Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, very very mildly dubious consent - the system made them do it, Anal Sex, Scenting, Marking, Come Marking, Come Inflation, Banter, Sexual Tension, Belly Bulge, Biting, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Dominant Ilya Rozanov, Stubborn Shane Hollander, Rough Sex, Hockey Captain Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Behavior, Mutual Pining, Jealous Shane Hollander, omega drop, Oral Sex, Omega Verse, Porn with Feelings, Secret Relationship, Angst, Porn with Plot, deprivation, Extreme Yearning, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Idiots in Love, Bonding, Mating Bites

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-10 Completed: 2026-07-03 Words: 45,469 Chapters: 10/10

cold, hard, growling

Summary

Shane is the first omega to ever join the NHL, and the only way he's allowed to play is by being thoroughly claimed by the team captain every single time before they step onto the ice.
Things get complicated.

Chapter 1: the routine

Chapter Notes

When Shane arrives to practice, Ilya is already standing shirtless in the middle of the locker room.

“You are late, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, because he may or may not have run here. “Sorry. There was an accident, I think. The road was blocked.”

“Mhm.” Ilya does not look pleased with that explanation. “Every single day, I come here half hour early just for you. But here you are. Not grateful at all. Instead just late.”

“I’m sorry!” Shane snaps angrily, because it’s not his fucking fault. None of it.

Rozanov narrows his eyes.

“What is that fucking tone now? Do you know how many NHL captains would agree to all this?”

“Probably some,” Shane grumbles under his breath while tugging his hoodie off. 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“So you came here late AND rude. That it?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

Rozanov makes a displeased sound.

“You annoy me today, omega. Strip.”

“I am doing that,” Shane mutters defiantly.

This time, Rozanov doesn’t say anything. He just growls. It’s a low, dangerous sound – a clear warning. A strong, dominant smell of a powerful alpha fills the locker room and Shane can feel his whole body respond. He shivers, feeling a wave of heat while his opening slicks up and his dick hardens. The traces of his sweet omega scent float into the air, but not nearly as powerful. 

Being regularly claimed by Rozanov made Shane’s scent permanently more subdued. He walks around smelling of the alpha for half a day before the temporary claim wears off and that’s the whole point. Everybody else on the team is either an alpha or a beta. They wouldn’t be able to have a normal practice, not to mention play an actual game, if Shane’s pheromones were floating around unchecked and all types of artificial blockers fall under banned Performance Enhancing Substances.

Shane got mostly used to this. Getting fully used to somebody like Ilya Rozanov feels impossible. His piercing gaze alone makes Shane squirm as he pulls off his underwear and is left standing completely naked.

He used to worry other teammates might come early and walk in on them, but that never happened. Everybody knows what’s going on before the game. There is a clear schedule to this. Orders from above.

“On your knees for me. Hands on the bench.”

Shane tightens his jaw, mentally checks himself, exhales slowly and listens.

Rozanov comes closer and smoothes an arm down his naked back.

“Good.”

Shane wants to tell him to hurry up and get it over with, but doesn’t, because in his experience that encourages Ilya to take things slow. 

The anticipation is the same every time. Shane’s body got used to being used and it grew to love Ilya’s smell, so no matter how Shane feels about this stupid arrangement, a few drops of slick are already running down the insides of his thighs.

“Your fertile window is now, yes?” Ilya asks suddenly. His hand is gone from Shane’s back.

Oh. 

Fuck.

Shane kind of forgot. The only thing he’s really focused on is hockey, and they travel a lot to play during the season, so he loses track of time a lot. That and, well, he may or may not have gotten confident that Rozanov will always track his cycle for him. 

Rozanov is gone. Shane can hear the zipper of the bag being open.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

He knows where this is going.

Fuck, he should have paid attention to the stupid hormonal cycle. He’s a great player and a shitty omega. 

Then again, most omegas don’t get fucked daily as a pre-game routine.

“You forgot?” Ilya now sounds almost amused. “Come on, Hollander. That is bad.”

“Didn’t forget,” Shane argues out of sheer stubbornness. The floor is hard and cold. His knees ache a bit. “I just– ah!”

A finger, cold from the lube, slides into his tight asshole, while the other hole – slicked up, pulsing and ready – stays cruelly empty. 

“Look at that,” Rozanov murmurs, adding the second finger.

“Fuck!” Shane gasps, trying to arch away from the pressure and the stretch that’s on the edge of pain.

Rozanov’s other hand grips his hip tightly, pinning him in place.

“Easy, pet. Easy.”

“Not your pet,” Shane grumbles. Then whines immediately after, as the fingers get pushed deeper into him.

“Remember when even one was impossible?” Rozanov asks conversationally from above. He sounds unbothered, but his scent is getting heavier. “And now look how well trained. Little lube and you are ready.”

“Am not,” Shane protests, but his voice is shaky now. He tries to calm his breath, gripping the edge of the bench tightly.

The fingers are gone. Rozanov lets go of his hip and smooths the hand soothingly down Hollander’s back again, but his gentleness is not to be trusted. 

“Then next time remember to prepare at home. I make time for you, little wolf, but I don’t have whole day. Team is coming soon.”

An unmistakable feeling of Rozanov’s thick cockhead being pressed against his asshole makes Shane let out a resigned groan. His second hole is pulsing hungrily, wet and ready, but in vain. 

“Relax,” Rozanov orders, pushing in.

Shane clanches on instinct, without meaning to, but it’s not enough to stop an alpha on a mission. His hole gets forced open and he lets out a choked sound as he feels the swollen cock breaches him. He’d kind of like for it not to feel good. It seems unfair, that despite everything, it’s good.

Rozanov leans down, covering Shane’s back with his body. In a rare show of care, he places a kiss on the nape of Hollander’s neck. 

“I said relax, Hollander. Come on. We did that hundreds times,” he murmurs and slowly, slowly pushes the dick in, inch by inch.

By the time Rozanov bottoms out, Shane is a gasping, trembling mess. He can’t even begin to describe how it feels to be so fucking impossibly full, while at the same time his other opening is desperately empty, clenching on nothing. Every time Rozanov fucks his ass instead of the vaginal opening, his body gets extremely confused. It messes with Shane’s head too.

“Good?” Rozanov asks sharply, straightening above Shane. The warmth of his body is gone, replaced by the tight grip on Shane’s hips.

