Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Shane is a horny submissive little coyote who wants to hump, That's it, that's the fic, They're Boyfriends Your Honor, blowjob, all my teen wolf girlies remember what an anchor is right?

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-27 Words: 7,293 Chapters: 1/1

you will be mine

Summary

Shane and his coyote don't agree on much, but they definitely agree that Ilya Rozanov is theirs.

Notes

I am fucking obsessed with this press tour, and Hudson is my gremlin king. This is for you bb

Something about Rozanov set off his baser instincts. He was glad of the mouthguard to gnaw on as his world narrowed down, blinkers on as he glided onto the ice at the start of his shift deep in the third period, weaving through insignificant obstacles like they were orange cones at practice, dark eyes intent. His heart was racing, blood pumping through his body as his canines lengthened, his mouth watering as he crossed over once, twice, building up speed and momentum.

He crashed him into the boards, and they wrestled for the puck. Rozanov’s teeth were bared in a wild grin that was beautiful and infuriating. But this close to the moon, he wasn’t as strong as Shane, who batted the puck away almost lazily to a teammate he didn’t even glance at.

His gaze clung to Ilya as he skated off with a muttered Russian curse, shoving off of Shane’s chest without a glance back.

Montreal scored. Shane slowly skated to his team, tapping his helmet to Hayden’s who had assisted the goal, but his awareness was on the other side of the ice where Rozanov rested lazily against the boards by his team’s bench, speaking in a low voice to his team.

His senses were heightened, so he heard him say clearly. “Don’t worry about Hollander, I’ve got him.”

Shane glanced his way, offering him a cocky smirk as their eyes met across the ice.

Rozanov’s eyes widened slightly and then narrowed.

Oh yes, he was going to fucking enjoy this.

Montreal were up four to three thanks to this goal. Shane had had a handle on every goal so far, but decided the next one will be just for him.

He lazily skated to the face-off, where Rozanov met him. His scent was all over the place, angry and turned on and determined and a little scared. Shane took a deep breath of it and smiled.

Their sticks clashed as the puck dropped, but again, Shane was too fast. He glanced back at Ilya as he took off for the net, goading him to chase, and it was only his supernatural speed and the terrified glance Ilya shot at him that alerted him to the impending collision.

People would look at the clip later and wonder what the fuck happened, how he’d moved so quickly.

He dug his skate and stick into the ice, flicking the puck ahead as he basically pirouetted and turned back in towards the center of the ice.

Marlow crashed and burned into the boards, momentarily stunned, but Shane barely noticed. It was an open net, with only the goalie looking at him with a cute little furrow as he stalked towards the net.

Shane handled the puck side to side, shooting the goalie a feral grin as he lined up the shot, feinting and then flicking the puck up with an almost lazy toss over his outstretched leg. 

Ilya crashed into him only a moment later with another mumbled curse and Shane let his momentum carry them to the boards, turning at the last moment so that Ilya stumbled into his front.

He steadied him with a hand, letting it rest on the center of his chest for just a heartbeat too long, staring up into Ilya’s frustrated, snarling face. Even through his glove, he could feel that his heart was beating fast in his chest. Shane salivated, letting out a low growl. This was where Rozanov belonged. On the ice, in his bed, on his knees, but always within his grasp.

With a gentle push, he knocked him away and skated to where his team was waiting to receive him like a king.

Later, he’d have Rozanov where he wanted him. He’d tie him to the bed if he had to, and would sniff him out of his hotel room if he refused to come over.

It was a big step, bringing Rozanov finally to his den. He’d been looking forward to it for a long, long time.

And after a win, it would be even sweeter.

Boston tried to rally, they really did. They were a good team, but they were just no match for Shane. He toyed with them in the dying minutes of the game, guarding the crease and batting away the puck with an ease that soon frustrated every line.

His teammates kept trying to gently guide him to the bench, but they soon gave up. He was on a seven minute shift, hair plastered to the back of his neck, but he had no intention of leaving the ice until that final siren sounded.

When it did, his teammates piled on top of him, patting his back and laughing incredulously.

“Holy shit, Hollzy,” Hayden yelled, pounding on his back. “You were fucking possessed today, man.”

“It’s always good to win against Boston,” he nodded, tucking the monster aside, for now at least. The media training kicked in through getting showered and changed, speaking to the press, congratulating the team. They were heading out to celebrate but Shane waved them off, unlocking his phone.

Shane: Leaving rink now.

Shane: See you soon.

He didn’t frame it as a question. 

Ilya: Fuck off.

Normally, that was Shane’s line. He smirked at the role reversal.

Ilya: Next time use lube if you’re gonna fuck me that hard.

