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A strong arm caught him easily, guiding him back against the shelves. The force was inhuman but controlled and gentle. The vampire leaned in, close enough that Shane could feel the chill radiating from him. “I did not come here to frighten you,” he said softly, forehead nearly brushing Shane’s. “I came to ask you on a date.” The library had settled into its late-hour stillness. Most of the overhead lights had been extinguished, leaving only a handful of brass-shaded lamps burning overhead, their yellow glow casting long shadows across the reading tables and towering shelves. Dust hung faintly in the air, visible when Shane shifted beneath the light. The place smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and furniture polish. Shane sat alone at one of the long oak tables, collar loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He scratched absently at the back of his neck as his eyes dragged over the same line of text for what felt like the hundredth time. The words refused to stick. His head throbbed faintly, and the wire frames of his spectacles pinched at his temples. The clock mounted high on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet. He let out a muted groan and dropped his forehead against the tabletop, careful not to knock his books over. “Now then,” came a voice from the aisle, firm but not unkind. “You know better than that, young man. No sleeping in the reading room.” Shane lifted his head and found the librarian approaching, a stern woman in sensible shoes pushing a cart stacked neatly with returned volumes. Her hair was pinned tight at the nape of her neck, her eyes sharp behind round lenses. “Sorry, ma’am,” Shane murmured, rubbing his face with both hands. There was no arguing it. He snapped his book shut, slid it into his satchel along with his notes, and cinched the strap tight. His studies could wait until morning. Tonight, his mind was finished. He shrugged into his dusty brown leather jacket, smoothing it down out of habit, then slung the satchel over his shoulder and made his way toward the heavy front doors. Outside, the cold greeted him sharply. Winter had settled in earnest, the air biting and dry as it rushed over his face. His nose stung immediately, cheeks flushing red as he exhaled into his cupped hands. The street was quiet, save for the distant hum of an automobile somewhere far off. He lingered beneath the stone archway, shifting on his feet to keep warm, before stepping out onto the path. A cloud of smoke drifted across his vision. He coughed softly and turned his head, squinting into the gloom. For a moment, he thought it was just shadow pooled against the building. Then he saw the ember. A bright orange glow flared briefly, illuminating a cigarette between pale fingers. Shane blinked and did a double take, turning fully now as the rest of the figure resolved itself under the lamplight. The man stood half-hidden near the wall, tall and broad-shouldered, coat collar turned up against the cold. Curly, light-colored hair fell loosely across his forehead. Even in the dim light, his skin appeared unnaturally pale. Shane felt suddenly aware of himself. Of the emptiness of the street. Of the late hour. The man was…handsome. A shiver ran down Shane’s spine. He gestured awkwardly toward the cigarette. “I don’t think you’re meant to smoke here,” he said, voice hesitant despite knowing full well he was right. “Oh?” The reply was smooth, accented, foreign in a way that made Shane’s shoulders tense. “There’s a notice,” Shane added, pointing toward the sign affixed near the entrance. He nodded once, lips pressed thin, and quickly walked off without waiting for a response. The following night arrived without ceremony. Shane found himself once again leaving the library late, satchel heavier this time with completed work. The path ahead was lit by tall streetlamps, their bulbs flickering softly as he walked beneath them. The cold crept through his coat, sharp and persistent. But it wasn’t the cold that made him uneasy. It was the feeling. That unmistakable prickle along his spine, the sense of being watched. Of footsteps that weren’t quite there. He told himself it was foolish, just nerves and imagination, but he didn’t turn around. Then a voice spoke from behind him. “Are you going to ignore me forever?" The words were smooth, carrying a thick Russian drawl that slid down his spine like ice. The sound of it echoed faintly in the open street. Shane yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin as he spun around, bag slipping off his shoulder. “What the fuck—?!” he shouted.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,944
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76932081
-
Shane adjusted his tie for the third time, his skin prickling with awareness of the toy nestled deep inside him. Shane's muscles tensed under his shirt, his reactive nature making him hyper-aware of the remote tucked in Ilya's pocket. Ilya leaned close as he passed, his breath warm against Shane's ear. “Behave,” Shane's voice cracks. "I-I'm fine, just a h-headache." The lie burns in his throat as he forces a smile, his hand trembling against the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at Hayden. Completely unaware of the hand climbing Shane’s inner thigh, fingers pressing into the tender flesh just below his groin. Shane's pulse hammers against his collar as sweat beads at his hairline. Shane's adam' s apple lurches violently. He can feel Ilya's smirk burning into his profile without looking. He bites down on his tongue, tasting copper. Ilya's presence sears into his left side, while his other hand makes a show of adjusting something in his pocket. The vibrations suddenly intensify, sending a violent shudder through Shane's core. His vision blurs at the edges. Shooting electricity up his spine. His knuckles go white against the leather seat. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as Ilya's grip becomes bruising, fingers digging into the flesh through the soft black material. Leaning in, hot breath scorching Shane's ear: " Get yourself together, Hollander," each syllable dripping with that Russian growl that makes Shane pathetically weak. Fucking. Sadistic. Asshole. And all because of one goddamn bet. Only two hours earlier he was in the comfort of his own home. Steam billows from the bathroom as the door swings open. Ilya emerges, towel riding dangerously low on sharp hip bones, droplets racing down the planes of his chest and disappearing beneath the white terry cloth. Shane's fingers trace the edges of a small brown parcel on the kitchen counter. Ilya Rozanov, the label reads in neat block letters. Below that: Shane's address, his apartment number. Ilya freezes mid-step. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "This showed up today." Shane lifts the box slightly. "Your name. My place." Ilya's bare feet pad across the hardwood. He plucks the package from Shane's grip with long fingers, his knuckles brushing Shane's palm. "Mine," he says, placing it on the far edge of the counter, just beyond Shane's reach. "So I don't get to see what's inside?" Ilya reaches for a pair of grey joggers draped over the arm of the couch, pulling them on with a fluid motion. "It's for you, actually." Shane's stomach flips. The NHL26 loading screen bathes their faces in blue light as they sink into the sofa, controllers in hand. Shane's eyes dart to the kitchen every thirty seconds. The box sits there, taunting him. His birthday was ages ago, their anniversary wasn’t for another couple months, Today is... nothing. His player skates past the puck. Again. The controller vibrates with another missed opportunity. Ilya's score climbs: 3-0, 5-0, 7-0.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,625
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76615041