Shane just groans in response. The stretch is burning, almost painful and he’s thrown off balance, because he simply wasn’t expecting this today. 

(But, yeah. It is, sadly, kind of good.)

“We have no time,” Ilya decides, not waiting for any more coherent answer. He doesn't find anything alarming in Hollander’s scent – just the normal annoyance and humiliation mixed with desire and submission – so he slowly drags his cock out and then guides it back in.

“Fucking hell,” Shane hisses below him. “Slower, you asshole.”

“Was slow.”

“Was not! I’m also going to practice after this, you know?!”

“Wow. So brave today,” Ilya comments mostly to himself, then snaps his hips hard, burying deep into that tight, hot asshole.

Shane whines, omega coming out in full force. His muscles relax instantly, submitting to the display of dominance and he just melts into the bench, almost boneless.

“Yeah,” Rozanov breathes above, satisfied, feeling the body opening up to become his. He reaches down and gathers some of Hollander's slick, then rubs it into the base of his own cock before burying it back inside. “There you go, Hollander. Good little wolf for me.”

“Fuck– oh. Oh my god, don’t–  Fuck!”

Rozanov gets to work, pounding that nice little asshole hard and deep. He doesn’t have to look for the right angle to get Shane’s prostate. They’ve done it so many times, it just happens on its own. 

And it’s not like this is about Hollander’s pleasure. It’s work, for both of them. But when Rozanov hits that spot inside of him, Shane’s body does a sort of shiver that feels really nice on Ilya’s dick – tighter than his wolf-pussy ever has. 

It’s doesn't take long to have Hollander gasping and whining, on his knees, ass up, eyes squeezed shut. Ilya watches as his own dick disappears inside the puffy ring of muscles over and over again, enjoying the desperate scent of an omega that got tricked into thinking it’s getting bred. 

“Want to come before me?” Ilya asks, slowing the pounding down to nice, deep, rhythmic thrusts.

“Yeah,” Shane groans. He sounds wrecked.

“Nicer.”

“Please.”

Ilya reaches down again, this time to slide two fingers into Hollander’s other hole.

“I said: nicer,” he repeats.

Shane’s whole body convulses as he gets double penetrated. He whines loudly as the omega mindset momentarily takes over the stubborn hockey player again, but he’s back in moments. Still shaking and dripping, impaled on a thick cock, gasping from pleasure, but still so fucking proud.

“Pretty fucking please,” Shane hisses between gasps.

Now, Ilya has a sense of humor. He can see how that’s funny. He laughs quietly, twists his fingers just right and shoves an already forming knot deep into Shane’s stretched asshole.

Hollander comes with a moan so beautiful, the alpha inside of Ilya rumbles with pride and Ilya allows himself to reach down and lace his clean fingers into Hollander’s dark hair. He scratches the omega's scalp a few times while rocking his hips slightly, rubbing the swelling knot on Shane’s inner walls.

There’s no resistance anymore. Shane’s dick is still leaking and his fucked-out brain needs a second to restart. Rozanov experimentally tries to pull the knot out. It gets stuck on the rim, so he can’t get it out, but he can kind of pull back and shove it deeper, again and again, so that’s what he does, chasing his own orgasm. Shane’s helpless whimpers become a soundtrack for it at some point, while his sweet scent fills Ilya’s nose, making his brain foggy for a short moment.

“There you go. Fuck, Hollander,” he grunts during the last few, forceful thrusts and finally, finally he spills inside.

The tension drains from his broad shoulders while come flows deep into Hollander, marking him from the inside for hours to come. There’s always a lot of it, so it takes a while, stretching Shane’s insides. Ilya’s scent thickens, filling the whole room and swallowing almost every trace of the sweet omega’s notes.

“Good boy,” Rozanov praises, slapping Hollander's ass. His dick twitches inside, giving a few last spurts of seed before the knot starts to go down.

“Fuck you,” Hollander mumbles, clearly slowly coming back to his usual, guarded self.

Rozanov chuckles at that again. He kind of likes the fact that Hollander is so feisty. Ilya has to fill this menace with cum almost every day. It would probably get boring if Shane was all shy and pliant. A pissed-off, but eventually still pliant omega? Now, that’s fun.

He pulls out gently, because Hollander isn’t wrong – he does have practice soon.

“Careful, pup,” Rozanov warns, watching the asshole clench desperately to prevent cups and cups of sperm from spilling out. Nobody has time to clean it up. Hollander always holds it in until he makes it into a bathroom stall and then lets it all out there. 

Sometimes, when Rozanov is feeling generous, he fucks Shane already in the stall. Other times, when Rozanov is in a bad mood or when Hollander arrives to practice all riled up and hostile, Ilya gets a plug and the come stays inside for a long time.

It’s all routine by now. It takes about seven minutes for Shane to emerge back from the bathroom, already dressed in the under armour. Ilya has managed to clean himself up by then as well and he’s lounging on the bench, waiting for others to arrive.

“Good?” he asks casually, glancing at the man he’s just fucked like a dog.

Hollander rolls his eyes at him.

“I’m fine.”

Ilya sniffs the air.

“Mhm. You smell nice.”

“I smell like you, asshole.”

“Is what I said.”

“Fuck off.”

A wolfish grin twists Ilya’s lips.

“You are very touchy today.”

“Maybe. Dunno. Shitty day, I guess.” Hollander’s tone changes near the end into something half-resigned, half-apologetic.

“Mhm,” Ilya hums again, in acknowledgement this time. “Want kiss?”

Shane’s gaze snaps to him. Then he scowls and quickly looks away.

“Want you to shut up.”

“I think you want kiss,” Ilya argues with a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. He pushes himself off the bench and walks up to Hollander. “Yeah? You want? Is okay, I don’t care.”

Shane avoids his gaze.

“I know you don’t fucking care. I don’t care either. It must be the hormones or something…”

“Hollander.” Ilya’s fingers tighten on Shane’s jaw. “Is about game. You need it or not?”

Shane finally looks at him. There’s something vulnerable in his dark eyes.

“Yes, please,” he says quietly. He sounds more like an omega now, than when he was moaning on Ilya’s cock.

“Okay,” Rozanov nods, suddenly not finding it as funny anymore. It happens sometimes – the shift in atmosphere between them. They both pretend it doesn’t, because what else is there to do. “Come here.”

