Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Lactation Kink, Breast Fucking, Nipple Licking, Mommy Kink, Desperate Ilya Rozanov, Knotting, Come Eating, Shane Hollander's Mommy Milkers, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Blow Jobs, Under-negotiated Kink, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", NSFW Art

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Feral’s October Shenanigans, Part 14 of Hollanov Smut

Collections:

GCU Kinktober 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-12 Words: 6,893 Chapters: 1/1

spilt milk tears

Summary

Shane closes his eyes and presses the pharmacy bag against his forehead. He has medication, clearance to play, and confirmation that the tumor inside his head is benign. In three to seven days, the lactation should stop, and this entire humiliating problem will become something he can pretend never happened.

Unfortunately, tomorrow afternoon, Ilya Rozanov will be waiting for him at his house. Shane plans to arrive, have sex with him, and return to the hotel before either of them can make the evening more complicated than it needs to be.

All Shane has to do is prevent the most observant asshole alive from touching his chest. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, a voice in his head replies, sounding disturbingly like the one Hayden uses for his kids. Shane groans out loud and goes to find something to eat so he can take his first dose of medicine.

or, Shane, an alpha, is leaking milk. Instead of talking about this, Hollanov deal with it in their own, special way.

Notes

day 12 of GCUKinktober, prompt mommy/lactation kink

title is from Bedroom Hymns by Florence + The Machine

The first time Shane notices the soreness, he assumes either his shirt or his old chest pads need to be replaced. He's a little superstitious when it comes to his gear, so neither items is exactly new. The chest pads have been sitting strangely all practice, the lower edge shifting whenever he extends his arms and dragging the damp fabric of his compression shirt across his nipples. It isn’t painful enough to affect his skating, but every scrape makes him wince. By the time they start running drills on the power play, the skin feels rubbed raw.

He knows he's making a weird face by the way JJ raises an eyebrow at him, his friend's concern clear. Shane taps him with his stick before skating away, letting that be his answer.

He checks his chest as soon as he gets back to the locker room. His nipples are darker than usual and slightly swollen, the skin around them flushed from friction. There isn’t any blood, and his compression shirt isn’t especially rough from what his fingers can feel, but he can see exactly where the fabric has been dragging over his skin.

“Everything okay?” Hayden asks from the stall beside him.

“Yeah. My pads are rubbing.”

Hayden leans over before Shane can stop him, casually glancing at his chest like he's about to perform an exam.  “Your nipples look pissed.”

“Thank you for that medical assessment, Dr. Pike.”

“You’re welcome,” Hayden says with a snort, straightening and reaching for his towel. He throws a wink in his directions and says, “Maybe you’re finally growing boobs.”

JJ, who had been walking past wearing nothing at all, wolf whistles. Shane throws a balled-up sock at each of them, making sure to use the ones that are particularly rank, even through his extra-strength scent blockers. Hayden ducks, laughing, and JJ cackles as the sock bounces off of his chest, unrepentant. Shane tries not to let the joke settle anywhere uncomfortable, offering them both an amused half-smile.

There isn’t anything feminine about his chest. It is broad and muscular, built through years of training, and the small amount of softness beneath his nipples has always been normal for an alpha carrying his level of body fat. He knows exactly what his body looks like because it's his job to know. He monitors his weight, his muscle mass, and a dozen different hormonal markers that the team tests throughout the season. He's an alpha in his prime and it's important for his health, and his ability to play hockey, to know what his body is doing at any given time.

Still, he waits until he's alone in the locker room before taking a second look at his chest. His dark, puffy nipples make his pecks look a little fuller. Shane frowns and shakes his head, determined to head home and push this one-off issue to the back of his mind. 

The tenderness is worse the following morning. Shane wakes on his stomach and becomes aware of it before he's fully conscious, a dull ache radiating through both sides of his chest. He groans a little, still groggy from sleep, as his brin struggles to register the throb. When he rolls over, the friction of his shirt catches against his nipples and makes him suck in a breath.

He shifts his hips slightly, embarrassed by the sensation making him gasp and his cock twitch. It's not erotic—or it shouldn't be—the sensation not totally pleasurable. It hurts, but his dick doesn't seem to care. He's never been into heavy nipple play, only really getting into it when Rozanov starts groping him while pleasuring him with other parts of his body, but it sort of feels like his sore nipples are trying to form a direct connect to his cock.

He forces himself up and checks for any lumps while he's in the shower. He doesn’t find one, but the tissue feels fuller under his fingers, almost congested. Touching it only makes it throb more, and he's forced to turn his back to the spray because even the water striking his chest hurts. He's not leaving his apartment for his morning run with a half-chub. 

