this conversation is going.
“Okay, so you’re gay. So what?”
“Well, it’s kind of a big deal! To me, at least!” Shane admits, disbelieving laughter breaking through his monotony. “So sorry if I’m being boring again.”
Ilya groans, not happy at all with the way things are heading. He moves to sit on the bed, not missing the way Shane looks at him in worry, eyes round and shiny. He follows his alpha’s lead, aiming to find the direct source of the problem, getting to a solution, and hopefully taking the hesitancy and pain away from the look in Shane’s eye.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Who else am I gonna tell?” he says quietly, and it pulls Ilya’s head out of his ass for a moment. He’s gotten so used to being alone over the years that the desire to talk through things with others has eventually faded away. He nods in understanding.
“It’s not just… being gay,” Shane continues awkwardly. “It’s… you. It’s this. Being gay is one thing, but fucking your arch-rival is another thing.”
Ilya shrugs, feeling ever the hypocrite for the slight hurt he feels when Shane puts it so simply. “That’s why it is a secret.”
“I know that, but last time… And for the record, again, I am sorry about last time, okay? I’m sorry I freaked out.” The honesty in his voice soothes the tender and bruised soreness inside Ilya somewhat, but his eyes remain fixed on the lamp next to the bed. The lampshade is a little dented from this side of the room.
“But before that… It was nice.”
Relief strikes deep in his back, like a mist over his skin, but he won’t allow himself to show it. Not yet. Not when the rug can still be pulled out from underneath him.
“It was.”
“And it felt like we were something.”
When Ilya speaks, each word is like a sear on his tongue. He wishes, as ever, that they didn’t ring true. “We can’t be something, Hollander.”
A beat passes before Shane responds, his voice soft. “Would you want to be, if we could?”
“We can’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“What does it fucking matter?” he asks defensively, metaphorical hackles raising and soot burning in his nostrils. Why is he deciding to torture him with this? What good was there in imagining things that could never shine in the light of day?
Shane huffs. “I don’t think I can keep pretending I don’t like you anymore.”
“You don’t like me,” Ilya insists, his faults and weaknesses rearing their ugly heads much too easily. Lazy. Stupid. A constant disappointment.
“Yeah, I do,” Shane starts, his voice trembling. “I think I like you maybe a little too much.”
Tight fingers squeeze violently at his heart in his chest, and he clenches his eyes shut. “Don’t. Don’t fucking do this Hollander, I’m not…”
Brave enough. Strong enough. Well enough.
“I wouldn’t be able to go home again,” he says firmly, finding it easier to talk about this, for once, than himself. “Ever. Do you get that?”
Shane nods, his expression earnest, like he truly understands. Ilya doesn’t think he could even grasp half of it. “Because of your family?”
Fucking hell. His nice, soft, boring Canadian upbringing was usually charming, but now it grinds his teeth.
“Because Russia!” he tells him, trying to convey the seriousness without spelling it out. “I would not be able to get back to Russia.”
“What would happen to you?”
“I don’t want to find out.”
“But, would your parents…”
He sighs. They’ve been at this for so long, and Shane talks almost openly to a fault about his family that Ilya might as well indulge him a little bit, even if he feels like a pressure valve ready to burst with steam.
“My father is police. My brother is police.”
“And your mother?”
The lump he swallows in his throat is thick. He can almost smell it in the air, sweet milk mixing with caramel, honey and vanilla. Her face is harder to remember on some days, even with all the pictures he has, and the sound of her laughter only comforts him in his dreams.
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ilya sniffs and shakes his head, determined to keep the steam in and move things along. The conversation was heavy enough as it was, and it didn’t need to get worse. “I was young. My father is very old fashioned. And sick.”
“Sick like crazy?”
He almost laughs. “That too, a little, but no. Sick more like…”
“Oh, like cancer?”
“Dementia.” The word falls out of his mouth with the weight of an anvil. He trails his eyes up from his feet to his knees and across the room, even though he can feel the burn of Shane’s eyes on the side of his head. He sniffs again, the smell in the room now strong as the sniffles clear his nostrils, and his hands fist in his pants as the smouldering scent of charcoal and rubber swirls in the air. His back aches.
“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” Shane says gently. “That’s awful.”
The simple acknowledgement cracks a hairline fracture into his resolve, and Ilya turns completely away from Shane, not wanting to be caught. His lips are twitching in an effort not to wobble, he’s unable to stop sniffling, and a tear trails hot down his cheek. His father isn’t worth even half the trouble he causes, and here is Ilya despite that, broken and mourning regardless. It really isn’t fair.