Briefly, he closed his eyes and entertained the fantasy of pressing Ilya against the boards, shoving down his pants in front of thousands of people, showing them how much he liked it when Shane grasped his cock and pumped it.

Maybe he would get on his knees right there, swallow him down and make him cry and howl and beg until he was coming down his throat and looking at him, only him, with those pretty hazel eyes.

Shane: You love it.

Shane: Did you punch your buddy in the locker room? I can smell your anger in the halls.

Ilya: It is never not weird that you can smell that shit.

He waited with uncharacteristic patience as he unlocked his car and slid into the driver’s seat, chucking his bag on the back seat.

Ilya: …yes.

A flash of triumph lit up Shane’s chest.

Ilya: Could have been a nasty hit. 

Shane: Lucky that I am too fast for him.

Ilya: Today, yes. Not always. Any other time…

Any other time, Shane would have been crumpled on the ice, probably. Maybe leaving the rink in a stretcher instead of his Jeep Cherokee.

Shane: Have you left your hotel yet?

Ilya didn’t respond. Shane narrowed his eyes. He set his phone aside and turned the car on, reversing out of the lot.

On instinct, he drove to the hotel where the Boston Bears usually stayed when in Montreal. Sure enough, Ilya Rozanov was hovering under the awning of the hotel, a lit cigarette perched between his lips, scowling down at his phone. 

Shane parked on the other side of the road, idling.

Shane: Well?

Ilya: I’m not coming, asshole.

Shane looked over at him. His face was backlit by his phone screen. While he watched, Ilya took a drag of the cigarette and blew the smoke out of his pursed lips, tapping the ash with a practiced flick of his finger. 

He was beautiful.

Shane wound the window down. The sound of it made Ilya startle and he sighed as he spotted him.

“No,” he said quietly, looking at Shane defiantly.

Shane just arched an eyebrow at him.

Ilya stared. His scent was even more tangled than before. Lust. Disappointment. The fading anger. Still that lingering edge of fear.

“I won’t bite, Rozanov,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “Come on, get in already.”

Ilya sighed. He stubbed out his cigarette and binned it, clumping across the road, his hands shoved into his pockets, expression resigned.

Shane felt something in his chest stretch and settle as Ilya opened the passenger door and got in. He wound the window back up, studying him from up close. He smelled nice, a mix of smoke and the citrusy body wash he favored.

He looked straight ahead through the windscreen, every inch of him tense.

Shane understood why. In the very rare times he had played against Shane before when he was moonstruck, he’d always been careful to keep that side of himself hidden from Ilya, separate, begging out of meeting up this close to the full moon. He was in control of himself, completely, but he knew the rumors about his kind, about what people believe about werefolk.

It was a hobbled mess of fact and fiction woven together, until no one really knew the truth. 

Ilya had known for years now that there was something different about him sometimes, and Shane had told him a little about being bitten as a freckly, awkward teenager, but he kept the truth of it all buried deep, deeper even than his preference for six-foot Russian hockey players with hazel eyes and golden curls.

And that was a close secret indeed.

He wished it was different, and was working towards that goal, now that he’d finally accepted that Ilya was the only one he wanted.

But first, he needed to show Ilya exactly what he was getting into.

“You are scared,” he said matter-of-factly, the engine still idling. 

Ilya nodded slowly. “You are oboroten,” he said. “A wolf. You will murder me.”

Shane rolled his eyes. So dramatic. “I haven’t murdered you yet. Why would I do that now? Also, I am not a stupid wolf.”

This made Ilya look at him. His hands were gripping his own knees, knuckles white. Despite his fear, he was curious.

“Not a wolf?” he questioned.

Shane shook his head. “No, I’m a coyote.”

“Koyot,” Ilya murmured. His brow furrowed. “Is different?”

He shrugs. “I’m smaller than a wolf,” he admitted. “Smarter, too. Faster. And wolves have packs. Coyotes don’t.”

Ilya blinked at him. He seemed to be thinking hard, and Shane watched him. This close to the moon, his senses were so fucking sensitive, and all he wanted was to snuff over Rozanov’s naked body and breathe him in, pinning him down to his bed and keeping him there for the next week.

He let that desire show, his eyes flicking to Rozanov’s mouth. He noticed Rozanov noticing, heat curling hot and molten in his belly as his tongue flicked out over his lips nervously.

This wasn’t their usual dynamic. Rozanov liked power, liked to dominate. Shane was more than happy to submit to him. He liked bottoming, liked praise and doing what he was told. It got him amazing orgasms, and he’d accepted how stupidly in love with him he was, so there was that, too. His coyote liked him too, liked his scent, long since having accepted their mutual surrender.