The team doctor examines him that afternoon. Dr. Mulder presses around each nipple, asks if Shane has changed detergents, and decides the problem is chafing aggravated by sweat. He gives Shane a tube of medicated barrier cream and tells the equipment manager to adjust his pads and get him a new compression shirt.

“Both sides?” Shane asks. “At exactly the same time?”

“You wear that shirt under both sides of the pads, don’t you?”

Shane doesn’t appreciate the tone, but he takes the cream. The doctor has an entire roster of minor injuries to handle, and Shane knows he has a tendency to fixate. A rash is a rash. Tender skin isn’t an emergency.

The cream makes the inside of his shirt greasy without helping much; it mostly just sends his skin crawling and leaves him on edge in a completely different way than the day before. His newly adjusted chest pads sit farther away from his body, but every hard stop and collision still shifts them enough to hurt. He plays through it while getting slightly concerned looks from his friends, J.J. asking whether he wants those little nipple covers with the tassles that showgirls wear.

Shane checks him into the boards hard enough to send him sprawling, huffing as the defensemen laughs breathlessly from the ice. Hayden rushes toward him, like he's going to help him up, only to turn abruptly so he can snow him while he's down, getting him right in the face.

By the end of practice, Shane has a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He's been getting them more often, usually after staring at video for too long, and he makes another mental note to schedule an eye exam. The numbers on the digital clock at the far end of the scoreboard have started blurring around the edges, but his vision has always changed a little from year to year.

It's probably completely unrelated to his weird sore nipples issue.

Three mornings later, Shane wakes with a cold, damp spot on the front of sleep shirt. For one confused moment, he thinks he spilled water in bed. He doesn't remember bringing anything to drink into his room, but he's groggy and confused, so he's giving himself the benefit of the doubt.

Then he looks down and sees two small, uneven circles over his nipples. His entire body goes rigid.

“No,” he whispers.

He strips off the shirt and stands beneath the harsh bathroom light. His chest looks fuller than it did a week ago, although he can’t tell whether it has actually changed, or whether panic is distorting everything. He hates how his brain looks at his chest and incredulously thinks, 'Jesus, my tits look huge.'

The right nipple is shiny with a tiny pearl of cloudy white fluid. Shane stares at it until his vision starts to tunnel. He wipes it away with shaking fingers, and another bead slowly gathers in its place.

“No. No, no, no,” Shane denies immediately, staring at his chest as the liquid gathers and leaks from him.

Pregnant is the first word his brain supplies, even though it's physically impossible.

Shane is an alpha. His medical records say he is an alpha, his scent says he is an alpha, and every secondary-sex examination he has undergone since presenting says the same thing. He doesn’t have a uterus or ovaries. His body is designed to cause pregnancies, not carry them.

That doesn't stop him from thinking about the last time he slept with Rozanov.

It has been almost two months since they were together, but Shane remembers all of it with frustrating clarity. Rozanov snarling against his mouth, their alpha scents packed so thickly into Shane's condo that Shane had had to air out his condo for hours after Rozanov left, shamefully taking in their combined scents before he forced another scent patch on his skin and scent blockers down his throat.

Neither of them can get pregnant from the other. They wear condoms because that's the smart and responsible thing to do when you're sleeping with someone while not exclusive, and not because one of them can get knocked up. 

Shane presses his palm to his chest and immediately regrets it. Pressure sends a sharper ache through the tissue, followed by a warm trickle over his fingers. He looks down at the thin stream of milk running from his nipple and has to grip the counter before his knees give out. He can't stop the gasp that leaves him or the way he instinctively pushes his chest out a little, like his body is asking for more. He resolutely ignores the jolt of heat it sends to his cock, his morning wood leaking into his briefs.

He goes about his morning routine in a daze and skips his usual workout to go to the pharmacy a couple blocks away. He finds himself standing in Jean Coutu on a fucking Sunday, staring blankly at dozens of boxes claiming to be Canada's #1 Pregnancy test.

He finds one that claims it's accurate across all dynamics, including rare cases of atypical internal reproductive anatomy, so Shane buys it, trying to be as inconspicuous as he can be while wearing a hat and dark sunglasses at nine in the god damn morning. He takes both of the tests in the multi-pack, thankful for the single use bathroom located in the back of the building.

Both are negative; the relief lasts less than a minute before his brain reminds him that healthy, nonpregnant alphas do not spontaneously produce milk, of all things.

