Chapter Text
Ilya does not fuck men often. It is not because he doesn’t like men. Ilya loves men. Ilya loves women. He is not picky about bodies; not unless it is to do with a person’s designation. Then, he is very picky and for very good reason.
“Rozy loves his omegas,” his teammates will boast to whoever will listen. “Some days he gets to the rink still stinking of them. He’s a player, you know. True alpha type.”
Ilya does love omegas. Ilya loves omegas regardless of gender, although he is seen with female omegas more than any other combination. Statistically, they’re more common, but that is not why Ilya likes them. He likes how they are soft and gentle and can take his cock like they’re made for it.
And if you ask anyone who knows him even a little, they will claim Ilya does not like alphas.
Shane Hollander is an alpha, and to the rest of the world, so is Ilya Rozanov.
Fucking an alpha does not bother him like it would the rest of the world.
Neither does it seem to bother Shane Hollander.
“I want to fuck you,” Ilya says, voice echoing in his large, fancy hotel room which does not, and likely never will, feel like home. “Will you let me fuck you, Hollander?”
A few mind blowing blowjobs in anonymous hotel rooms between alphas, athletes at that, is not as uncommon as the masses believe. Sex, on the other hand, is not.
Hollander, alpha darling and captain of the Montreal Metros, does not recoil like so many have before. He does not spit vitriol about not being that kind of hockey player, about being a true blooded alpha man. No, Hollander moans, turns to liquid within the cage of Ilya’s arms, and rolls over like a good boy.
“Fuck yes,” he says, shoving an already half-empty bottle of lube at him. “Get me ready.”
It takes Ilya seconds to return to his body. The sight of Hollander stretched out over the bed, round backside propped up and ready to go, is almost too much to comprehend. It is a good thing Ilya is a quick thinker.
Hollander’s flesh is silky smooth under his large hands, his hole tight and unyielding when Ilya nudges his thumb experimentally against it.
“I do not often meet alphas willing to bend over for another man.” He is a quick thinker, but that does not mean he is smart. “Full of surprises, yes?”
“Try to fuck a lot of alphas?” Hollander grunts when Ilya squeezes a generous squirt of lube down his crack. “That’s cold.”
“Is not cold.” Ilya would know—Shane should know, too—but he warms it up with his fingers anyway, smoothing it over Hollander’s entrance. “I have shared my body with very few alphas. As said, not many are willing.” His thumb finally slips into Hollander’s hole, his body so hot and tight around him, Ilya wonders if there will be any penetration tonight after all. “You are very willing.”
From his place behind him, all Ilya can see are Hollander’s shoulders are tense and trembling as he is gently opened by Ilya’s thumb. When no response comes, Ilya pulls out, ignores Hollander’s protesting whine, and slips him his middle and index fingers. It is a further stretch, but Hollander takes it well.
Hollander takes many things well, Ilya thinks.
“Feels like you do this a lot,” Hollander grunts. He is slowly relaxing around Ilya’s fingers with every thrust. “Should I be jealous?”
“Mm, nothing to be jealous of,” is Ilya’s dismissive answer. It is not false, because Ilya will not dream of doing this with anyone else for a long, long time. He twists his fingers and spreads them as wide as he can, drawing a sharp gasp from the man beneath him. “How could I find this anywhere else?”
“With any omega you want.”
Ilya removes his fingers, ignores Hollander’s questioning noises, and slips a condom on his hard cock.
“Why would I want omega?” he muses, notching his head at Hollander’s grasping, desperate hole. “Why would I, when this is better?”
Hollander is molten inside, even through the condom. He sucks him in slowly, hotter and tighter than any of the omegas he’s fucked before. A glove made just for Ilya to sink into, and to forget this isn’t the right way.
“Rozanov,” Hollander gasps wetly, face half-buried in the pillow. His eyes are hazy, lips bitten red from the effort of keeping his voice in. Ilya would like to break him, he decides, before he puts him back together. Yes, he would like that very much.
“Okay?” Ilya asks, voice only a little weak. “Hollander, you okay?”
“Fuck me,” is his succinct reply, and Ilya is only so strong against such sweet pleas.
He grips Hollander’s hips tight and pushes in.
Ilya is no stranger to fucking. He is good at it. He enjoys it. He is an athlete, built for endurance. This is standard for him, being the one thrusting inside a hot, tight body.
He is not as used to it being Hollander’s body, the same man he’s fooled around with for years, and somehow that makes all the difference.
“Fuck, you are gorgeous,” he pants, craning down as he fucks into his body to lick stripes over Hollander’s sweaty neck and shoulders. He tastes like heady alpha and it makes him hotter. “You do not know it, do you, sweetheart?”
Hollander whines beneath him, hole clenching around him tight, body twisting and turning into the sensations. “Rozanov—”
“Mm, yes. Say my name. Say it, Hollander. Say it.”
His sweet alpha is only too happy to oblige. “Rozanov!” he moans, body clenching tight, neck curled down as if to hide from him.
It would be sweeter to hear Ilya fall from his lips, but he will take what he can get.
“That is it,” he grunts, hands slipping on slick hips as he speeds up, cock mercilessly being buried inside Hollander’s tight asshole without reprieve. “Good boy, good, good for me, Hollander, you—fuck—you take me like such a good alpha. So good, so perfect.”
Most alphas do not like it when Ilya starts to run his mouth, both on the rink and in bed, but Hollander proves the outlier.