More recently, a word had been floating in Shane’s mind. One that was as dangerous as it was thrilling.

Mate.

It was why he was still hovering outside of this stupid hotel instead of dragging Rozanov back to his den. He had a choice. And if he wanted to walk away, Shane would rather it was now, before he’d seen what he looked like in his bed, before his scent lingered in his sheets and his walls like a ghost he couldn’t shake.

He made himself ask. “Do you want to come to my house?”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose. “Not your apartment?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No, I hate that place.” It was too sterile. Too empty. Too impersonal. “I’ll bring you to my den.”

“Den? Like, lair? In forest?” Ilya asked, and it was the first hint of amusement he’d shown all evening, his pretty eyes sparkling with it.

Shane rolled his eyes. “I have a house,” he insisted. 

“I get to see it? Finally?” Ilya asked him. He looked surprised.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Why now?”

Shane hummed, turning away to look back out the windscreen, considering his response. It was a good question. Why now? Why was he finally ready to let the apartment go and bring Rozanov into his private sanctuary?

The truth was, dating Rose Landry had been illuminating. She was everything he should want: beautiful, successful, sweet, funny, a woman. But her sweet, floral scent, while enticing, had tasted wrong on his tongue, and his coyote, usually easy to charm, had resisted like a dog being dragged by a chain.

Almost the entire time they’d dated, he’d been too busy thinking about someone else. Someone who got under his skin, who challenged him, who pushed him to grow and be better and not give up. Someone who was also beautiful and successful and sweet and funny but was instead a large man who set his soul on fire.

Shane had been thinking of this since the All-Star game. He was done with it all. With the pretending he didn’t want Ilya Rozanov, with the hiding, with the lies.

It was time to put his cards on the table.

“I told you that Rose and I were not compatible,” he said after a few moments. “But it wasn’t because of her that it didn’t work. It was because I was never really there, not in my mind, not in my heart.”

He shrugged, trying to hide his nerves as he looked back at Ilya. “I didn’t want her. It took me too long to accept what I already knew.”

Ilya was staring at him, his expression fraught. They didn’t do this. They didn’t talk about the real things, their real feelings. Another thing that Shane was done with.

“I only want you.”

“You don’t want me,” Ilya dismissed. He looked away, dropping his eyes to his own clenched hands, resting in his lap.

“You can’t tell me what I do or do not want,” Shane said. “What do you want?”

Ilya let out a bitter laugh at that. “To not die tonight,” he said. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Shane scowled. “I’m not doing anything. I haven’t even fucking left yet. If you want to go back to your hotel room and jerk off instead, fucking go for it.”

This had Ilya’s head whipping towards him. “You would let me leave?”

Unfortunately.

Shane let his head thunk back against his seat. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes, waiting with bated breath, bracing himself for what it would feel like, the quiet snick of the door closing. The retreating footsteps.

But no such sound came. Ilya was still there. His scent was… Fuck, he had no idea how to get to the bottom of that particular cocktail.

Slowly, he turned his head, opening his eyes. Ilya was studying him, his brow furrowed.

Shane took a deep, shuddering breath. He was in control. He was his own master. The moon did not hold enough sway to make him hurt this beautiful, impossible, infuriating man.

“I would never harm you,” he said with a quiet, firm tone. “Never. I would kill anyone who even looked at you. Hell, JJ fucking cross-checked you in a hockey game and I nearly bit his head off.”

Ilya shook his head a little in disbelief. “Imagine that headline,” he said. “Prince of Hockey Shane Hollander punching his own teammate to defend his rival.”

Shane raised his eyebrows, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “The media would have a field day,” he acknowledged.

“Field day, what is this?”

He shrugged. “Like, they would take advantage of it. Not shut up about it.”

“Ah.” Ilya nodded. “Yes. Probably good you did not punch Boizeau then.”

“I guess.”

He’d still be pretty fucking hard on him in practice for the next few weeks. Nothing a few hundred bag skates wouldn’t fix.

Ilya snorted. “Don’t torture the poor guy,” he said, apparently reading his mind, now. “Was just hockey.”

Shane hummed non-committally. 

“Hollander,” Ilya said, a light warning in his tone. 

He met his gaze. His scent was mellowing out a little. The fear was receding.

“What?”

“You will not kill your teammate, right? Just like you will not harm me?” Ilya asked.

He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Even on full moon?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I leave a trail of dead bodies behind me every month. I don’t know how you haven’t heard about it.”

Ilya studied him, saying nothing.

He sighed. “No, Ilya. I’ve never hurt anyone. Not like that. I have control.”