He calls a private endocrinology clinic from his car. He gives the receptionist his legal name, then his insurance information, then finally his symptoms, his voice robotic as he struggles to handle his emotions. Someone cancels while he's on the phone, and the receptionist offers him an appointment in ninety minutes.

Dr. Yared doesn't look shocked or bewildered when he tells her his symptoms, which helps Shane's anxiety over him maybe dying within the next few hours. Then she starts asking questions, each one making Shane squirm uncomfortably from his place on the examination table.

“Is the discharge coming from both sides?”

“Yes.”

“White or bloody?”

“White. It looks like—uh—milk.”

“Have you been experiencing headaches?”

Shane hesitates, uncertain. “Sometimes? Is that related?”

“Any changes in your vision?”

Shane looks past her at the eye chart hanging on the wall, and the bottom four lines blur together. “A little,” he admits.

Dr. Yared examines his chest, cold gloved hands pressing his flesh and making him wince slightly. She eventually starts testing his peripheral vision, asking Shane to keep his eyes on her nose while she moves one finger around. She sits down afterward, typing up something on her laptop, and asks about his ruts. Shane’s face heats up quickly, his throat suddenly dry.

“They’re regular,” he says, his voice mumbling a little.

“How severe?”

“Not very.”

“Has that changed recently?”

Shane considers the question. His ruts have always been easy compared to the stories other alphas tell, more restless energy than mindless need. He runs more, sleeps less, and becomes irritable for a couple of days, but he hasn't ever felt compelled to find an omega and fuck until neither of them can stand.

His mother, and the doctors who his parents took him to after his first few ruts, said that Shane has an incredibly amount of control over his inner alpha. Shane has accepted the compliment that is supposed to be, because the alternative is explaining that an omega’s heat scent has never made him feel much of anything.

“No,” he says. “They’ve always been mild.”

Dr. Yared makes a note. “And your sex drive?”

“Normal," he blurts out, answering a little too quickly. Dr. Yared's expression remains politely neutral. Shane thinks about what normal means when most of the alphas he knows talk about sex constantly. He's spent years assuming they exaggerated, because he can go months without wanting anyone and barely notices.

Then Rozanov will send him a dirty text or crowd him against a hotel room wall, and Shane wants so intensely that it feels like it's making up for all the empty months at once. Rozanov is an exception to several rules Shane has never examined closely.

“Maybe a little low,” he corrects. “Compared to other alphas.”

“Elevated prolactin can suppress the hormones involved in rut and sexual function,” Dr. Yared explains. “That doesn’t necessarily account for a lifelong pattern, but it's something we’ll measure.”

She orders bloodwork, marking it urgent. The pregnancy test is repeated despite Shane’s insistence that it's impossible, followed by a full reproductive and secondary-gender panel. His prolactin level comes back so high that the lab runs the sample twice, just to be sure.

The MRI is scheduled for that evening; being Shane Hollander gets him through doors faster than it should, though he's too frightened to feel guilty about it. He lies perfectly still inside the machine and counts every mechanical thud while imagining tumors spreading through his brain.

By the time he returns to Dr. Yared's office the following morning, he's slept for less than two hours. She brings the scan up on her laptop and points to a small pale mass.

“This is your pituitary gland and that is a prolactinoma,” she says. “A prolactin-secreting pituitary adenoma.”

Shane’s brain hurts as he quickly translates what she's saying. “A tumor?”

“Yes, but these tumors are almost always benign. Yours has the classic appearance, and your bloodwork supports that diagnosis. There's nothing here suggesting cancer.”

The word 'benign' makes Shane feel a little better, some relief flooding his system, but Shane can't stop himself from staring at the image, a little freaked out at the thought that something has been growing inside his head without his permission. It's apparently large enough to press lightly against the structures associated with his vision, explaining why the edges of things have been disappearing.

“Do I need brain surgery?” Shane asks, his heartbeat slowly starting to get back under control.

“Probably not. Prolactinomas generally respond very well to medication,” Dr. Yared says, turning away from the scan. “I’m prescribing bromocriptine. It should lower your prolactin and begin shrinking the tumor.”

She explains the dosing schedule twice because Shane keeps losing track of what she's saying, his thoughts all over the place. He's supposed to take the medication with food, preferably before bed at first, because it can cause nausea and dizziness. He'll need repeat bloodwork, another vision exam, and follow-up imaging to confirm the tumor is shrinking.

“What about the milk?” he asks, wincing slightly as he shifts and his shirt takes the opportunity to remind him of the reason he came here in the first place.