It’s an easy, confident kiss that ends way too quickly. A soft whine escapes Shane’s lips as Rozanov pulls away.

Ilya arches his eyebrows.

“That needy today, huh?”

“Not my fault,” Shane grumbles, looking away. He didn’t choose his second gender, for fuck’s sake. This is probably the fertility window talking. He really needs to stop hyperfixating on hockey and track his own cycle better.

“Is okay.” Rozanov assures him, dragging a thumb against Shane’s freckles for no real reason other than that he likes them. “Just do well at practice for me.”

Shane nods reluctantly.

“Yes, captain,” he says with the tiniest note of sarcasm.

Ilya would love to take this omega home one day and fuck him for real, not for work. He has a feeling it would be spectacular.

Chapter End Notes

You might get more of this if you ask nicely. 💦

Chapter 2: bite me

Chapter Summary

Before Ilya saw Hollander, he didn't know omegas like that even existed. He's smaller than Ilya, obviously, but not by much - tall, broad and quite strong. When you shove a cock into that nice body, the omega side comes out with full force, of course, but other than that, it's not easy to clock it.

Chapter Notes

Playing away from home means hotel rooms. So. Beds. It's a nice little upgrade from the usual, cold, hard floor of the locker room at their own ice rink.

Shane is lying on the bed in nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips, staring at the ceiling, lost in his own head. He doesn't startle when the door to his room opens. Rozanov always gets his own card to Shane's room when they are traveling. For safety. 

Hah. 

Right.

“I met Marlow from Bears on my way here,” Ilya announces, stepping inside. He's in nothing but black joggers, which means he walked here from his own room half naked. It’s like a loud, arrogant display of dominance – one of many. Rozanov feels at home wherever he is.

“He offered help with you,” Ilya continues, his tone light and amused.

Shane scoffs without as much as lifting his head. His body feels heavy today.

“Where is he, then?” He mocks, but sounds mostly just bored. 

Rozanow peers at Hollander curiously. It's a little bit annoying that the omega didn't even bother to look at him, but he smells nice and is pretty, so Ilya might let that one slide.

“You know I don't share, pet.” Ilya's tone is still light, but his gaze becomes slightly menacing at the mere thought.

Oh, Shane knows, all right? He had a one night stand with a random alpha once. It was fast and reckless, on his day off. The guy spent the night, they fucked in the morning again. The smell lingered when Shane came to practice.

Rozanov lost his shit. His rage was both terrifying and mesmerising to watch. Hollander had bitemarks all over his body for days to come.

“How do you want it?” Ilya asks, walking up to the edge of the bed. 

“Wow,” Shane deadpans, still staring at the ceiling. “I get to choose? What an honour.”

Oh, he's moody today. The sky outside is dark and stormy, but Hollander's lovely eyes are darker. Freckles are spattered all over the beautiful face like raindrops. 

Ilya nudges Shane's bare foot with his knee.

“Is important game,” he explains. “Want my star player in best form.”

They are up against the Boston Bears tonight. Ilya used to play for them, before he abruptly decided it's time for a change and joined the then-not-so-remarkable Ottawa team. Curiously, it was the exact moment they signed Shane Hollander. Now the Ottawa Centaurs are on their way to become the ultimate champions, so Ilya doesn't need to prove anything to anybody, but beating his old team still brings him a lot of wild joy.

“So?” Rozanov nudges Shane again. “How am I doing it today?”

Well, if it isn't sweet of him to ask.

Shane mutters something rude and grumpy underneath his breath and rolls his eyes. He really doesn't give a fuck right now. 

“Like this,” he chooses and doesn't move a muscle.

Ilya frowns, displeased by Hollander's apathy. They have a game to play and his team isn’t much without this annoying, stubborn but extremely talented omega.

For now, though, Rozanov decides not to comment. He stays quiet and moves his gaze up and down Hollander's almost naked body.

Before Ilya saw Hollander, he didn't know omegas like that even existed. He's smaller than Ilya, obviously, but not by much - tall, broad and quite strong. His golden skin stretches over the big, tight muscles deliciously. When you shove a cock into that nice body, the omega side comes out with full force, of course, but other than that, it's not easy to clock it without smelling Hollander first. Even his dick is quite big: it would look average on a beta. 

And Hollander might be quiet, but he isn't exactly shy. Actually, right now he's mostly just resigned. 

“Let's get it over with,” Hollander mutters.

Still not looking at Ilya. Very rude.

Rozanov has the patience of a fucking saint today, really. He should get a medal just for this. 

“Come here, then,” he shoots, grabs Shane's legs and pulls him down the mattress with ease in a one, hard tug. The towel gets lost on the way.

Shane's thighs fall apart easily when pushed, his body lethargic. Ilya got almost fully hard while staring, so he drags his own underwear down, gives himself a few fast strokes and sinks into the wet vaginal hole with a pleased sigh.

“FUCK!” Shane growls, surprised, not in pain. “Asshole! How about a little warning?! Fuck.” 

He glares at Ilya briefly, then goes back to staring at the ceiling, trying to calm his breath. 

Ilya’s fingers sink into the meat of Hollander’s thighs. A sweet and spicy smell of the strong, stubborn omega fills his nostrils and he growls quietly as he pushes his swollen cock even deeper inside, until a tiny bulge appears on Shane’s stomach.

“Warning for what?” Rozanov mocks, pulling out slowly and then thrusting in hard and deep. “That hole is always nice and open for me.”

As if to prove his point, Ilya starts snapping his hips, faster now, and wet sounds fill the air as Hollander’s slick starts pooling inside, trapped in the body by an alpha cock. 

He gets so wet sometimes, Ilya almost doesn’t know what to do with it. Almost.

“Here you go, little wolf.” He makes sure to go as deep as possible every single time, his balls slapping against Shane’s tight asshole. “Fuck. So nice.”

Hollander groans, but no matter how annoyed he is, his hole does, indeed, stay open, swallowing Ilya’s length greedily. Shane closes his eyes and his face twists in a frustrated grimace, while his body arches slightly up, asking for more.

The scent of an alpha fills the room, like a wave from a ruthless ocean. It seeps into Hollander’s skin, until the only thing he can smell and feel is Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

Shane grunts, or moans, or whimpers –  he’s not sure himself. Either way, this whole thing is so, so, so fucking–  

Shane’s eyes snap open when a strong hand wraps around his throat. 