“Control,” Ilya murmured. “Hmmm. You are not very controlled, in bed. When I fuck you.”

He was always so crude. Shane looked away. It was his turn, now, to stare out the windshield. His fingers remained around the steering wheel, trying not to grip too hard.

“No,” he agreed eventually. “In bed, I give it to you. My control.”

“You trust me that much?” Ilya asked him quietly.

He’d trusted him that much for years. Since the first time. Since 1410.

There was just something about him. Something that made his coyote roll over, show its belly, bare its neck. It had known, long before Shane himself had caught up. It went docile under his hands, his lips, his cock. 

He was never more settled than when he was with Ilya. Even on the ice, it was different, skating against him. He was more free, more focused, more lethal, more everything. 

And doing it while moonstruck had been a fucking revelation. He’d never skated so well in his fucking life, and he’d won back to back Stanley cups.

The juxtaposition of skating without him? Those long months over the previous winter of keeping his distance?

Well, it only affirmed it for him. What he wanted. Ilya. Only ever and always Ilya.

“Yes,” he said. “I trust you.” He looked at Ilya. “Do you… Can you trust me?”

He watched Ilya swallow. His scent was bitter. “Is not that simple, for me. To trust.”

Shane nodded. “I know.”

Ilya shook his head. “You do not. Know. You saw Russia, but Russia on best behavior. With whole world watching.”

He stayed silent. 

Ilya had never really opened up about Russia. He knew something had happened, something that had made him flee the country and refuse to ever return on his own. When Shane had approached him at the Sochi Games, there had been something… haunted about him. Something hunted.

In the arena, watching the figure skating competition, it had been the only time he’d seen Ilya alone. The rest of the time, he’d either been flanked by his teammates, the coaching staff or a very fierce looking woman who had glared at anyone who approached.

He’d known there was something wrong, then. He’d scented it on the air. This sense of impending violence, crackling through the air like lightning. He’d thought initially that Carter’s assessment had been correct, about the homophobia in that country. Now, he perhaps thought it was something different altogether. Something even more sinister.

“Tell me,” he said, a quiet command.

And Ilya did. About how his father and brother were police. How they thought being turned was honor, was some kind of prize. Who wouldn’t want to be stronger, to be fast, to ruthlessly take down their enemies by ripping out their throats with their teeth?

He spoke, haltingly, the salt of unshed tears filling the small space, of his pretty, kind, sad mother. Her ruined, lifeless body, lying on the ground, a message to Ilya. To be stronger, to be better, to be a man.

“You were twelve.”

He didn’t recognize his own voice. His claws were digging into the steering wheel, his fangs slicing into his own gums as he ground his teeth together. A child. They did this to a fucking child.

He should have killed Andrei and Grigori Rozanov years ago, he thought coldly. The second he’d seen Ilya looking so small and lost in that arena, like all he’d wanted was to be held, to feel a single scrap of kindness. He’d been so fucking alone. So vulnerable.

While he’d never hurt anyone before, that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it. That he wouldn’t, if the right circumstances made it necessary. And defending Ilya? Keeping him safe? There was nothing more important than that.

“Yes,” Ilya said softly. 

Shane could tell he was looking at him, but he wasn’t scared. He was just… thoughtful.

“You were turned, as a child,” Ilya pointed out. “You were, what, thirteen?”

“That wasn’t-” Shane broke off, shaking his head. “It wasn’t a thing. It was just… I don’t know. A fucking freak accident. Wrong time, wrong place.”

Ilya shrugged. “Still fucked up.”

“Well, yeah,” Shane agreed, resting his head back against the seat, still trying to force that ball of rage back down his throat. 

He’d come to terms with it, a long time ago now. It was just… who he was. He was half-Japanese, an NHL hockey player for Montreal, gay, a little bit neurotic, and… a were-coyote. It was just another thing that set him apart, made him different. “I guess.”

Ilya moved, but it wasn’t to leave. Instead, he grasped his seat belt and dragged it across his chest, buckling it into place.

“Well, let’s go,” he said, when Shane merely turned his head to look at him. “It's late.”

Shane blinked, his anger evaporating. “Wait… really? Are you sure?”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Yes. I want to see your house, Hollander.”

Just like that?

“O… kay.” he said. He slowly reached for the ignition, giving him time to change his mind. But Ilya just looked back at him, his expression shuttered.

Shane turned the key.

His car rumbled to life and Shane looked one last time at Ilya before pulling out onto the road. In his chest, his coyote gave a slight wag of its tail, ears perking up.

Yeah buddy, he thought, feeling kind of incredulously hopeful. I know.