“That should begin decreasing quickly. I would expect the lactation to stop within three to seven days, although the tenderness may take a little longer to resolve,” she replies, giving him a sympathetic look. “Try not to check by squeezing. Nipple stimulation encourages continued production.”

“I play hockey.”

“I’m aware," she replies, the first real acknowledgement that she knows who Shane is.

“My chest pads move while I play and it keeps irritating my—,” Shane cuts himself off and coughs, embarrassed.

Dr. Yared's mouth twitches, but she thankfully doesn't laugh at him. She recommends soft silicone shields beneath his compression shirt and gives him a list of symptoms that means he has to stop playing immediately. His current vision issues are mild enough that she's willing to clear him after consulting Montreal's physicians, provided Shane reports any worsening headaches, nausea, dizziness, or vision loss.

It isn't until Shane is standing at the pharmacy counter that he remembers Montreal flies to Boston tomorrow morning. His phone has been vibrating in his pocket throughout the appointment, most of the notifications concerning the travel schedule, but one is a text from Lily, sent seventeen minutes ago.

You are ready to lose, yes? 

Shane stares at it while the pharmacist sets the bromocriptine on the counter. His chest aches beneath his sweatshirt, a heavy tenderness that has nothing to do with the sharp little flare of want the message produces.

Montreal will arrive in Boston the afternoon before the game, and Shane is supposed to slip away from the team hotel that evening and take an uber to Rozanov's house. It will be the first time they have been together in one of their homes, Shane's secret sex condo not counting, but Shane has deliberately avoided thinking about that part.

It's only a more private place to have sex, that's all.

Shane expects to be there for an hour, maybe two. They'll fuck, trade insults, and pretend they aren’t going to spend the following night trying to check each other through the boards. Shane will shower, dress, and return to the hotel before anyone besides Hayden notices he's been gone for too long.

Rozanov has been unusually enthusiastic about the plan; he sent Shane his address, instructions for avoiding the busiest entrance to the neighborhood, and an unnecessary photograph of himself stretched across his bed wearing nothing but a smug smile. Yesterday, he demanded to know what time Shane would arrive.

There is no version of the quick hookup Shane is anticipating in which Rozanov fails to notice what is happening to his chest.

Rozanov particularly likes Shane’s chest; he likes to bite it, lick it, and scrape his teeth over Shane’s nipples until Shane stops caring about the noises he makes. He'll notice that Shane is swollen and sore before Shane gets his shirt all the way off, and if he touches him too roughly—or puts his mouth on him—there will be no possible explanation for the milk.

Shane pictures Rozanov burying his teeth around Shane's puffy nipple and has to blink the spots out of his eyes, struggling to keep as straight face as he pays for his pills and tries to calculate the timing of it all. The doctor had said three to seven days until the lactation stops; he has one day until he's supposed to be at Rozanov's house.

He can cancel, he supposes. He can tell Rozanov that Montreal has imposed a stricter curfew or that one of the coaches scheduled a meeting after dinner. Rozanov will complain and accuse Shane of being boring, but he won’t come to the hotel and drag him away in front of his teammates.

His phone vibrates again.

Start stretching, Hollander. I have many ideas on what we can do to fill our time.

Despite everything, Shane smiles, and he's able to feel the blush gracing his freckled cheeks. It lasts only until his chest brushes the inside of his sweatshirt and a warm, unmistakable dampness spreads beneath the fabric.

He should cancel; Shane knows that, but the thought of spending the entire trip in the team hotel while Rozanov is somewhere across the city feels unbearable. He hasn’t seen him in nearly two months, and the need that comes over him whenever Rozanov is close has never cared about Shane’s better judgment.

Maybe the medication will work unusually fast? Maybe the silicone shields will reduce the stimulation enough for the leaking to stop by tomorrow night. Maybe Shane can keep Rozanov's attention focused everywhere except his chest for the hour he plans to stay.

Shane closes his eyes and presses the pharmacy bag against his forehead. He has medication, clearance to play, and confirmation that the tumor inside his head is benign. In three to seven days, the lactation should stop, and this entire humiliating problem will become something he can pretend never happened.

Unfortunately, tomorrow afternoon, Ilya Rozanov will be waiting for him at his house. Shane plans to arrive, have sex with him, and return to the hotel before either of them can make the evening more complicated than it needs to be.

All Shane has to do is prevent the most observant asshole alive from touching his chest. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, a voice in his head replies, sounding disturbingly like the one Hayden uses for his kids. Shane groans out loud and goes to find something to eat so he can take his first dose of medicine.

So it takes less than a minute after walking into Rozanov's house—which, Shane is serious about wanting to know about the architecture of this place, it's gorgeous—for Rozanov to lift Shane onto his kitchen island counter and start devouring his mouth.