“There you go,” Ilya murmurs as Hollander finally looks right at him. 

The pupils in Shane’s dark eyes are blown wide by shock and something more. He freezes for a moment, then jerks his whole body, trying to somehow escape from underneath the dominant alpha, who’s still happily stuffing him with a swollen cock, hovering over him on one hand, while the other rests on Shane’s neck, not choking, but holding him still.

“You motherfucker,” Shane hisses, jerking again. The muscles in his stomach tighten and this time so does his hole, clenching down on Ilya.

Rozanow lets out a pleased murmur. He looks amused. 

“What,” he challenges with a dangerous smile. “You think I don't know what you really ask for when you want it on your back?”

“Not that!” 

“Exactly that.”

Shane grabs Ilya’s wrist, trying to pull the hand away. At the same time, he fights to push himself up. Ilya grip only tightens and he doesn't stop fucking, making sure to push the omega deeper into the mattress with each rough thrust of the hips. 

The muscles in both strong bodies strain. Shane manages to break free with a growl and he sits half-up only to immediately get shoved back down. 

His wrist get pinned above his head. Ilya chuckles darkly, the iron grip unmovable this time. Restrained, Shane can express the anger with his eyes only. A fire erupts in his gaze – a dangerous heat that’s hard to put out.

The apathy from before evaporates. 

“There you are,” Ilya praises. He knows this look. He was after it. “My good little winning machine,” he murmurs, leaning more over Shane’s body. He snaps his hips, burying even deeper into the wet heat and licks a wet stripe across Hollander’s scent gland. 

“Fuck!” Shane gasps as his fury gets violently overrided by pleasure. His mind goes blank for a second. Rozanov is everywhere and his dick stretches Shane so impossibly wide open, Shane might be spilling out from himself and into some odd, formless being. “Fuck,” he repeats, trying to catch a breath.

“Good?” Ilya asks in a fakely sweet murmur with his lips still pressed close to Shane’s neck.

There’s a clear note of dark triumph in his tone and that sobers Shane up a bit.

“Shut up, you- Oh.”

“So no? I should stop?”

Shane groans at the change of the angle, then tests the hold on his immobilised wrists, hoping to get one hand free to touch his own cock, which is bobbing between them, angry red and leaking. Ilya’s grip doesn’t budge, but he guesses what Hollander wants and mercifully wraps a hand around Shane’s dick.

Shane’s whole body spasms at that, pleasure almost too much to bear.

“Oh fuck. Like this. Yes.”

“What?” Ilya growls, the expectation clear.

“Please,” Shane hisses, drunk on pleasure, frustration and Rozanov.

He arches up, trying to meet Ilya’s thrusts, chasing an orgasm that's suddenly right there. He tests Ilya’s strength again, this time not to get free, but to feel that he can’t. 

Shane didn’t choose any of this. He just wants to play hockey and doesn't really care about the rest. Or pretends not to care, anyway, because then he can also pretend this life isn’t fucking pathetic. 

But sometimes, in moments like this – when Rozanov moves above him, large, hot and powerful like he’s made of the Sun itself – Shane wonders if maybe it’s good that he hasn’t been the one deciding things. He definitely wouldn’t choose being at the mercy of Ilya Rozanov. 

And then he wouldn’t have this.

It’s hard to tell if Shane comes because Rozanov’s sharp teeth sink into his shoulder, breaking the skin for fun, or whether Rozanov bites him because Shane comes. It doesn’t really matter.

Shane gasps, his eyes roll back, his muscles become impossibly tight for a split second and then the tension releases. He sinks blissfully down, down, down into the mattress with a quiet moan, suddenly aware of the amount of slick gushing out of him as the thick cock slips out of him.

“Turn,” Ilya orders, taking his hands off Hollander's body.

Shane groans with his eyes still closed, then stretches his arms above his head, where they were pinned just moments ago. He subconsciously keeps the wrists obediently pressed close together. Ready to get pinned again. 

“Turn,” Rozanov repeats in a half-growl, impatient.

“Give me a moment,” Shane mumbles, his voice slurring a little, because he’s not entirely out of the orgasm haze just yet.

Ilya slaps his thigh.

“Turn, pet, or I do it for you.”

“Fucking hell,” Shane complains, but rolls over reluctantly, forcing his trembling muscles to work. “You are such an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist and hoists his hips up. He leans over the hot, spent body, licks over the pointless bitemark, cleaning the small droplets of blood which gathered on the freckled skin, places a quick, surprisingly playful kiss there and then pushes Shane’s upper body down by pressing a hand roughly between his shoulderblades. “Like this,” he orders.

The cock slides into Hollander once more and it feels deeper this time because of the position. Shane’s face is pressed into the mattress while his hips are held up, gripped tightly while Ilya begins to fuck him roughly from behind, now focused only on himself.

Hollander’s body hasn’t fully recovered from the orgasm yet. He feels oversensitive. Every drag of Ilya’s dick against his wet inner walls makes him tremble, every grunt of the pleased alpha forces his body to produce more slick and every place where his skin connects with Rozanov’s burns. 

Shane bites down on the inside of his cheek, closes his eyes again and tries to wait it out, allowing the mindblowing pleasure and the overwhelming pressure to battle each other inside of his head. 

Usually, it doesn’t last long. Not because Rozanov lacks stamina, but because there’s one, clear purpose for this thing and feeling good is not it. That’s just a bonus.

Today, though, Rozanov keeps going. He shoves his cock deep inside again, and again, and again, again, again, again…

Maybe it’s because of that comment Marlow made. Who the fuck knows.

“Rozanov,” Shane manages to say through gritted teeth, hoisting himself up on an elbow. “Come- Uh! Come on.”

Shane groans, getting up to all fours to regain some illusion of control. His bones are getting heavy. His skin is on fire. His dick is confused: spent but wanting to get interested again.

Ilya says nothing, just puts his hand between Hollander’s shoulder blades again and pushes his upper body back down with a small grunt, hips slamming mercilessly.

Then suddenly the pace slows down drastically. A new feeling of being stretched wide open appears. Shane lets out a choked moan, confused and then it happens again, more vividly.