Shane calls out to him softly, and the soft tenderness is too much for Ilya. The dam breaks and the valve bursts, water and steam rushing everywhere.
“Sorry,” he says wetly, his voice cracking.
“Hey,” Shane whispers, voice delicate as he lifts himself onto Ilya’s lap. He holds his face gently, like Ilya is something to handle with care, and more tears flow freely.
His thumbs dance gently across his cheek, and it helps to quell the anguish hot in the room around them. Shane tilts Ilya’s head up towards him, forcing him to look as he reaches to the back of his neck.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes out, eyes unblinking as he tracks his movement.
Shane peels the small patch off the back of his neck and kneads his fingers into the small, fleshy scent glands he so cautiously protects. His scent slowly pours out into the room, wafting to start and crashing over him rapidly soon enough.
The floral sweetness of magnolia reaches him first, dousing him in a soothing mist that eases the tension in his back; the fresh citrus of clementines calms his erratically beating heart, slowing his pulse; and the creamy vanilla wraps around him, almost like a warm embrace, comforting like nothing else on earth and making him feel safe. Wanted. Protected.
It’s been years since he felt that way.
“Shane,” he whispers again with wide eyes, breathing in deeply and slowly to soak it all in. This was intimacy he’d never shared with anyone before, and it strikes him deeply to know how much it means for Shane; to reveal himself like this in a hotel with almost nothing other than alphas, their colleagues to boot, when he puts so much effort into not showing himself otherwise. He could feel the care and affection in the air, impossible to ignore or misinterpret after years of guessing.
It almost—it almost felt familiar, like something Ilya’s been too scared to put a word to.
Shane rubs his thumb across his cheek once more before leaning down, pressing their lips together in a warm kiss. It was slow and sweet, lips sliding against each other in a way he’s been longing for since December, and it ends far too soon. Shane leans back, only for a second, before Ilya leans forward and captures his lips with his again, mouth hot and searing as he sweeps his tongue against Shane’s.
He tries to pour everything into it and hopes he understands—how thankful he is for what Shane’s done for him, how much it means that he’s here with him right now, and the strength of his feelings that he doesn’t have the courage to say out loud. As Shane matches his intensity, catching Ilya’s bottom lip in a soft bite, he considers the message received. He hopes that it’s reciprocated.
When they finally part, Ilya presses his forehead against Shane’s chest, who still cradles his head gently, and when Shane presses a gentle kiss to his temple, he crumples into the side of his neck. He swipes at the scent glands right at the bridge of his nose, submerging himself in the comfort and warmth that Shane has so willingly given him. His tears stain the omega’s shirt.
“It’s okay,” Shane hushes him, tightening his grip around Ilya and clutching him firmly against his chest. Ilya nuzzles even further against him, a sob wracking through his body. “You’re alright, you’re okay.”
For a long time they sit there, Shane rocking them back and forth, until Ilya’s tears run dry and his sniffles cease. Ilya breathes in deeply once more, the pure sweetness of just Shane quieting his mind in a much, much needed way. Shane’s taken to carding his fingers lightly through Ilya’s hair, nails lightly scratching against his scalp, and it soothes him down to his very bones.
It becomes easy, then, wrapped up in him, to truly believe everything he’d said. To let biology take over, to let this omega—his omega, even if they weren’t mated, because there would probably never be another—take care of him, and make him feel right.
When everything settles and they have to go their separate ways, reality would take hold again, and Ilya would have to face the world. But here, in the safety of his room with the shroud that Shane created for him, he allows himself to believe all is fine.
When Ilya stills and drops his hands to Shane’s waist, the omega leans back slightly to look at him. “Feeling better?” he asks softly, a thumb resting on his cheek bone.
“Much better, because of you. Thank you, Shane,” he says reverently, really wanting to show how much it means to him. Shane smiles sweetly at him, his nose scrunching up, and Ilya could feel the blood warm in his veins. He couldn’t believe he had Shane here with him, that he got so lucky that he chose him.
He dives back in to rub his nose against his scent gland greedily, humming in pleasure. He can smell himself in the room, too, rich whisky and cinnamon, and as their scents mix together Ilya feels drowsy, almost drunk off it. Shane laughs and shifts in his lap, rubbing his back.
“I’ve been worried about you, you know,” he mumbles into his hairline.
Ilya sits up and looks at him, resisting the urge to sink into the browns of his eyes. “Why?”
