#alpha shane

They want a baby. Ilya wants Shane's baby inside him so badly. But every time they try and make one, Shane gets so needy for his big strong omega to top him that they get distracted and next thing they know Shane is cumming in the sheets and Ilya is once again trying to breed his alpha.

They can't seem to help themselves.

I know it's been a while. I'm trying to update soon, but in the meantime, here's a little sneak peek <3

Scott tried to remind himself that this was an honor. He wasn’t sure how many more Winter Games he had in him, but this year felt special because his pup was experiencing it for the first time. 

Ilya was reaching out more, mostly memes or emojis, but at least it was something. The bond was more open than it had been before, and it was almost too much. Which is one of the reasons Scott was here in this tiny diner with Vaughny, pretending to pay attention when in reality he was studying Shane Hollander. 

The young Alpha was sitting at a table by himself, looking at his phone

And then Vaughny, picking up on that Scott was watching the Canadian for some reason, took matters into his own hands. “Hollander, what’s up, motherfucker?”

Always polite, Shane said hello and shook their hands

“Hey,” Scott said

“Latvia and Russia tonight. Bet Rozy’s feeling the pressure.” Vaughny chuckled.

Scott frowned. He could feel how much this mattered to Ilya. The kid had been wound so tight with something heavier than just pressure or nerves. That worried Scott. He knew how dangerous Russia was for male Omegas, so dangerous that Holly had Ilya on a much stronger dose than she normally recommended, but they couldn’t risk discovery…  

Which was why Scott was here. 

Shane and Ilya weren’t subtle. Too young. Too reckless. Too convinced they were the exception to every rule.

Scott knew Ilya understood the stakes. 

The Omega had spent his entire life hiding what he really was. 

But Hollander? 

As far as Scott knew, the kid didn’t know Ilya’s true designation. And if he didn’t know, there was no way he understood how dangerous Russia really was for Ilya.

“Hey, what’s Roz saying about all this?” Vaughn asked.

Shane’s smile flickered. “I don’t know,” he admitted with an awkward shrug. “Nothing to me, that’s for sure… I think he knows Canada’s got this in the bag."

“Nah, uh.” Vaughn elbowed Scott. “Not this year, baby. We’re fucking coming for ya!” 

Scott snorted.

“Okay, okay.” Shane laughed, his smile finally looking genuine. 

Dammit.

Despite all of Scott’s instincts screaming at him to view the younger Alpha as a threat, Hollander was just a pup himself. He could see a softness in the polite, soft-spoken Alpha—something he understood why Ilya was so drawn to. 

“You look great in silver, Vaughny. Don’t even stress.”

Vaughn stared. “Was that a chirp, Holzy?!”

Scott found himself laughing.

Somehow thirty minutes later he was still sitting there, eating frozen yogurt with Vaughn and Hollander while trying not to like his pup’s Alpha… Nope, not his Alpha! They were way too fucking young for that.

“Does your room have that smell?” Shane asked.

“Yes, yes, it does,” Scott said.

“Is it black mold? That’s what JJ thinks it is.”

“He’s probably right,” Scott said. “The good news is we won't be here long enough—”

“Alright, so tonight there’s Russia-Latvia. But before that there’s men’s figure skating,” Vaughn interrupted.

“My buddy Joe’s competing,” Shane said. “We trained together. Would you guys be cool to do that? I’d love to show up for him.”

“Hell yeah,” Vaughn said, actually serious for once. “I’ll show up for any dude who's got the balls to do that.”

Shane frowned. “What do you mean?”

Vaughn lowered his voice. “I mean your buddy's probably an Omega, right?”

Shane opened his mouth. “I don’t know if—”

“It’s brave as hell,” Vaughn continued. “Especially here.”

“Because he’s an Omega?” Shane asked quietly.

“Partly.” Vaughn glanced around the diner. “Because he’s gay. Because he’s an Omega. Russia isn’t exactly known for being safe for folks like that. Haven’t you noticed the extra security around the openly out athletes or the Omegas?” Vaughn asked. 

Shane nodded. 

“Russia’s ‘sposed to leave ours alone during the games, but I’ve heard stories. Tourists disappearing, getting jumped, shit like that. And that’s nothing compared to what they do to their own. Hell, there aren’t any male Omegas on their teams. Not even the figure skaters. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve even seen a single one. Seen plenty of the women–all wearing those fucking collars—but not one male Omega.”