Fuck. Rozanov decided to fuck him on a knot today. Like, fully. He slides it out, pushes it back inside as it begins to form, forcing Shane’s vaginal opening to widen even more, all wet and abused.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

There’s definitely a small outline of Rozanov’s swollen dick showing on Shane’s stomach with every slow, deliberate thrust. The smell is thick and rich. Ilya is coaxing his hole to take a growing knot the same way it takes a normal cock. 

It’s quite unfair. 

It’s also very unnecessary. 

“Rozanov.” Shane doesn’t beg, but he does sound slightly out of it, mumbling the words into the pillow. “Rozanov. God. Uh, fuck come on.”

“So moody earlier,” Rozanov points out, his voice clear, though a bit strained. “Better now? Not bored anymore?”

The pace picks up again. The knot keeps growing.

Shane can barely think. He might come again from this. He definitely won’t be able to take anything anymore. 

“Fuck. I’ll behave. ‘m sorry! God, fuck, sorry, I’ll fucking– uh– behave!”

“Yeah?” 

The now fully formed knot catches on the ring of muscles for a second, but gets pulled out eventually. Ilya proceeds to try and push it back in, adding the pressure gradually, while slick gushes everywhere, dripping down Shane’s thighs. 

Shane forgets how to make a sound, the pressure all-consuming, and then his hole gives in, loosens slightly more and swallows the entire, fully-formed knot back in, punching the held breath out of Shane’s lungs as it settles deep inside.

“Ilya. Fuck!” Shane half-begs, half-complains, with his fist full of sheets. 

The response comes in the form of a low growl.

The seed starts spilling inside, hot and thick, filling Shane up quickly. He groans, but doesn’t fight it and lets his body sink into the mattress, pliant.

“We’re– fuck,” he breathes, owerwhelmed by the scent alone. “We’re playing so soon,” he whines. “This was too much, asshole.”

Ilya leans down, pressing his naked chest to Hollander’s back tightly as he wraps his strong arm around Hollander’s waist.

“We put you on centre tonight,” he murmurs into the nape of Hollander’s neck. His voice is low and raspy, heavy with pleasure, as the sperm keeps flowing, filling the omega underneath him. “Can’t have you distracted by smelling others. Only me.”

He has a point. Claiming helps with the pheromones both ways – other players don’t get distracted by Shane’s scent, but Shane also doesn’t get distracted. He wouldn’t be able to play surrounded by many intense scents of random, agitated alphas. When all he can smell is Rozanov’s scent clinging to him, thick but familiar, his head is clear. There’s only hockey left.

The knot goes down quickly. Rozanov pulls out without a warning and rolls over onto his back with a pleased sigh, while Shane gasps, then grimaces, then glares, trying to keep all the seed inside, because if he gets the sheets all wet and dirty, he’ll have to ask the hotel staff to change them, which is fucking embarrasing.

“You win this one for me, da?” Rozanov stretches and glances at him. “I go right wing. Fast offense. Bears' defense is shit. We break the line, they are done. Simple.”

“I know how to play hockey, thanks,” Shane snaps at him, slowly lifting himself on all fours. “And was the bite really necessary?!”

Ilya laughs, amused, and pushes himself to sit up. 

“No. But is nice on you.” He grins. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Shane grumbles, slowly, slowly shuffling on his knees to the edge od the bed. 

He shifts, feels his opening twitch dangerously and decides to get off as fast as he can, sliding off the bed onto his feet and shooting up to stand fully straight. He sways slightly from all that, his legs still trembling from the orgasm, his head spinning from moving too fast after being thoroughly used. 

All that distracts him from clenching down and it’s too late now. Thick, white sperm begins to trickle down, slowly coating his inner thighs. Some of it drips onto the hotel floor. At least that’s not a bed.

There’s no sound, but something still alarms Shane. His gaze snaps to Rozanov, who’s still lounging on the bed, no doubt wishing for a cigarette.

Ilya watches his own sperm drip down Hollander’s legs with a dangerous smirk.

“Run along, pet,” he advises. “You let me watch that and I might feel need to give you more. Just to be sure.” He winks.

Shane shows him a middle finger without a single word and disappears into the bathroom. 

* * *

Ilya’s knock on the bathroom door comes when Shane is finishing toweling himself off after the shower.

“Hollander? I’m going. You good?” he asks from the other room.

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Leave me alone!”

“Want to say that to my face maybe?” Ilya suggests. It sounds like a request, not a provocation.

Shane sighs heavily, wraps a towel around his waist and opens the door.

“I’m great. Never better. You’re free to leave.” He recites. “Happy?”

Rozanov looks serious. That part always comes after all the teasing and taunting. He studies Shane carefully, cataloguing. Checking. Making sure. 

“Yes? Need nothing?”

Shane nodes with another small sigh.

“Yes.” He pauses. His gaze slides somewhere onto Ilya’s chin. “Thank you,” he says reluctantly. 

“Ah. Now he is polite.”

“I learn quickly.”

Ilya smiles. It’s almost soft.

“Da. That, you do.”

Rozanov leans in unexpectedly, opens his mouth and shamelessly licks the fresh bitemark on Shane’s shoulder. Then he kisses the spot with a quiet hum, just like he did during sex. Then he backs away to catch eye contact.

“Wasn’t a lie. Is pretty on you.”

Shane’s breath catches for a moment. He swallows. Then frowns. The bite is not even close to the scent gland, but the whole thing still throws him off balance.

“I don’t think you should be doing that,” he says slowly, feeling too many things at once.

Ilya shrugs.

“I can do whatever I want, Hollander.”

Well. Right. An alpha through and through.

* * *

They win the game. Hollander scores most of the goals. Rozanov checks Marlow into the boards about five times.

Chapter End Notes

More, perhaps...?

Chapter 3: dropping

Chapter Summary

Shane has been fucked by Roznaov hundreds of times, but never had Ilya's cock in his mouth.

Chapter Notes

It starts with a dumb comment. Shane isn't following the conversation – it's the usual, post-game bullshit, except that maybe Ottawa's locker room talk has surprisingly high standards, compared to other teams. 

And then he hears it.

“Yes, yes,” Rozanov agrees with someone, his voice loud and smug. “Nothing better than having your cock sucked.”

Now, sinking into the soft couch at the house of some musician – a good friend of somebody in the team – in the middle of a private party, Shane is still thinking about it.

They've never done it. The scent of an alpha lingers for long only when the seed is spilled into omega's hole, or asshole, and the only reason Shane and Ilya fuck is for hockey. So. In the last year and a half, Shane has been fucked by Roznaov hundreds of times, but never had Ilya's cock in his mouth.