“I could just tell something was off,” Shane says, hand reaching up to the delicate skin under Ilya’s eyes. “You looked terrible in all your press interviews. Dark circles under your eyes like you weren’t sleeping,” a thumb raises up to his eyebrow, “and that crease in your eyebrow when you’re hiding something that hurts. Not to mention you’ve been playing like shit.”
Ilya leans down into Shane’s chest, arms circling tightly around his waist.
“Since when?”
Shane hums. “Since the end of last year, I think.”
Ilya burrows further into Shane’s chest, if that’s even possible. How was it that the teammates he spent nearly every day with, for years, had only begun to notice something was wrong with him last week, but Shane had caught on instantly, even with their distance?
It’s a little embarrassing, Ilya thinks, to admit it. But surely after crying over his dead mother and dying father like a baby, this confession couldn’t be worse. He’s given so much to Shane already; what difference does this make?
“You will not believe me,” he starts.
Shane pulls his head back gently, tilting it upwards to meet his gaze. “Please?” he pouts, widening his eyes in a way that he knows Ilya can’t say no to, and he accepts defeat.
“You are right, it started last December, at the end of a road trip. We were in Detroit, and after we finished our workout before the game, my teammate showed me an article. It said, ‘Are Shane Hollander and Rose Landry dating?’”
Shane’s eyebrows raise in shock.
The words are difficult to string together in English, and for once he’s happy for the language barrier that forces him to keep things brief, neat and simple. “And then, ever since, I start to feel like shit. Cramping. Soreness. Like I am riding a zamboni but under it, instead of on top. I tried with my, uh, what is the word—team trainer…”
“Physiotherapist?” Shane provides, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, that. She tried to help me but nothing was working, only for a little bit.” He pauses there, deciding not to go into extreme detail about how bad things were truly getting, and all the drama with his brother. He’d spent enough time talking about his family tonight.
The heaviness in Shane’s eyes is almost too much for him to bear, but Ilya has grown tired of looking away from Shane, even as the sweetness in the air runs sour.
“Unitl Montreal. When I saw you after the game. And it was okay, a little bit, when I saw you. And I think your scent blocker was peeling, because I could smell you a little bit. It made everything go away.”
“Ilya,” Shane gasps softly, body unmoving in his lap. “You—that all happened because of me?” His voice is laden with grief and panic, acrid blackcurrant pungent now, and Ilya hushes him immediately, his alpha berating himself for making the omega worry.
“Shhh,” he whispers, pushing his hair back off his forehead and rubbing at his freckles. “It is okay. I am fine now. Bears will be fine and we will embarrass you in Boston in March.”
“It’s not fine, Ilya,” he insists, worry thick in his tone. His eyes shift frantically between Ilya, the wall behind him, the bedside table and the pillows on his bed, and Ilya can’t help the slowly creeping smile on his lips.
Shane places his hands on Ilya’s shoulders. “I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have panicked, it was so stupid. Fuck, I feel so bad, you must have felt terrible—”
“Do not worry, Shane,” he pleaded, knowing that was impossible; all Shane ever did was worry.
“How can I not? I watched you lose a fucking face off to Peter Bergvall, and you missed a wide open slap shot on a power play! Against Buffalo! You could stick an eighty year old in their goal and it’d be better than that knothead they call a goalie, they’re so shit—”
Ilya cuts off his rambling with a kiss, his heart warm and alpha deeply pleased to see Shane fretting over him. He bites down into the plush of his bottom lip before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue, sucking on it gently, and pulling away.
“It is okay, Hollander, seriously,” he asserts in a voice that leaves no room for negotiation. Shane swallows with a nod, relenting instantly.
Shane’s lips snap shut. “Okay.”
Ilya’s eyebrow quirks up, expecting to get more of a fight. He gives Shane a long stare, the soft lighting in the room twinkling in his eyes, before trailing his gaze downward to his mouth. The bottom lip puffs out from the kissing and biting, and the curve of his cupid’s bow glistens with the sheen of their mixed spit.
A beat passes, tension building in the room. And then, Ilya smells it. The syrupy scent of maple, balmy in his nostrils, starting a warm simmer low in his belly. It mingles with vanilla into saccharine sweetness, the telltale sign of Shane’s arousal, and Ilya’s lips curl into a wicked grin.
“But, if you want,” he begins to offer, tone suggestive and hands dropping to the plush curve of Shane’s ass. He brings his lips within a hair’s breadth from Shane’s throat. “You can always make it up to me.”