***

He unlocked the door, leading Ilya inside. Taking a few extra paces in, he turned the lights on, setting his keys down on the hall table and letting his hockey bag hit the floor beside it as he kicked off his shoes.

Ilya closed the door behind him, also toeing his shoes off. He also slipped out of his jacket, holding it awkwardly as he stood just in the doorway.

Shane turned to look at him and then approached slowly, reaching to gently take it from him.

“Here, let me,” he said quietly. He felt Ilya watching him as he hung it up in the closet.

He’d forgone a jacket when leaving the rink. He was burning up this close to the moon being full in the sky. God, he wished he was back at his cottage in Montreal so that he could run.

“Come on,” he said quietly, leading Ilya deeper into the house. He was careful to keep his movements clear, his intentions clearer. Each step was slow, every gesture deliberate. He knew that Ilya was unsure, still. He didn’t want to overwhelm him, to scare him off.

“I am not made of glass, Hollander,” Ilya said with a roll of his eyes, immediately calling him on his bullshit.

“No,” he said, turning to face. “I know. But-”

Ilya waited.

“But you are precious. To me.” He gave Ilya a pained smile. “I’m a lot, I know. Especially right now and I just… I need to go slow. And careful.”

“Because you are predator?” Ilya asked him, gesturing between them. “And I am prey?”

That ignited something in him, a frisson of lust sparking down his spine and pooling in his belly.

“Kind of,” Shane admitted. “But not… not prey.”

“What then?”

Ilya stalked a little bit closer. His hazel eyes were intent, curious. This time, it was Shane who felt a little hunted.

He kind of fucking loved it.

“Mate,” he whispered.

The word sat between them. A physical, tangible thing.

He had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the want it elicited. The rightness of it. He felt it, every atom of his body vibrating with a need to close that last bit of distance. To take. To claim.

Shane just focused on his breathing. He was in control. He was in charge.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest, soothing the beast inside.

The hand was gently captured between Ilya’s own, brought up to his lips as he kissed his palm. He opened his eyes and bit back a gasp as he watched Ilya’s tongue draw a filthy circle over it, before he drew two of the fingers into his mouth and sucked. It was like there was a direct line from his fingers to his cock. Blood was quickly flowing south.

“Ilya,” he groaned.

He dug his fingers into his tongue, letting them sit there, letting him fucking feel it. When he pulled them out, they were slick, and he cupped Ilya’s chin with them, keeping him close.

“What does this mean?” Ilya asked him, his voice serious. “To be mate?”

“You don’t know?” Shane asked him.

“I know the word,” Ilya said, somehow still calm, still steady, “has several different meanings. To fuck. To claim. I want to know what it means to you.”

His knees felt unsteady. 

Glancing around, he was glad to spot his couch nearby.

“Come, sit down with me,” he said, taking a studying breath. “We should… let’s talk about this.”

Ilya nodded. “Okay.”

Shane dropped onto the couch and Ilya sat facing him, resting his chin on his own knee, waiting patiently.

He thought for a few long moments at where to begin. He felt like… well, this was a momentous thing. Huge. Ilya needed the context to know what he was agreeing to… and what he’d be giving up.

“When I was bitten, well, like you said, I was only thirteen. My mum found someone, some kind of alpha, or whatever. Someone who knew what was the truth and what was just… shit. Made-up.”

He looked away from Ilya, turning his body to lean back on the couch and stare up at his ceiling. It was… hard. To talk about this. After keeping it as this huge fucking secret for so long.

“I learned about control from him, how to not be a danger to others. How to channel it into something else. Aggression became movement, another run or another work-out or another drill.”

He heard Ilya shift in place.

“You turned it inwards,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Into yourself.”

Shane shrugged. “It worked. And it made me faster, stronger. Best hockey player in a generation.”

“Second best,” Ilya said automatically.

“Whatever,” Shane waved him off. “Equal best.”

“Sure,” Ilya drawled. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Hollander.”

He rolled his eyes at the jab. “Shut up. Don’t be an asshole. This is hard enough to talk about.”

Ilya held his hands up in mock surrender and then wrapped them back around his leg, going back to watching him.

“Anyway, I was young. And you know, starting to go through puberty. Shut up.”

“I said nothing,” Ilya smirked. “Go on.”

“Your face said enough,” Shane scowled. “So, yeah. I had this coyote thing, and hormones, and I think I grew a foot in like four months. My parents could barely keep up with how much I was eating to just fuel my body. It was fucking insane.”

He shook his head. He still felt that gnaw of hunger, that itch under his skin. Shane had way better control of it, these days. But it never entirely went away.

“But the worst of it were these urges.” He felt his cheeks flush. 

Ilya’s smirk widened into a grin. “I bet you nearly stripped your dick off,” he chuckled.