He's shirtless, so Shane let's himself be greedy, running his hands over the bare skin before him. He's warm. Shane moans a little when Rozanov's runs his tongue along his own, the alpha that usually lays dormant in Shane stirring a little, a grumble rising in his chest as pheromones start to fill the air. Shane had forgone his usual morning scent blocker and, while he had worn a patch on the plane and in the uber here, he'd stripped it off right before knocking.

Rozanov always smelled vaguely like smoke, but there was a sweetness to it that Shane found mouthwatering, rather than repugnant like the stench of the Russian's cigarettes. There was a bitter cold snap to his scent as well, one that reminds Shane so much of his first years learning to skate that it always sends an ache through his chest. 

Shane helps Rozanov tug his jacket off, and his shirt over his head, momentarily distracted as Rozanov's hand come up to start toying with his chest. When Rozanov's hand touches his peck, his finger brushing his nipple, Shane tenses and pulls away with a gasp.

"What?" Rozanov mutters, his face flushed. "Everything okay?"

"B-Bedroom," Shane stutters out, pushing at the other alpha. He needs to get himself under control, needs to find a way to hide his chest; trying to grab his shirt and put it back on would be incredibly suspicious. 

Rozanov smirks wickedly at him, the expression sending a rush of heat to through Shane. He pushes at him again, just to make a point, and then allows the alpha to pull him into another heated kiss. He slides off the island and lets Rozanov guide them down the hall, both of them getting distracted by wet kisses and wandering hands. Shane has a second to look at the bedroom, one moment to breathe in deeply and be hit in the face with Rozanov's musk, before he is lying on his back and kicking his pants and underwear off.

Rozanov is hovering over him, lips attached to his neck, and Shane moans when he sucks a little harder than usual. He's right over Shane's mating gland, and the suction feels incredible. "Don't leave a mark," Shane manages to pant, even as his cock twitches a little at the idea.

Rozanov hums, his chest rumbling, before he slides his mouth away, trailing kisses down Shane's neck. His body brushes Shane's chest and it's then that Shane realizes he got distracted again and that disaster is about to strike: Rozanov wraps his mouth around one of Shane's nipples and sucks.

Shane's moan sounds more like a screech—much to his horror—and he's burying his fingers into Rozanov's curls as his back arches and his dick gives a harsh jerk, leaking precum profusely across his stomach. He wasn't ready for the combination of pain and pleasure, his eyes watering slightly as Rozanov pulls off abruptly and sits back, genuine concern on his face.

“What is wrong? Are you okay?” Rozanov asks. The concern in his voice somehow makes the humiliation worse; Shane clamps a hand over his chest and tries to sit up further, but Rozanov is still straddling his thighs. He looks from Shane’s red face to the way he is covering his chest, all the lazy amusement gone from his expression.

“I’m fine.”

“You do not look fine.”

“I am,” Shane insists. “It’s just—there’s something I should’ve told you before I came here.”

Rozanov goes still, his expression twisting in confusion. “What?”

Shane looks anywhere but at him. He wants his shirt back, although it's lying somewhere in the kitchen with his jacket. “I have a tumor.”

Rozanov is off of him so quickly that the mattress rocks. He kneels beside Shane instead, one hand closing around his arm, his eyes wide. The scent of sweet smoke and ice sharpens around them, all arousal swallowed by alarm.

“You have a what?”

“It’s fine,” Shane says quickly, immediately feeling bad at the fear he can see on Rozanov's face. “It’s benign. They tested it, and I’ve already started medication. It’s not cancer.”

“You have a tumor in your head, and you came here to fuck me?”

“It’s on my pituitary gland. The medication is supposed to shrink it.”

Rozanov stares at him incredulously. His grip tightens around Shane’s arm and Shane can almost see him deciding what the hell is wrong with Shane—besides the obvious.

“Do you need surgery?”

“No. Probably not. The doctor said these usually respond really well to medication,” Shane says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I have follow-up tests scheduled. I’m cleared to play as long as my symptoms don’t get worse.”

“What symptoms?”

“Headaches. My peripheral vision has gotten a little worse,” Shane tells him, rushing to reassure him when Rozanov’s expression darkens. “But only a little! That’s how they found it before it became a bigger problem.”

“And this?” Rozanov glances toward Shane’s covered chest. "What does your chest have to do with brain tumor?"

This is the part Shane has been trying not to think about since he climbed into the uber outside the hotel. Telling Rozanov about the tumor is frightening, but not embarrassing. Explaining what the tumor is making his body do feels like admitting to something shameful.