Shane leans back into the palms of Ilya’s hands, letting out breathy sighs as Ilya kisses him.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. Thick dark lashes hang low over his eyes to caress his freckles, and Ilya’s hips cant upwards. He doesn’t think Shane’s ever looked so beautiful.
“Your symptoms sound kinda familiar, you know,” Shane says with a lilt in his voice, his lip curling to dimple his cheek.
“Really?” his voice grumbles low in his chest, arousal now unrestrained. They may have an early flight tomorrow morning, but Ilya wants to savour every moment he has here with Shane. The quiet and tender ones, the sweaty and heart-racing ones, and everything in between.
In their little sanctuary, time feels slow. On their side. Ilya follows his lead.
“You were hurt after I left that day in Boston, and then you found out I got a girlfriend almost a week later,” he starts, rolling his hips downwards. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut as Shane continuously rubs against him, and he forces his eyes open to keep watch.
“And—ah—I’m not one to brag, but I’m a pretty famous hockey player. I—ungh—know how all the news and pictures got everywhere. You must have seen it.”
Ilya has enough of his wits together to withhold that he’d been stalking Shane and Rose for each of the five weeks they were dating, his Instagram algorithm now providing him with unprompted Rose Landry updates, but his silence is enough of an answer for Shane. He grins wickedly.
“The soreness, the tiredness, the way it got into your game and your physio couldn’t help you,” he continues, and Ilya raises his hips upwards to meet Shane on a roll. A low moan erupts from Ilya’s throat, and Shane’s hips stutter.
“It—ha—almost sounds like omega rejection sickness. Except, you know, you’re an alpha. Unless there’s something you want to tell me…”
“You have taken my knot too many times to know that is not true,” Ilya growls, flipping them over onto the bed. Shane huffs a laugh and his legs part readily, syrupy arousal so thick it coats on Ilya’s tongue. He nuzzles into Shane’s neck once more and inhales deeply, careful not to touch their crotches together.
Yet.
“This is not what I had in mind for you to make me feel better, Hollander,” he grunts with a tut, open-mouthed kisses moving down his neck. He reaches the neckline of Shane’s shirt, pops it open and tugs it off, ignoring the soft cries of protest as a button flies across the room.
“That was expensive,” Shane mumbles.
“I will buy you ten more,” Ilya says easily around one of Shane’s nipples, teasing it with his tongue before taking it fully into his mouth and sucking hard. Shane whimpers, and Ilya’s dick twitches to attention in his pants.
“You do not even need me, you could buy yourself ten more shirts, Mr. Pretty Famous Hockey Player,” he reminds him, releasing the nipple with a pop and glancing up at Shane. In the dim light of the room his cheeks are still flushed visibly pink, his lips hang parted, and his hair hangs loose over his forehead in the boringly Canadian way that Ilya loves.
He freezes for a moment, the realisation uncomfortably clear to him that he almost lost this, how easily it nearly slipped away. How easily it still could slip away from him. Smoke tinges the air slightly, unbeknownst to him in his brooding, but Shane notices and reaches a hand up to Ilya. He places it gently on his chin, calling out gently to him, and guides him down to his lips.
The kiss is lazy and familiar, a language without words that they’ve become fluent in over the years.
I’m not going anywhere.
When will I have you for as long as I want?
You have me now. And whenever you want.
Ilya feels Shane smile against his lips as they separate, and he taps a finger against Ilya’s chest.
“You missed me so much that it made you sick.”
Shane can’t even pretend to tease or taunt him, giddiness laid bare in his words and in the air, and it’s hard not to match his smile with one of his own.
“You might actually be the first alpha ever to get rejection sickness, I’ve never even heard of that. Do you like me that much, Ilya Rozanov?”
Oh Shane, he thought, if only you knew. If only Shane understood how deeply besotted Ilya was with him, how he longed to come home to him after every one of his games, how he craved to hold him in his arms every morning when it seemed the rest of the world hadn’t woken up yet.
‘Missing’ was only scratching the surface. But if they were going to go digging, they’d be there for quite a while.
“You are still not making it up to me, Shane,” Ilya reminds him, his hand inching down towards Shane’s waist.
“So tell me what you want,” he snaps, the bite in his voice sounding more like a plea to Ilya.
Ilya hums, yanking Shane’s shorts down and eyeing the tent in his crotch. There’s a very, very large damp spot in the middle, and the smell of citrus puffs up to greet him. He darts an eye up towards Shane as he slowly tugs his briefs off, and catches him biting his lip.