He doesn't even know what Rozanov's cum tastes like.

He shouldn't be thinking about it.

Maybe it's the weed. Shane didn't smoke much, but his head feels heavy and he's sinking lower and lower into the pillows, while everyone else mingles, loud and ready to have fun after the game.

This isn't Shane's scene. He's been dragged here by his teammates, per usual. He could have said no.

He did not.

He didn't want to be alone.

Shane can feel it coming: the drop. It's been a while since the last one. Over a year. It's not exactly a normal omega thing. It's more of a Shane problem. 

A “Shane doesn't take care of his second gender” problem. 

A “Shane has been on heat supressants for years without any breaks” problem. (Because those are allowed by the NHL, while the scent blockers are not, which is so fucking stupid.)

He sighs. It comes out more like a soft whine. Shane looks around cautiously, hoping nobody heard it. Then his gaze wanders back to Ilya Rozanov.

Rozanov is on the other side of the room, flirting with a blonde, smiley girl. They have their hands all over each other. She says something and Ilya laughs loudly, squeezing her ass.

The cold, empty feeling in Shane's chest grows.

He could smoke some more weed, leave and try to sleep through the drop. That would be a reasonable thing to do.

Except they have just played another away game and this isn't Ottawa. All that waits for him is a cold, sterile hotel room. He doesn't have his weighted blanket there, or the special soap with a scent that soothes, not irritates. There's no familiar pheromones, no comfort food, no favourite tea. Nothing.

The comment from the locker room echoes in Shane's head again. His omega needs attention. It could be a way to get it – offering something his captain clearly likes.

Shane keeps his eyes trained on Rozanov, as the need to be touched and praised grows inside of him. 

He just… wants a fucking break. He keeps being disciplined. He's the first and only omega in the NHL, for fucks sake. He’s proved to be as good as the alphas, over and over again. He's shown resilience. He works hard. He is strong and fast, and independent. 

It's tiring. He's tired. He wants to be just good for a moment. He'd like to be… 

Fuck. He needs something to get him through this drop. He wants to allow himself just one, small, temporary weakness. Something nice and warm, and… well.

Rozanov’s scent is still all over Shane, from today's claim before the game. It clings to him, heavy and possessive. There's no way he'd be able to convince a different alpha to take care of him right now. So that's just great.

Then again, maybe Shane doesn't want a different alpha.

* * *

The blond girl is mixing herself a drink, two steps away from Rozanov. It's the farthest apart they've been in the last hour.

Shane stops at Rozanov's other side, so close their shoulders brush together. The contact sends a warm, tingling sensation all the way down Shane's arm, making his fingers twitch.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hello, Hollander.”

“Want me to suck your dick?”

Ilya goes absolutely still.

Shane has seen Rozanov go through many different emotions. Shane's seen him angry, amused, frustrated, bored, tired, turned on, pleased, annoyed, focused, disgusted, amazed and excited. Even scared. He has never, however, seen Ilya shocked. 

Until now.

Rozanov slowly turns his head to him.

“What?”

Shane just shrugs. Speaking suddenly seems exhausting. 

Ilya frowns.

“Are you drunk…?”

“No.”

A hand lands on Shane's jaw, forcing eye contact. Ilya turns his whole body to him – undivided attention, yes, that – leaning in to study Shane's face carefully. Most of Shane's needy scent is masked by Ilya's own, so it doesn't offer any real hint.

“You took something?” 

Rozanov's voice drops dangerously, sending a shiver down Shane's back. 

“No.” Against his better judgement, Shane leans forward, chasing the possessive touch and the warmth of alpha's strong body. “I smoked some weed, but not much,” he mumbles defensively.

The concern in Ilya's eyes gets replaced by a spark of curiosity.

“Ah. Weed makes you horny, Hollander? That it?”

Oh. Shane got so distracted by Rozanov's grip on his jaw, he almost forgot what he proposed. He's definitely dropping. He doesn't have the energy to listen to Rozanov's mocking.

“Okay, nevermind.” He tugs Ilya's hand away, giving up immediately. “You're such an asshole,” he mumbles, gaze falling down to Ilya's lips briefly before he starts turning around.

Bad idea. All of it. Shane just wants it all to be easy for a moment. Fuck.

“No, no, no.” Ilya's muscular arm wraps around Shane's waist. “Come back, Hollander.” Shane gets pulled in, flush against Ilya's body. It's hot like a furnace, melting the tension and all the worries away. Ilya brings his lips to Shane's ear. “I want.” 

Shane closes his eyes for a brief moment, basking in the feeling of being held. He wonders if the girl is watching. Or anybody, really. Rozanov likes to touch him in public, but he always keeps it platonic. They are teammates. Professional athletes.

“Yeah?” Shane asks quietly, fighting to stay focused.

It might happen. It's a very bad idea, but Shane suddenly can barely control the desire that floods him. His hole clenches desperately while his dick twitches, interested.

The alpha is so warm and firm, and his scent is a promise of something good. Safe. No more thinking, no more decisions. No more being strong. 

Shane just wants to be good for a moment. Just that.

Rozanov is still watching him curiously, but he doesn't address Shane's odd behaviour again. He's probably worried that could cost him a blowjob. 

“Why not,” he murmurs, arrogance and amusement clear in his tone. “You have nice hole. Mouth might be good too.”

Shane rolls his eyes, forcing his own body to move and untangle from the alpha's arms. He swallows a whine at the loss of contact and clears his throat.

“Such a gentleman,” he deadpans, but it comes out mostly tired. 

Shane's not swaying, but that's how it feels – falling in and out of the drop. He's dancing on the edge of it for now, but it will get worse soon.

This would be all easier if Rozanov wasn't an asshole.

“You came to me, Hollander,” Ilya points out.

Shane forces himself to catch eye contact again. 

“Who else am I going to go to?” He lets Ilya think it’s about being horny from the weed. That’s easier. “I still stink of you.” 

Ilya's gaze goes from amused to piercing in moments. His scent turns sharper, more possessive. His gaze slides up and down Shane's body in a way that's very familiar, except the game is already finished and this has nothing to do with hockey.

This is when Shane should turn around and leave. Instead, he licks his lips and says:

“Can we go upstairs?”