“Yes,” he cries, tighter than ever, back bowed in a perfect arch. “I’m a good—good alpha, yours, your alpha, all for you, Rozanov, all for you.” He gasps, wet and teary, and when Ilya tugs his head back by gripping his thick, black hair, he sees he is crying and oh—
Ilya desperately wants to slip free of Hollander, slick his alpha’s cock, and climb over to straddle his hips before sinking down. His hole clenches down at the very idea of it, getting fucked hard and dirty for the first time in this cold apartment where no one knows him. He’s only ever touched himself, has never let another person there before. He couldn’t risk his career, couldn’t ask some alpha to fuck him stupid and keep quiet about it, not when they’d had the Ilya Rozanov beneath them, not when that Ilya Rozanov is an omega.
He wants it with Hollander. Against all of his reason, Ilya wants to get fucked until he can remember nothing but the sound of his name spilling from Hollander’s lips.
He will have to settle for this instead; fucking Hollander like another alpha would, brutal and fast and without feeling. Like it’s a game, a challenge, and a fight all in one. Even when he wants to curl into his neck and lick the sweat-slick skin there and mouth and suck and bite at that special little spot under Hollander’s ear until they’re bound together forever.
No, Ilya will take what he can get. He will savour what he is allowed.
Ilya cums in a rush and without his consent, full-bodied and overwhelmed from the very idea of being fucked by the man he is current buried inside. His head is filled with static, his body charged and breath lost. He cums and he cums and it feels like the first time because it may as well be. The first time buried inside Shane Hollander, and Ilya is already ruined for anyone else.
When he returns to his body, he finds Hollander whining like a bitch in heat, fucking himself back onto Ilya’s softening cock, desperately chasing his own orgasm.
How discourteous of him.
“Good boy,” Ilya rumbles, reaching around to grasp hold of Hollander’s neglected cock. “Look at you, so good for me, waiting as I took my own pleasure from your pretty body. Now you will give it all to me, yes? I am owed it.”
“Yeah,” Hollander slurs, voice thick like syrup even as Ilya strokes him until he’s a whimpering, shivering mess. Until his thick alpha cum is drenching the bed and Ilya’s hand and the scent of it, fuck, it is everywhere.
It takes everything in Ilya not to toss him onto his back, crawl down the bed, and suck him down.
“You didn’t—” Hollander shudders and gasps and whines as Ilya milks his knot with his hand, squeezing the very last of his cum from his body because as far as Ilya is concerned it now belongs to him. “Fuck, Rozanov. You didn’t knot?”
“I do not,” he replies into Hollander’s trembling shoulder, quick and without telling inflection, voice still wavering from the effort, giving his knot one last squeeze—and selfishly enjoying his overstimulated, punched-out whine—before regretfully releasing him. “Not with everyone.”
It is not a lie. Ilya does not let anyone fuck him, let alone knot him.
Hollander collapses onto his stomach, landing in his own wet patch.
“Oh.”
Ilya disposes of the condom while Hollander is catching his breath, even though he would prefer to stay and bask in those sweet seconds afterwards. It physically hurts to extract himself from Hollander, but he is far too perceptive.
Ilya ties the condom—far less used than an alpha’s should be—and throws it away, hiding the evidence as best he can considering the circumstances. If he were in Hollander’s hotel room, he would probably go as far as taking it with him.
When he returns, he finds that Hollander has not moved. The bed is warm and it smells like them but not; like Hollander’s rich alpha scent, crisp like the morning after first snow and heady like cut pine. It smells like nothing of Ilya besides the generic fake alpha scent created by his suppressants. Hollander does not say anything, but he might realise the longer Ilya lingers.
It is dangerous, but Ilya would like to stay.
Ilya drapes himself over his back, to press wet kisses along his spine, and to whisper in his ear; “Are you jealous?”
“Of what?” is Hollander’s pissy reply.
“Of alpha you think I am knotting.”
Hollander stiffens beneath him.
“No,” he grumbles.
“Do not be.” Ilya leans back to palm Hollander’s cheeks, spreading them apart to see his work. He would like to see his own cum, thin and clear as it is, leak out of his hole, but it does not. For a moment, he pretends the lube is his cum. Hollander squirms when he presses his thumb back inside, but does not protest. “It is not good for alpha to knot another alpha. Dangerous.”
At least, that is what Svetlana told him. Ilya wouldn’t know.
“I’m not saying I wanted it,” Hollander says, but Ilya can already read him so well. “I just thought—It doesn’t matter.”
“Mm.” Ilya lets it go. For now. He spanks one cheek, then the other, then allows himself to be tossed over by Hollander’s powerful thighs and scooped up to rest on his chest.
It is a good place to be. He could almost fall asleep.
And then Hollander’s lips drift over his cheekbone, over his Cupid’s bow, down to nose along Ilya’s jawline, then to his neck and suddenly he would rather be a million miles away.
“I will shower now,” Ilya mutters, wrenching himself free of comfort to the cold reality of his existence because he can allow himself to fuck Hollander, he can even allow some playful teasing, but he cannot allow him to go near his scent gland. “Okay?”
He can see how Hollander flounders for a moment from the drastic flip before he regains his bearings, cool indifference slipping over his pretty features like a grotesque mask. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Go ahead. I’ll, uh. I guess I’ll get going?”
“Yes. Good idea. See you next game.” Ilya doesn’t wait to watch Hollander get dressed and leave, and instead retreats to the shower. Besides, he is not sure he is able to.
Even still, he hears the click of the door closing after five minutes of uselessly running the shower, staring into the mirror at his own sorry reflection.
He cannot let that happen again, but he will.