Shane’s cock springs free, red and angry and dribbling over itself. Shane sucks in a sharp inhale as the cool air hits him, and Ilya only gives the base of his cock a gentle sweep with his thumb before pulling the briefs off completely.
With Shane fully naked now, he can see the slick pooling between his legs and slowly dripping onto his sheets. It is a pity I cannot take the sheets with me, he thinks sadly. Shane groans at the tease but keeps his hands fisted in the sheets, waiting for instructions with an angry pout set in his lips. Part of Ilya swoons.
“I think I would like to see you come on my fingers, begging for my knot.”
Shane’s stomach clenches and his dick wobbles against his stomach.
“And I think you will like it too. The lube is in the side drawer.”
Shane scrambles and leans over on his side to reach the table, and Ilya can’t resist reaching out and palming the globe of his ass with a squeeze. Shane’s skin is pliant and squishy beneath his fingers, and he can feel his dick leaking uncomfortably in his pants.
Ilya bends down to plant soft kisses on Shane’s stomach, the room hot around them. He can hear Shane holding back whimpers above him, ever cognisant of the company around them through the heat of his pleasure. Ilya won’t take it too far, of course, but he won’t deny that the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up as he considers testing Shane’s limits.
Shane brushes the bottle of lube at Ilya’s hands gripped tightly at his waist, but he looks up and shakes his head before mouthing away at his thighs.
“Not yet, Shane. I would like to take my time.”
The omega whines above him, music to his ears, but remains still and ever obedient. Ilya has to grind down on the mattress to relieve some of the pressure building in his pants. He takes his time worshipping Shane’s skin, giving each freckle on his thigh their deserved attention. Shane’s heavy breathing above him does nothing but spur him on in his endeavours.
Eventually, when the red flush of anticipation has spread onto Shane’s thighs, he decides to be nice. Turning his attention to Shane’s neglected hole, Ilya licks his lips at the damp pool now below him.
“Oh,” he coos maliciously, kissing the crease where his thigh dips into his ass. “Did you miss me? Do you like me that much, Shane Hollander?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane says through gritted teeth, slightly lifting himself off the bed. “Get on with it.”
“You are so sassy now,” Ilya notes, pressing a soft kiss to the fluttering knot between his thighs, knowing very well that Shane has always been sassy behind closed doors. He cries out softly in relief, hips bucking up into Ilya’s lips, and it takes a considerable amount of strength on Ilya’s part to lean back and reach for the lube bottle.
“Ilya, please,” Shane begs, leaning back against the pillows and reaching a hand up to his chest. When Shane rocks his body up into his squeezing palm his dick bobs against his stomach, and he cries out a soft moan. Blood rushes in Ilya’s ears, and he can practically feel his pupils dilate. “Need you.”
“Shit, fuck, okay, okay,” Ilya stammers, fumbling with the cap and squeezing the bottle over his fingers. Judging by the slick in Shane’s crotch he doubts he really needs it, but he’s determined to make this feel as good as possible for Shane. His omega.
Shane sighs in pleasure as the first finger slides in easily, eyes flickering shut. Ilya works him up into a rhythm easily, and soon enough Shane is rocking up to meet his fingers with light moans cascading around them.
“Did you miss this?” Ilya asks boldly, curling a finger and prodding against his walls. After so many years he knows exactly where to find Shane’s breaking point, and Shane knows that too, but it’s much more fun breaking him down to a begging, weeping mess.
“Fuck you,” Shane gasps, followed by a desperate whine that makes the threat feel anything but that.
“I will admit, I was very jealous. Obviously,” Ilya provides, trying to make things even. He slides another finger in and twists it, aiming to work Shane loose and is rewarded with a gush of slick. Ilya has to restrain himself from bending over and licking.
“I did not like seeing you with someone else. At all.”
“But you—hah—were at that club downtown with a girl,” Shane says, reaching a hand down towards his dick. Ilya tuts and laces their fingers together, leaning on his elbow. Shane whines in frustration, and Ilya attempts to soothe him by gently kissing his knee.
“Only fingers, I told you.”
“More,” Shane pleads, lashes wet.
Ilya’s dick stirs and his alpha is pulled into action, pumping his fingers faster despite his initial desire for a slow release. Shane shows his thanks by writhing off the bed with a delicious low groan.
“She was only distraction,” Ilya mumbles against his leg, lost in the way Shane’s eyebrows knit together and his nose scrunches up. He’s starting to get close.
“What?”