Ilya's nostrils flare and his eyes widen for a second, betraying he didn't actually believe that the offer was real. Then the hunger settles in his powerful body in a way that's very easy to notice. 

Rozanov can have anybody and he's had Shane many, many times, but sometimes it seems like he still can barely contain himself around Hollander.

It's often very annoying, except right now. Right now, that's nice. Shane wants more of that. 

* * *

The house is basically a mansion, with dozens of pointless rooms that don't seem to ever be used. They end up in a study or an office, or a small longue room – who the fuck knows. They barely look around. The moment Ilya closes the door behind them, Shane pushes his body into him, pressing the alfa against the door.

Ilya's hands come up to hold him on instinct, even though he's still taken back by it all. Shane doesn't seem to be angry. Impatient, maybe. And he isn't really doing anything, just pushing his body into Ilya, almost pawing at Ilya's chest and nuzzling his neck, trying to get impossibly close.

It's… really fucking cute: two hundred pound professional hockey player acting like a starved puppy. Confusing, yes. Slightly concerning, definitely. But also oddly adorable. 

“What are you–” 

Ilya's voice dies in his throat when Hollander drops to his knees.

He needs a moment to process the view.

Shane is not an easy omega. Making sure he's safe and agreeable is a full-time job. Ilya is not complaining – he's okay with having his hands full, if it comes as a package with that sweet ass. But it needs to be said: Hollander is stubborn and uptight; fixated on his little routines, obsessed with tidiness and order, and everything that's boring. When something isn't done the way he considers best, he complains, growls like a puppy or hisses like a kitten and works himself to the bone to regain the illusion of control. And he often blames Ilya for everything, as though it's Ilya's fault that Hollander needs his cock to play hockey.

But this isn't about hockey. Ilya doesn't know what this is, but he's absolutely on board. He gets fully hard so fast, his head spins for a second.

Shane breathes in a rich, thick smell of an aroused alpha – his captain – and rests his forehead against Ilya's thigh, fighting an inner battle. This is a bad drop. It's going to be horribly embarrassing later, but Ilya smells so fucking good and Shane wants him so badly right now. 

No, not wants. Needs. 

He can see the impressive bulge and mouths at it before his brain has time to actually work. 

Fuck it.

Shane reaches for Rozanov's belt, fingers shaking from anticipation, not anxiety.

"Look at you,” Ilya breathes above. 

He sounds pleased. That's good.

Rozanov’s cock is long and thick, and very nice, as far as alpha's dicks go. It's warm and heavy in Shane's hand. Fully hard. Big. It has been shoved deep inside of Hollander, over and over again, so in a way, it belongs to him. Right?

He licks the side experimentally. Then the tip. He knows how to suck a cock, he's done it before, but this is Rozanov's cock. The biggest Shane has ever seen. 

Shane's lips part and he takes it in, mouth stretching over the thick length. His mind begins to float, which in some ways is opposite to dropping. Good. They can balance each other out.

The room is oddly quiet, except for Shane's small slurps. 

He looks up.

Rozanov's eyes seem black.

This is a dream Ilya had many times and he jerked off to it in the shower many more. He's not yet fully convinced that he isn't dreaming right now. Except that's when Hollander's tongue swirls around the head of his cock and the pleasure almost makes Ilya's knees buckle. 

Yeah, that's no dream.

Shane Hollander is on his knees, sucking his dick in real life. Ilya can die a happy man now.

“Like this, da. Good. Oh, fuck, that's a nice mouth,” Ilya murmurs, slightly out of it. Then he switches to Russian.

A wave of warmth crashes into Shane's cold body at the sound of the praise. He moans around the cock, feeling himself get wet. He palms his own dick through the jeans, hoping to take the edge off, and focuses on taking Ilya deeper. 

Ilya stays still at first, afraid to make a wrong move. But Shane's dark eyes, which are usually glaring at him, are now just wide and full of want. He's like a puppy, begging to be trained and who the fuck is Ilya to deny him that?

This has never happened before and it might never happen again, so Ilya decides to enjoy it.

He slides his fingers into the soft, dark hair and scratches Shane's scalp gently, then grips the hair, applying a slight pressure to test the boundaries.

Hollander fucking moans at that. Mouth full of cock, on his knees, he moans for Ilya sweetly like a nice little omega, not a hockey death machine. 

And then Ilya can suddenly smell him.

The scent is very much Hollander, but not like usual. The air gets suddenly filled with pure want, want, want, making Ilya growl and move his hips, pushing deeper into the wet, hot mouth. 

Hollander grunts and moans, and pushes slightly off but only to quickly catch a breath. He takes Ilya even deeper right after. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans again, feeling increasingly helpless against the pleasure.

It's so good. It's so fucking good, because this is Shane fucking Hollander. Ilya has been trying to get him this docile for over a year. He never came even close.

And now Hollander is giving it up freely.

And this isn't about hockey anymore.

Fuck.

Something primal zaps Ilya's self-restraint. He grabs a fist full of dark hair more roughly this time and pushes his throbbing cock further, greedily, until it hits the back of Shane's throat. He expects Hollander to gag and choke, but instead, this sweet, lovely bane of Ilya's existence swallows around his thick dick and takes him all the way down with a whine.

Tears gather in the corners of Hollander's eyes. Ilya pushes his head more and snaps his hips again, unable to stop himself, because there's a fire burning under his skin and this omega is his to use.

Hollander chokes this time. It's suddenly a mess: saliva and precome, grunts and whines, vision going white with pleasure, vision going black with need. Ilya can't really think, he can only push again, deep into that wet heat.

Only when the knot begins to form, he finally lets go and pulls out to let Hollander breathe. 

Shane chokes and coughs, tears joining the beautiful freckles on his face. Ilya pants above him, stocking his painfully hard dick, fingers catching over the swelling knot. 

“Sorry,” he manages through gritted teeth, trying to fight the pleasure again. He is sorry, really. He was an asshole, lost control, fucking forced himself in…  Fuck. Fuck. “Hollander, come here.”

He reaches down, trying to soothe; to pull Shane up and make up for the rough treatment. 

“No,” Shane rasps and reaches back for Ilya's dick. “Let me. Please, just fucking let me.”

He wraps his shiny lips around Ilya's cockhead again, desperate for it in a way that drags a low, possessive rumble out of Ilya's chest. 