“Fuck off,” he groaned. “But yeah, it probably came close. Then came the talk, except the talk for a teenage were-coyote is different. It was less this is how babies are made, and more, this is do or die, you only get one chance so don’t fuck it up.”

“One chance?” Ilya mused. “A lot of pressure for baby Shane.”

“Tell me about it,” Shane said bitterly. He sighed. “It was, you know, it was fine. I had hockey to keep me busy. I kissed a few girls. Got laid. But I never, you know, let it get beyond the superficial.”

And yeah, okay, he’d been lonely and a bit miserable about it. But he’d been fine. He had. 

Until, well… until he hadn’t been. Until Ilya had been there, crowding him on the ice, in the gym, in that fucking locker room, demanding the number to his hotel room. He’d been a goner ever since.

It had made him understand why he’d waited, why he hadn’t just mated the first person he’d had stirrings of emotions for. Because it didn’t even hold a candle to this, to the desperation and longing and sheer frustration that Ilya caused in him. He was a forest fire, cleaving a path of destruction through Shane’s life, sweeping him up in the aftermath.

But after a fire, there was always new growth. And Shane, he was better. He was faster. He was stronger. There was something in him that was calmer, more settled. And it was all because of Ilya Rozanov. His rival. The man he loved.

“So, what changed?” Ilya asked quietly. 

“Why now?” Shane guessed. “Why you?”

Ilya gave a tight nod, his eyes glued to Shane’s face.

“You’re the only thing in this world that the coyote and I have ever agreed upon,” he admitted. “It was like… I don’t know. That first time we met, in Saskatchewan, all it wanted was to just bury its face in your neck and lick you.”

“You are serious?” Ilya asked, eyes shining with amusement. “Here I think you are scary wolf and you are just a cute puppy this whole time?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, you were obsessed with me,” Ilya said, pleased. “Is not news, though. Human Shane also wanted to lick me.”

Jesus Christ. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Would it help if I scratched behind your ears, shchenok? Little puppy?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane mumbled.

“You love it,” Ilya said confidently. “You want to mate me.”

God help him. He really did. It consumed his every waking thought.

“I do,” he sighed. Shane let his hands fall, knowing full well that he was as red as a tomato. He was so crap at this. He decided to just forge on. “But it’s just... Ilya, this is a big deal. It’s not something you can walk away from.”

He shook his head, feeling tears sting at his eyes. He looked back up at the ceiling.

“If I mate you, well, like I said. It’s only the once. It will be it for me, forever. There will never, never be anyone else. It will change everything.”

“What will change?” Ilya asked quietly.

“You won’t be able to sleep with anyone else.”

“Done.”

“We’d have to move in together,” Shane continued. 

“Tricky,” Ilya acknowledged. “I am nearly done with contract with Boston. We can figure out short-term until then. I can move to Canadian team.”

“My transformations,” Shane kept going, the words a torrent now, “they’ll change. It won’t just be the moon. Any real surge of anger could do it, any real threat could make me turn. It’ll make me more dangerous.”

“So, we will have to be careful,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “Maybe we need same team, then. Trickier. Not many will afford both.”

“Ilya,” he sighed. 

“Shane,” Ilya responded calmly. “Is that it? Doesn’t seem so bad.”

“No,” he said, quiet now, nervous. “The actual mating. I will have to bite you.”

He saw Ilya go very, very still.

“Will it turn me?” he asked. His voice shook, his fear rising. “Hollander, I do not know if I can do that.”

“It won’t turn you,” Shane told him. “But it will affect you, a little. A bite only turns someone if whoever bit them is transformed. As a human biting you, it will still infect you, I guess? If that’s the right word? But it will be dormant.”

“Dormant?”

Shane shrugged. “Like, asleep. No transformation. Maybe just, enhanced senses, a little. You’ll feel the moon rising and setting. Probably a bit more irritable without understanding why.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a lot, like I said,” Shane said with a weak chuckle. “But yes, that. I want that. I want you. But not if it’s not what you want. I won’t force it on you. Not ever.”

Ilya was quiet for a long time. Then, “does not have to be tonight?” he asked. “I can think about it?”

Shane nodded quickly. “Yeah, of course. Jesus, tonight would be a terrible idea, this close to the full moon.”

“More likely to transform?” Ilya guessed.

“I won’t,” Shane promised him. “But yeah, of course it would be more of a risk.”

He looked at Ilya, noting the way he was starting to slump, just a bit. He glanced over at the clock. Fuck, it was so fucking late, now. They should sleep.

Slowly, being very careful again not to startle Ilya, who still smelled a bit overwhelmed, he stood up, offering his hand to him.