“I was using her to forget about you. And she was weird, only wanted her boyfriend to watch us kissing,” he says quickly, pulling his fingers all the way out and diving back in with three. Shane moans his name loudly in the room and Ilya silences him with a kiss.
“Shhh,” he whispers against his lips, revelling in the hot puffs of breath against his skin floating from Shane’s lips. “Whole floor does not need to know how hard you will come for me, yes? Sweet, pretty omega. Just me. Or else I will get jealous again.”
Shane laughs as he rocks his body against Ilya, moaning softly against his mouth as he stretches his fingers and pushes against his prostate.
“Fuck,” he gasps, gripping onto Ilya’s shoulders. “Fuck, Ilya, I—I’m so close.”
“You can do it, Shane,” he murmurs, pulling away only just enough to watch him unfurl. His eyes are glassy with bliss, his skin glows with a rosy flush, and his lips are so pink that Ilya has to hold himself back from chewing hard against them. He shoves his free hand forcefully down his pants to grip the base of his neglected and aching cock.
He changes his mind. This is Shane at his most beautiful.
“I need more,” he babbles, lip quivering and eyes meeting his. “Touch me, please.”
It’s not so easy this time, not giving into Shane when he looks at him like this, but Ilya shoves his alpha into a steel cage and forces his head to shake.
“No, Shane,” he denies him, and the omega cries out in frustration below him. Ilya isn’t fooled, though; the gush around his fingers now tells him everything he needs to know. “You are doing a favour for me, remember? After you run away and make me shit at hockey,” he says with an exaggerated pout.
Shane’s lip quivers. “I really am sorry, Ilya.”
“I know, lyubimyj, I know,” he says with a kiss at Shane's temple. “Show me how sorry you are. I know you can do it.”
The sounds in the room are criminally lewd; the squelching of Ilya’s fingers pumping in and out of Shane, the creaking in the bed below them, and Shane’s wanton moans. Ilya’s dizzy and intoxicated with it.
He pumps his fingers one, two, three more times until Shane’s face pulls tight, eyes squeezing shut and stomach seizing as his orgasm takes hold.
“Ah fuck,” he whimpers, warm slick pouring out onto Ilya’s fingers. Shane continues to rock his hips up against them, squirming and mewling over the sheets, and Ilya knows enough is enough when his body sags against the mattress.
Their heavy panting is the only sound in the room to keep them company now. Ilya takes the moment to lick himself clean, groaning around his fingers at the taste of Shane on his tongue like a man dying of thirst. When he’s finished he turns his attention back to Shane, lying still with a heaving chest, looking sated and spent. His eyes crack open slowly, lazily, and he smiles softly at Ilya, like he’s never been happier to lay in his bed. Ilya lets himself believe that it’s true.
“C’meeeere,” he mumbles, a little sleepily, reaching up for Ilya. He bows down to join their lips together, languid, sloppy and warm. Ilya thinks it’s the best kiss he’s ever had.
Shane pulls back and leans into the bed, hands rubbing against Ilya’s chest.
“I think you should take this off.”
“Oh, do you?” Ilya asks, hands already reaching for the hem of his tank and lifting it over his shoulders.
“Mhm,” Shane nods, sucking in a corner of his lip as he ogles Ilya’s chest. His arms trace over his moles and chest hair, eventually following the downward trail of hair until it disappears into his waistband. He slaps at it gently.
“These too, please.”
“How polite, Mr. Canadian,” Ilya teases, sitting at the edge of the bed to remove his pants and underwear.
Completely nude he turns onto his side to face Shane, whose eyes drop immediately to the hard line of his dick leaning on his stomach. His tongue peeks out to swipe at his bottom lip, and Ilya feels like a cut of steak.
“Are you hungry?” he jokes, palming the back of Shane’s head. He scoffs and hums, tilting his head in thought.
Shane fixes Ilya with a long look that goes straight to the head of his dick before lowering himself to his lap, never once breaking eye contact. He takes the head of his cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue around the foreskin. Ilya leans back with a heavy sigh.
“Fuck.”
Shane hums again around him, sending precome down his throat, and he pulls back momentarily. “I did miss you, Ilya.”
Shane takes him back into his mouth, gently tugging at the foreskin to swirl his tongue around the tip. Ilya’s moans ring loudly in the room, one hand gently cradling the back of Shane’s head and the other fisting his sheets. Against the delicious heat of Shane’s mouth Ilya is weak, reduced to a melting puddle against the mattress. He’s doing everything he likes to a searing degree, making good on his promise to apologise—his tongue traces the vein on the underside of Ilya’s dick, he swallows deeply when the tip reaches the back of his throat, and he nuzzles deeply into the brush of hair at the base of his cock, inhaling deeply.