“It produces prolactin,” Shane says. “Too much of it.”

Rozanov waits, staring at Shane with a blank look.

“That messes with other hormones. It can suppress sex drive and ruts and—,” Shane stops, horrified by the way his own voice shakes, “and sometimes it causes lactation.”

There is a beat of silence as Rozanov's gaze snaps to look back down at his chest, Shane's arms having relaxed and revealed his puffy nipples. Shane tenses again, but doesn't bother covering them now that his secret is out in the open. He does grimace when he looks down and realizes he's leaking milk, little rivulets of the stuff escaping down his swollen pecks.

“Lactation,” Rozanov repeats, voice a little high.

“Yes.”

“You are making milk.”

Shane’s entire body feels hot as he nods. “Yeah. Apparently. It’s temporary,” he says. “The doctor said it should stop within three to seven days. I’ve already been taking the pills, so it could stop sooner.”

Rozanov’s gaze remains fixed on Shane’s chest.

“I know it’s weird,” Shane continues. “I’m an alpha. It shouldn’t be happening, but the tumor doesn’t care what my secondary sex is.”

“How much?”

Shane’s thoughts stumble, causing him to blink owlishly. “What?”

“How much milk do you make?” Rozanov asks; there's something different in his voice now. The alarm hasn't disappeared entirely, but it's been joined by a low growl that Shane recognizes all too well. When Shane finally risks looking at his face, Rozanov’s pupils are wider than they were before.

“Not much,” Shane says cautiously, his heart rate ticking up slightly. “I don’t think. It leaks sometimes, but I’m not—I’m not producing enough to feed someone, if that’s what you mean.”

Rozanov wets his lower lip and Shane’s stomach drops. It shouldn't send heat rushing through him, the way Rozanov is looking at his full chest like a buffet, but it does. His cock, which had grown somewhat soft at the beginning of this conversation, is rock hard again as Shane sniffs the air slightly, eyes rolling a little as he breathes in the sheer amount of lust Rozanov is putting into the air.

“If it freaks you out, I can turn over,” Shane says, trying to give the alpha an out. “It’s not a big deal.”

Rozanov’s head snaps up. “Turn over?”

“Yeah. You won’t have to look at it, and you can still fuck me—”

“You think I am freaked out?”

Shane falters, more than aware the Rozanov's scent is far from freaked out, but still trying to wrap his head around what his scent is saying. “Aren’t you?”

Rozanov reaches out slowly, like he's trying not to startle Shane, his hand coming to rest just below Shane's peck. His nipple is wet, a pale drop already trembling at its tip, and Rozanov makes a soft, hungry sound that settles directly between Shane’s legs. His hand cups his peck, a light squeeze making Shane whimper slightly.

“No,” Rozanov says.

Shane can't seem to breathe correctly. “Oh.”

“You were going to hide this from me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m an alpha, Rozanov.”

“So am I. I still have nipples.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” Rozanov agrees. His thumb brushes carefully beneath Shane’s nipple, collecting the milk before it can run down his chest. “This is much more interesting.”

Shane watches, transfixed and horrified, as Rozanov lifts his thumb to his mouth. He doesn't look away from Shane while his tongue curls around the drop. His eyes close briefly, and the pleased hum in his throat is obscene, the vibrations turning rougher as his alpha rises to the surface.

“Rozanov.”

“It's sweet,” the alpha grunts. Rozanov bends over him again, but this time he stops before his mouth touches Shane’s chest. His breath ghosts across Shane’s damp skin and it makes him shiver. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“It’s tender.”

“When I sucked?”

“A little.”

Rozanov’s gaze lifts to Shane’s face, searching his eyes for something. “Bad hurt?”

Shane should say yes, should do something that would end this before Rozanov’s fascination drags something out of him that he'll never be able to take back, but he thinks about the first sharp pull, the rush of warmth that followed, and the look on Rozanov’s face now.

“No,” Shane admits.

Rozanov’s smile is slow and wicked, his lips curling at the edges. Rozanov cups Shane’s other peck with care, Shane biting the inside of his cheek when that light pressure forces another bead of milk to the surface. Rozanov watches it appear with such naked hunger that Shane’s embarrassment twists into something hotter.

“You really like this,” Shane says, a little amazement leaking into his voice.

“You like that I like it,” Rozanov says.

“No I don’t.”

To prove it, Rozanov draws his thumb across Shane’s nipple. Shane’s back arches as tenderness flashes through him, chased by another warm release. Rozanov’s scent deepens at once, spreading thickly through the room.