“Come on,” Shane said gently. “Nothing’s happening tonight. Let’s just go get some sleep.”

“You don’t want to fuck?” Ilya asked him, looking up at him through his lashes.

God, always. But Shane shook his head. “Not right now,” he said. “We’re both exhausted. It was a tough game.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Maybe for some of us,” he grumbled, accepting Shane’s hand and giving a grumble as he hauled him up to his feet. “Not all of us have fucking supernatural speed or healing.”

“Even so,” Shane said, letting go of Ilya’s wrist and rubbing at his dry, gritty eyes. “This was… a lot. Thanks for hearing me out, and not bolting.”

Ilya patted his chest. “Am too tired to run, right now, Hollander. Come, show me this bed I have been dreaming about for years now.”

He trailed after Ilya as he started up the stairs.

“Years?” Shane asked, unable to keep the amusement from his tone.

“Shut up, Hollander.”

***

Shane didn’t sleep. He rested, with Ilya’s head pillowed on his chest, his arms wrapped around him, nose pressed into his curls. He breathed deeply, letting the hours slip by, Ilya’s calm, sleepy scent soothing the turmoil in his chest as he slept against him.

His coyote was on high alert, so it meant Shane could doze. They would both protect Ilya. Nothing could touch him. Nothing would dare.

He’d expected Ilya to be a fitful sleeper, but he was completely still, practically boneless from where was half-draped over Shane’s body, as if he was the protector and not Shane. It was insanely cute. It made Shane’s heart melt.

He knew that Ilya didn’t trust easily, but this? It spoke volumes. Some part of Ilya did trust him. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep in his arms otherwise.

This wasn’t something they’d ever had, before. Time had never been their friend, and Shane was loath to admit that they were still beholden to it. He would have to wake Ilya up soon. 

His team would grow suspicious if he was missing from his hotel for too long. And while he was quite certain no one had physically seen him out the front of the Boston team’s hotel, he knew that security cameras and the like would have captured Ilya crossing the street and getting into his car.

And the moon, it was boiling in his blood, now. If anyone turned up here looking for Ilya, he wasn’t entirely sure what his coyote would do about it. How it would perceive the threat of something trying to take him away.

Shane opened his eyes. Light was filtering in through the open window, and it lit Ilya’s back beautifully, showing off every hard muscle and line of his body from where the blanket had fallen down slightly.

He couldn’t help but to touch him, to drag his hand down his spine, feeling every bump and ridge.

Ilya stirred against him with a low grumble. His hips rolled.

Oh.

The attention of both him and his coyote were suddenly intently focused on Ilya, on his scent, the way it was blossoming, a ripe flower bursting sweet and hot on his tongue.

A kiss was pressed to his chest, his collarbone, and then Ilya was tilting his head down so that he could bite at his lower lip. His hazel eyes were lidded, wanton, wanting.

“You want?” Ilya asked him, his voice gravelly with sleep, still. “Hmm?”

Fuck yes. Of course he fucking wanted.

“Yes,” he groaned, hands grasping Ilya to him, almost vibrating out of his skin as the need roared through him. “Just, you’re gonna have to pin me down. You can’t let me bite.”

Ilya’s grin was savage. “Such a pathetic little puppy, Shane. You wanna bite? Want to sink your teeth in?”

Shane whimpered. He could feel his canines lengthening and had to wrench his face away, panting and squeezing his eyes closed.

“Show me,” Ilya demanded, fingers curling around his chin and pulling him back.

Dazed, Shane let his lips fall open. He let go of Ilya to fist his hands in the blanket instead, his claws shredding into the fabric. Control. He was in control. He was-

Ilya licked into his mouth, tongue tracing over one of his canines and Shane’s muscles strained.

“Ilya,” he choked out.

“You won’t hurt me,” Ilya purred, pressing sweet kisses up his cheek to his ear. “Will you, moy milyy koyot?”

“Never,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya pushed up onto his elbows, a smirk dancing on his lips. “So desperate for it, aren’t you Hollander? Such a dirty slut, a whiny humping little coyote, so needy for this cock, yes?”

He was humping, Shane realized. He was grinding up into Ilya’s stomach, low, whimpering noises dripping from his lips. He felt fucking insane.

“Yes, please, fuck me,” he begged.

“Maybe it is I who will bite you, hmm Hollander? What do you think of that?” Ilya taunted, his hands greedily palming at his chest as he brought his mouth down to his pec and bit lightly, his eyes intent on Shane’s face as he watched him.

Shane stared back, dazed, so hard he could have cut through fucking diamond.

Yes. Fuck yes. A million times yes. 