It turns Ilya into a mess, eyes shut and muttering an incoherent jumble of Russian compliments and English words of encouragement.
“Fuck Shane, that tongue of yours,” he groans, breathing out through his mouth and fucking earnestly into Shane’s.
When he feels the bed rock beneath him he opens his eyes slowly, heart racing at the sight before him. Shane lies between his knees, a knee propped up to keep him steady as he works his mouth at Ilya’s cock, all while he fists the sheets beneath him in a tight grip to thrust against the bed.
Ilya growls, his alpha breaking free from its restraints and making his displeasure very well known for leaving their omega so dissatisfied.
“Shane,” he calls out to him, lifting him off his cock. His lips pop away with a thick line of spit glistening in the air, and Shane’s brows furrow in confusion.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, lyubimyj, just—come here.”
Ilya sits up, reaching over to the nightstand to grab a condom and trying to goad Shane into his lap. As he rolls the condom onto him Shane heeds his call and crawls between his legs, but as Ilya makes to flip them over, Shane pushes his shoulders back firmly against the backboard.
“No,” he says firmly, getting the bottle of lube.
“No?” Ilya repeats, mouth watering as he watches Shane squirt the lube all over his dick.
“No,” Shane affirms, rising to position himself above Ilya and holding his gaze. “I owe you still, don’t I?”
“Shane,” he sighs, stilling him with a touch at the hip. He leans up to kiss him softly, drawing circles into his skin.
“You are still on your suppressants, yes?” he mutters against his lips.
“And birth control, yes, yes,” Shane responds quickly, grabbing Ilya’s dick and lining it up with his hole. Ilya starts to think this sense of urgency has little to do with Shane feeling remorseful.
They stare at each other for a moment, and suddenly Ilya cannot hold back the swell of emotion rising in his chest from pouring out of his eyes; he’s sure he looks obvious, like a lovesick fool. But Shane only smiles shyly at him before sinking down.
They moan in unison as their hips meet, and it isn’t long until Ilya is rocking his hips upward to meet Shane on his downward roll.
“Shit,” he grunts, licking his palm and reaching down to finally relieve Shane with a stroke to his cock. He lurches forward and presses their foreheads together, steadying himself before rocking once more. “You always take me so well, Shane. Like you were made for it.”
Shane sighs hot in his ear and his stomach tightens.
“Missed this,” Shane purrs, spurting precome over Ilya’s fingers. “Your dick. Your knot deep inside me.”
“Tell me how badly you want it,” Ilya pleads shamelessly. “Tell me how much you want this knot.”
“Alpha,” Shane moans, crushing his lips against Ilya’s and pulling a whine from his chest with the merciless pace he sets. Their lips press together in more of an open-mouthed pant rather than actual kissing, the tips of their tongues brushing together, but Ilya can’t bring himself to care with sparks licking up his spine.
The glide of Shane’s hole around him is fluid thanks to all the lube and slick, and each brush against Shane’s walls and caress of his ridges sets a hot coil forming in Ilya’s stomach and warm pleasure melting in his veins. He breathes heavily through his nose, careful to keep his knot and orgasm at bay.
Ilya is a gentleman, so Shane always comes first.
“I’m close again,” Shane whimpers, eyes wet and forehead warm against his.
Their hips collide in a sloppy rhythm now, each of them desperately chasing friction and release, and Ilya decides to take matters into his own hands. On his next upward roll towards Shane he flips them over, successfully catching him off guard. Shane pouts from below him but still hugs his knees to his chest, raising his hips in time for Ilya to slide a pillow beneath him. His lips twist in pleasure when Ilya slides back in and starts snapping their hips together in a relentless fervour, and incoherent sobs trickle slowly from his lips. The only things he can make out are ‘knot,’ ‘please,’ and ‘need.’
“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs in awe, “my sweet omega, begging for my knot. Will you do one more favour for me, Shane?”
“Huh?” he says in a daze, coming back to himself and eyes slowly drifting over to Ilya.
“Come for me, lyubimyj,” he requests, tightening his grip on Shane’s cock below him. His back arches off the bed with a high-pitched whine before he bites down on his lip, as if he remembers himself. Goosebumps pebble across his arms, and Ilya can feel his knot start to swell.