“Fuck,” Rozanov breathes. Shane turns his face toward the pillow. He can't bear to watch Rozanov looking at him like that, but hiding only exposes the line of his throat. Rozanov immediately leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss beneath his jaw. “Look at me, Hollander.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“I am going to make this extremely weird,” Rozanov deadpans, drawing a laugh out of Shane. It comes out breathless and unsteady, but Rozanov’s answering grin softens something inside of Shane. Rozanov kisses his cheek, then his mouth, lingering until Shane stops trying to turn away. “Can I?” Rozanov asks against his lips.

Shane knows exactly what he wants; his shame is still there, hot and miserable beneath his skin, but it's tangled now with the unbearable knowledge that Rozanov wants this. He's not disgusted or turned off by it—he wants it.

“You have to be careful.”

"Yes.”

“And if I tell you to stop—”

“I stop.”

Shane hesitates for one final moment, then lets his head fall back against the headboard. “Okay.”

Rozanov descends on him with a sound so hungry it borders on a snarl. He cradles Shane’s chest in both hands and takes one of the swollen nipples into his mouth. The first deliberate pull makes Shane gasp, his fingers flying into Rozanov’s curls before he can think better of it.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers. Rozanov groans against him, the vibrations making Shane shudder.  

Rozanov lifts his head just far enough to look at him. His lips are wet, his eyes nearly black, and he looks more affected than Shane has seen him since that night in Vegas. “Still want to turn over?” he asks.

Shane tightens his hand in Rozanov’s hair and pulls him back down to his chest. “Shut up, Rozanov.”

Rozanov happily complies with Shane's unspoken demand, latching onto his chest and humming as he slowly sucks the milk from Shane's chest. The rhythm of it is surprisingly soothing, the low thrum of arousal easily fading to the background as Shane cards his fingers through Rozanov's soft hair. His cock is still hard, trapped between them, but Shane doesn't feel the immediate need to get any friction, simply luxuriating in the pleasurable pain of Rozanov's hot mouth on his chest.

"So good, Rozanov," Shane mutters when Rozanov starts kneading at his peck in time with his sucking, the dual sensations leaving him light headed. Rozanov full on moans at the praise, the alpha starting to rut his cock against Shane's leg. Shane looks down and finally notices how red his face is, his eyes glazed.

"Keep sucking," Shane encourages him, petting his hair again. While there is some serious relief at his chest no longer being full, the sensation of the milk leaving him and the pull on his nipple feels so fucking good Shane might pass out. "Feels so good, baby," Shane moans, unable to stop the endearment from leaving his lips.

"Yes, mommy," Rozanov mutters when he pulls off, his voice breathy, before his whole body freezes on top of Shane, their eyes meeting in their mutual surprise. Shane thinks maybe this is the sort of thing people should talk about before endulging in, but they never have before, and he's not going to start now.

"You're making mommy feel so good, baby," Shane coos, watching Rozanov down at him, his pupils expanding as he stares slack-jawed at Shane. Shane can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. "Drinking up my milk; you're so greedy, baby."

Rozanov whimpers, his head shaking slightly, his breath coming out in pants as his hips stutter forward again, his body rubbing deliciously against Shane's own aching erection.

"It's okay, mommy likes her baby being greedy," Shane reassures him, encouraging Rozanov to latch back onto his sensitive nipple. Rozanov lets himself be guided back down to Shane's chest, his lips wrapping around Shane's dark nipple to continue drinking from him. "All my milk is just for my baby."

Rozanov moans again, his body writhing slightly. They've both been hard since they started kissing, and each pull of milk from Shane's peck feels like it's being sent directly to his weeping cock. Everything about this is new and exciting, and also maybe a little humiliating; it turns Shane on so much he's seeing stars.

"So good, mommy," Rozanov mumbles against him, his hand coming up to cup and massage at Shane's other peck once more. Shane's head flies back at the stimulation, his mouth watering as Rozanov starts to pinch and roll his neglected nipple in between his fingers. "Love your fat tits."

Shane's cock jerks, his face flushing a deeper red as Rozanov pulls off one nipple only to switch to the other, tongue wet and flat as he licks at him before starting to suck again. Shane pants, barely able to think straight as his used nipple hardens in the cool air, Rozanov's deft fingers keeping it perked and aching from pleasure.

"My sweet baby," Shane coos, a little delirious as Rozanov's teeth brush against his nipple, sending a jolt down his spine. "Watch you teeth, sweetheart, be gentle with mommy."

"Yes, mommy. Sorry, mommy."