Scott's nails dug into his palm. Before he could stop himself, he reached for the bond. 

There.

Ilya. Like fog rolling over the ocean—distant, melancholy, impossible to hold. But he was safe. Still his impossible, stubborn pup.

Ilya was safe.

Ilya was safe.

Ilya was safe.

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, E, 28549 words

“Happy winner,” Rozanov says, kissing Shane’s hip. “How does it feel? Good, yes? Such a strong alpha.”

Despite the teasing lilt, a soft, rolling r in strong, Shane can tell that Rozanov is being sincere. He has never gotten the impression that Rozanov uses it as an insult with him—unlike every time he whips it out mid-game to taunt an opponent, or to provoke someone in an interview. Shane blinks down at him, and is reminded of what this is. Of why, in every way, they are implausible.

Rozanov adds, “What?”

“You just never call me that,” Shane says. His grip on Rozanov’s shoulder tightens.

Shane kind of doesn’t want to admit to himself that he so did it on purpose, and he knows pretty well it’s working magic on Ryan, too. It’s such a big deal that he can control himself while playing with his omega like this, he’s kind of proud of him and he knows once the heat is over, Ryan will be happy Shane listened to him about doing these kind of scenes and plays while he’s on heat.

He can see why Ryan wanted to try, and he can also see he’s not gonna last much in the game and he’s gonna take him soon but still, Shane streches it as much as he can, talking dirty to him and asking him if he’s gonna be good.

Excerpt:

Propositioning Hollander might’ve been one of the most destructive choices Ilya had ever made. Because a small, stupid, painfully honest part of him knew he could never be casual with Shane. Not with an Alpha who smelled like that.

Pine and ginger fizz—bright, clean, steady. Warm bread and molasses—comfort, safety, a kind of effortless warmth Ilya had not known since he lost his mother. A “good boy” Alpha, wholesome and uncomplicated, everything Ilya was not.

It was the kind of scent that made his Omega curl up inside him and purr like an idiot. The kind that made him want to lean in and breathe deeper. 

Dangerous. 

And that was the problem—Hollander was the one Alpha Ilya could never treat like a stranger in a club or a nameless warm body. There would be nothing casual about it. No clean exit. No numbness afterward.

So, of course, he’d tried to get in his pants.

Because Ilya Rozanov excelled at one thing: doing exactly what would hurt him the most.

Shane sucked in a breath. “This is… such a bad idea,” he said, but his eyes were fixed on Ilya’s mouth like he’d forgotten how to look anywhere else.

“What is?” Ilya murmured. He lifted one hand to Shane’s chin, guiding his face up—forcing him to meet his gaze. Their noses brushed, close enough that Ilya could feel the warmth of his breath. And then Ilya finally did what he’d wanted from the moment they met. He kissed him.

Shane went still for half a heartbeat—then his mouth opened for him, soft and startled, and Ilya slid his tongue against his. Shane tasted like toothpaste and something painfully sweet.

Ilya’s hand drifted from Shane’s waist to his chest, fingers brushing over a pec before giving a slow, testing squeeze. The other hand curled behind Shane’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, anchoring himself in the heat and want rolling off the Alpha.

Shane made a small sound—half surprise, half want—and Ilya swallowed it greedily, kissing him harder, chasing the sound like it was oxygen.

Ilya shrugged off his jacket in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind him. He knew exactly what he looked like in his black tank, and he savored the way Shane’s pupils flared and his Adam’s apple bobbed. 

Ilya stepped closer and grabbed the hem of Shane’s shirt, dragging it upward until Shane lifted his arms without thinking. The T-shirt hit the floor, and Ilya just stared.

Hollander was beautiful. Freckles scattered across his skin like his own private constellation, every one begging to be traced. And those muscles—God, he wanted to bite them, lick them, worship them. He couldn’t stop touching him. His hands slid up over warm skin, along the curve of his shoulder, the ridge of his collarbone, the solid swell of his pecs.

Shane shivered beneath him, a full-body tremor that went straight to Ilya’s spine. Then—hesitant but determined—Shane reached for the hem of Ilya’s tank. His fingers brushed Ilya’s hip, light as a question.

Ilya hooked an arm across his body and ripped the tank over his head, tossing it aside with no care for where it landed.