“Come for me,” he repeats, taking one last thrust to push himself deep into Shane, making sure he feels every inch of him. “I want to hear you.”
He grinds his hips down onto Shane in a few shallow circles until Ilya feels it—Shane’s body tensing below him, the hot spurt against his stomach, and the rumble purring low in his chest.
“Fuck, Ilya,” he sobs, his orgasm shivering through him from head to toe. Ilya keeps his pace, feeling the snag of his knot starting to catch against the rim of Shane’s hole as it swells further, and the soft whimpers below him do nothing but spur him on.
“Don’t stop,” Shane encourages, legs wrapping around Ilya’s waist. “Want your knot to fill me up, stretch me nice.”
“When do you not?” Ilya laughs, pumping his hips until the hot coil behind his navel unravels and his knot locks into place.
The pleasure unfurls in his gut, white hot and searing through all the cells in his body to make him anew. He comes with a shout, leaning his head against Shane’s shoulder and panting against his scent gland as he shoots load after load into the condom. A feral, primal part of him mourns the contraceptive, the possessive beast wanting to mark and stain every inch of Shane. There would be time for that another day, he’s sure of it.
When the haze clears, Shane is twirling fingers in his hair again and drawing patterns on his back. He tries to shift his leg into a comfortable position and his knot shifts inside Shane, who hisses in discomfort.
Ilya presses a gentle kiss to Shane’s neck. “I am sorry, I should have picked a better position. We will be here for a long time now.”
“Part of me thinks you’re not really sorry about that,” Shane says with a laugh.
Ilya sighs happily into Shane’s neck. “No, not really.”
He carefully lifts himself up somewhat, grabbing his shirt to wipe at Shane’s tip and stomach before lying back down on his shoulder and breathing deeply. Their mingled scents together feels twice as potent to him as any cigarette has ever been. His heart rate slows, his mind clears, and his limbs are loose beneath him; he’s never felt more relaxed in his life.
Their time joined together is spent in comfortable silence, Ilya greedily wanting to commit everything to memory: the curve of Shane below him, the hot flush of his skin pressed against his, and the swirling patterns he draws into his back that feel suspiciously like the number 81.
Eventually the knot swells down to a point where they can move, but Ilya remains slumped over Shane.
“Hey,” Shane calls out gently to him, tapping his thumb against his temple. Ilya lifts his head with a grunt, gently sliding himself out of Shane and lying down next to him. Ilya keeps them close together, carefully minding whatever wet spots on the sheets there are so Shane doesn’t roll on them, and reaches for the dip in his hip.
“Where’d you go?” Shane asks softly, thumb reaching out for his chin.
Ilya studies him. His hair clings to his forehead and sticks up every which way from grinding into the pillow, there’s a sheen of sweat glistening on his cheeks, and sleepiness hangs heavily in his voice. For the second time tonight, Ilya changes his mind; this is Shane at his most beautiful.
(He’s sure he’ll change his mind again in 20 minutes).
“Nowhere,” he replies, reaching forward for a chaste kiss. “Just thinking about if you have said sorry enough yet. I do not think so.”
“Oh fuck off, you asshole, my dick is gonna fall off,” Shane laughs with a shove to his shoulder and turning on his side. Ilya joins him in his laughter and pulls his back against his chest, a possessive hand splayed across Shane’s stomach and a soft kiss dropped on his shoulder.
Very soon, they’ll have to get up. Shane will probably need a shower before he leaves, and Ilya is very thankful in the moment that he decided to travel with his own scent blockers and neutralisers, rather than relying on whatever the MLH provided throughout the weekend.
Of course, he wants Shane to feel comfortable and safe as he leaves. But his alpha, winning over a rare battle of possessiveness, has no desire for anyone else to get the faintest whiff of Shane as is he now, satisfied to high heavens because of Ilya and Ilya alone.
So, yes. The time would come, eventually, for the outside world to creep into the little refuge of his hotel room, and remind them of who they are and what roles they have to play. But for now, wrapped up in each other, Ilya is more than happy to savour the moment for what it is, and keep himself comforted with a simple reminder:
This is only just the beginning.
Toronto - February 2017
Ilya walks into the weight room, his shoulders light and a spring in his step. Ash is already waiting for him, unpacking her gear and laying out a yoga mat.
“Look who’s back,” she says with a grin, rolling up her sleeves and crossing her arms. “You were looking good out there last weekend, poodle puff. How are we feeling today?”
Ilya’s grin splits his face in half. “Never been better.”