“Are you mine?” Ilya prompted. “Well?”

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. Control. Control. Where the fuck was his control? He was milliseconds away from flipping Ilya underneath him and sinking his fangs into his neck. He was rabid, writhing.

A large hand collared him, pinning him against the pillow, squeezing just right.

The roaring of his boiling blood abated, just a bit, just enough.

He opened his eyes, brown meeting hazel.

“I am your control,” Ilya reminded him, his voice steel. “Give it to me, Shane. Let me carry it.”

Shane blinked up at him. Right… he was right. He trusted Ilya. Ilya wouldn’t let him hurt him. He wouldn’t let him go too far.

In slow increments, he relaxed back against the bed, surrounded by his own familiar scent tangled now with Ilya’s. He breathed them in, taking in Ilya’s calm.

“Better?” Ilya asked him.

Shane nodded. “Better,” he whispered.

“Good,” Ilya said, gently releasing his neck. “All you have to do is lie there and let me take care of you. Okay?”

He didn’t respond, didn’t need to. The moon’s hold on him was fading, eased away by the firm touch of Ilya’s hands mapping out his chest, sliding down his stomach and tugging at his briefs. He took them off, discarding them to the side somewhere, and then he was leaning down, eyes watching Shane as he licked a long stripe up his cock.

Shane felt his whole body jolt, but he didn’t move, didn’t reach for him. He just stared, entranced, as that long, thick tongue traced up and down his cock, coating his length in spit.

Ilya turned his head, pushing up one of Shane’s legs, biting at the meat of it with blunt teeth and Shane let out a quiet groan, going limp underneath him. 

His coyote was belly up as well, completely pliant and submissive. 

Yeah, fuck, they were in total fucking agreement, huh?

“Ilya,” he whispered. He felt the growl Ilya let out vibrate against his skin and moaned, throwing his head back. Ilya released him and kissed the faint mark he’d left behind, his tongue dipping into the indents.

“Look at you,” Ilya crooned. “Such a good boy for me, hmm?”

Shane nodded. Fuck, he was so good. He’d do anything, anything to please Ilya. Anything to make him feel good.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yours.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened. “Mine,” he agreed. “Moy koyot. Moy lyubov.”

He swallowed Shane’s cock down with a determined glint in his eyes, his cheeks hollowing out, his tongue curling around his length as he bobbed his head. Shane felt his eyes rolling back and he couldn’t help but reach for him, scrabbling his fingers into his curls and trying to hold as still as possible. His claws so close to Ilya’s skin was so fucking dangerous, but he needed to pet him, needed to whine and tell him how fucking good it was, how good he was making him feel, how close he was.

And Ilya soaked it all up, watching him fall apart under his talented lips and tongue until Shane was bowing underneath him, crying out his name as he came down Ilya’s throat.

He gentled him through it with little kitten licks up his shaft and over the head, lapping at his slit until Shane was squirming and over-sensitive.

Only then did he pull away, resting his head on Shane’s thigh, his eyes lidded. Shane watched him as he tried to catch his breath. 

Ilya brought a finger up, tracing lightly over the mark he’d made on Shane’s thigh.

“Is this what it would be like?” he asked.

Shane’s claws retracted and he carded his fingers through Ilya’s damp curls.

“Kind of,” he agreed. “I’d have to break the skin, though. And it wouldn’t ever fade or disappear.”

Ilya hummed at that.

“So, people would see it?” he asked, glancing up at Shane. “They would know? That I was yours?”

Shane’s heart was rabbit-fast in his chest.

“Yes,” he admitted. “They wouldn’t know who, not just by looking. But they would know that you were claimed.”

Ilya nodded. “So, is like ring?”

Shane blinked. “Yeah, I guess so. I hadn’t really thought of it like that. But yeah, that’s essentially what is. Except… well, you can take a wedding ring off.”

Ilya snorted at that. He kissed his ways slowly back up Shane’s body, hovering over him. “I cannot believe you are proposing supernatural marriage to me before even asking me to be your boyfriend, Hollander.”

Shane flushed. “Fuck, you’re right,” he said. “Sorry, uh-”

“Relax,” Ilya murmured, ducking down to kiss him. It was soft, sweet. “I will be your stupid boyfriend, Shane,” he said against his lips. “Mate can come later.”

“Mmkay,” he mumbled back, wrapping his arms and pulling him tighter against his body. His heart was soaring as he kissed Ilya again and again, pouting every time his… his boyfriend pulled away to take a breath.

Ilya smiled against his lips. His scent was bright and happy. And Shane was happy to shelve the mate thing, for now at least. This was enough. Ilya was his. And it was enough.