"You're making mommy so wet," Shane moans loudly, loving the feeling of Rozanov playing with him. The other alpha starts to hump Shane's leg at a fast pace, his entire body moving against Shane in a desperate bid for friction. Shane's dick feels ready to burst, leaking so heavily in between them that Shane can feel the wet slide of it even with Rozanov still wearing his pants. "Be a good boy and take your panties off."

Rozanov pops off and scrambles above him, eyes glazed as he listens and tugs his pants and boxer briefs off. His cock bobs and smacks wetly against his stomach once released, a knot already starting to form at the base of his dick. Shane licks his lips at the sight, his own cock finally free to twitch into the air, his own knot half-formed. Rozanov's eyes dart down to Shane's cock, his eyes dark as he crawls back over Shane, taking the opportunity to lick at the wet head, Shane's hips bucking in response.

"Such a good listener," Shane tells Rozanov, rocking his own hips up into Rozanov's mouth. "Come up here, baby, and show mommy how much you love her milk."

Rozanov doesn't hesitate, climbing higher and bringing Shane's leg with him, hooking it over his shoulder, his warm mouth ascending once more to latch on to his chest and pull harshly at Shane's nipple. Shane is arching and gasping, his teeth digging into the inside of his cheek as a whine leaves him. He's spread open now, vulnerable and quivering, muttering praises and setting a shaking hand over Rozanov's head, completely lost to the pleasure the other alpha is giving him.

"You're gonna make me come, baby," Shane gasps, his heart pounding so fast he wouldn't be surprised if it burst out of his chest. Rozanov groans before he pulls away, sitting back so he can reach for Shane's aching cock and taking it into his hand. Rozanov leans forward and once more wraps his lips around the head of Shane's cock, giving it a suckle, and Shane is lost, coming hard inside of Rozanov's waiting mouth.

His knot aches as he comes, his sack drawn tight as his release pulses out of him. The orgasm doesn't stop, the pleasure peaking and then continuing throughout his body, releasing torrents of come until Rozanov can't swallow any more, the alpha pulling off with a choked gasp.

He doesn't leave Shane's cock alone for long; he bends forward and licks up the spend that is covering Shane, returning to his cock and swallowing his come as it oozes out of him. Shane feels crazy, his body trembling as Rozanov cleans him, the alpha happily licking up the final weak pulse of come from Shane's tip. The alpha licks his lips as he collects every last drop that Shane has to offer.

"Oh my god," Shane whispers to himself, trying to collect his breath. He watches Rozanov grab his own erection, his pace fast as he starts to stroke his cock, eyes locked onto Shane's abused nipples.

Shane, high on his orgasm and clearly delirious, gets an idea.

"My sweet baby," Shane says, his voice hoarse. "Come up here, sweetheart, mommy wants you to fuck her tits."

Rozanov gapes at him, whimpering loudly as his hand grips the base of his dick tightly, right over where his own knot is already formed, clearly doing his best to hold off his orgasm as he climbs to sit on Shane's stomach. Shane uses his shaking hands to push his pecks—god, his tits—together, allowing Rozanov to nestle his fat cock into the valley they create. Shane's mouth waters as Rozanov starts to fuck his tits, the alpha's cock leaking almost as much as Shane was, the pre-cum slicking the way.

"Play with mommy's nipples, baby," Shane tells him, moaning when Rozanov's hands come up to pluck at his nipples. Shane's cock gives a half-hearted twitch, his slowly deflating knot pulsing slightly. "Use my milk to help you fuck my tits."

Rozanov hiccups a little as he tugs harshly on Shane's nipples, beads of milk appearing at his ministrations. He works Shane over until he's leaking milk again, streams leaving him and wetting Rozanov's cock.

Rozanov actually sobs when he comes, his cock shooting come hard enough that it hits Shane's face, making him hum with pleasure. He drenches Shane in his release, his knot visibly pulsating where it peaks out from between Shane's tits. Shane's hand tightening until he has Rozanov firmly held between them, his knot kept warm and protected. Rozanov shakes above him, Russian spilling out of his mouth nonsensically as he comes down from his orgasm.

He eventually pulls away and collapses onto Shane, little hitched moans still leaving him. Shane can feel all the cum starting to cool on his face, so he nudges Rozanov slightly, lifting his chin with his finger and giving him a stern look.

"Ah, ah, clean up your mess, baby."

"Yes, mommy," Rozanov replies, leaning forward to lick his own come off of Shane's chest and face.

"My good boy," Shane coos at hm, his cock twitching again when Rozanov pays extra attention to the come covering his nipples. "Mommy's favorite baby."