Shane's tongue works around the head of Ilya's dick, while his fingers wrap around the thick knot, pushing Ilya's own hand away with a frustrated huff. He looks up at Ilya, drunk on cock, ruined, but beautiful, beautiful, beautiful and Ilya spills into his mouth with a loud groan, while his head falls back, hitting the door.

The last time Ilya came so embarrassing fast and without a single trace of control, he was in high school.

“You kill me, Hollander, fuck,” he murmurs as waves of pleasure rip through him, while the seed flows right into Hollander's mount. 

And Hollander swallows.

Ilya will not be the same man after this. Hell, nothing will ever be the same. 

When he regains the ability to move, Ilya gently slides his fingers back into Shane's hair, stroking soothingly.

“That's it, pet. Good. Good little wolf for me, da? You wanted that, huh? Need all of it.”

Shane closes his eyes at the praise and keeps swirling his tongue, swallowing the thick seed which continues to flow, because it feels like he needs to. Ilya is warm and solid above him, smelling of pride and admiration, which makes Shane all warm inside. 

“Come here, pup,” Rozanov murmurs gently when his dick has nothing left to give and begins twitching in Shane's mouth, overstimulated. “Up. Come on.”

He gently pulls out and tucks his softening cock away, then slides a hand onto the side of Shane's neck and tugs, coaxing him to stand up. 

This time, Hollander goes willingly, blinking slowly, in a bit of haze. Ilya guides his face to the crook of his own neck, wrapping an arm around the omega and pulling him close, tight against his own body. 

Shane melts into him, giving his entire weight to Ilya. He nips at the skin on Ilya's neck, so close to the scent gland, Rozanov barely catches a deep growl in time. 

He's not sure what the fuck is he supposed to do with two hundred pounds of loose muscles and soft whines, except to maybe never let it go.

He focuses on Shane's scent, looking for a hint and it doesn't take long for him to recognise the sweet, familiar smell of desire and slick.

“Want to come?” He asks bluntly, because this is an uncharted territory. Shane's hard dick is currently pressing into Ilya's thigh, but he's not going to assume anything.

He probably won't assume anything ever again. His brain is permanently fucking scrambled after this entire lovely, fucking lovely but absolutely unexpected experience.

Shane nods, his head moving against Ilya's shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Want my help?”

“Yes.”

Ilya scratches the nape of Hollander's neck gently.

“You sure, pup?”

Shane's dick twitches against him.

“Ilya, please.”

Oh. His name. Now, if that isn't a nice sound, coming out of that sweet, used mouth. 

“Easy,” Ilya murmurs, sliding his other hand down Shane's body. 

He palms the hard dick through the thick material of Shane's jeans first, which earns him a frustrated groan. Ilya is recovering from his own orgasm, so he doesn't have the energy to tease. He unbuckles the belt with one hand skilfully, then the button and finally slides his hand down Hollander's underwear.

It's a wet mess – precum and slick coating the cotton material. Ilya's nostrils flare when he feels it on his fingers, his brain making the connection between the sensation and the smell.

“So fucking wet for me, Hollander.”

“Shut u– Ah.” Shane gasps sweetly when fingers wrap around his painfully hard cock.

“There you go,” Ilya praises. 

He jerks Shane off without much finesse. He's still holding most of Hollander's weight, which limits his options and he doesn't really want to rearrange them anyway, because right now Shane's lips are right against his throat. Shane lets out these sweet little moans and gasps of air right into Ilya’s hot skin with every stroke, and it's all very nice. Why ruin a good thing?

Hollander clings to him when he comes, desperately trying to get closer while spilling all over Ilya's hand. His teeth graze Ilya's skin – a cute, baby-bite that would make Ilya melt, except that he's Russian and Russians do not do that.

They are both breathing unevenly in the silence that follows. The room smells of them – a thick aroma of sex and desperation, and something else, something dangerous that shouldn't be named, because there's no going back after that.

Shane goes basically limp against Ilya, and after a while Ilya begins to worry he either fell asleep or something bad is happening. Ilya can't even see Hollander's face, because it's buried into his neck.

He gently begins to tug at the omega – soft touches and soothing caresses – trying to coax him into standing on his own so they can put some distance between each other and talk.

“Hey. Hollander. What is going on? Should I worry?”

“No,” Shane mumbles stubbornly, trying to stay hidden in Ilya's embrace.

“Hollander.” Ilya sounds more stern this time.

Ah. Okay. That's it, then. Time to be strong and independent again. Shane bites the inside of his cheek and exhales slowly, fighting against the tears of frustration. He counts down to five, tenses up and forces his body to work. 

“I'm fine,” he announces, straightening up and taking a step back. “Just…” he looks at the wall next to Ilya's head. “A drop. It will pass.”

Ilya's scent changes so suddenly, it makes Shane flinch. It becomes something smoky and dark. A warning.

“A drop,” Rozanov repeats. “What the fuck. And you did not say?!”

“It's none of your business!” Shane snaps back. 

He holds himself straight and probably looks strong, but he feels like he might collapse at any moment. The empty feeling inside of him got filled with warm alpha seed, but the bliss didn't last long. Now he feels like throwing up.

“You are in my team! My responsibility!” Rozanov growls.

“But this isn't about hockey, now is it?!”

“Hollander!”

Shane flinches again.

“Don't,” he says sharply. “Just…” His voice breaks a little. “Yell at me later. I can't take it now. Please.”

Ilya's eyes widen when he gets snapped back to reality. Hollander is okay. He's still here and he sounds okay. Ilya didn’t abuse him. This wasn’t forced. They are okay. Are they? Fucking breathe. 

Fuck.

“Fuck. Sorry. I'm sorry, pet.” Ilya is probably fucking this up spectacularly. “Can I…?” He reaches out gently, but doesn't touch Hollander's cheek without permission. His hand just hoovers there.

Shane opens his mouth to respond, but instead only a broken whine comes out.

Hearing the sound of distress from his this omega physically hurts. As if someone was crushing Ilya’s bones from the inside. 

“Hey.” He lets his fingers connect with Shane's lovely face, rubbing the freckles gently before cupping Shane's cheek firmly. “Is okay.” He kind of tries to convince himself as well. “Come here.”

He guides Shane's face back into the crook of his own neck, trying to release soothing pheromones, even though inside, Ilya is definitely not feeling calm. He wraps his other arm around the omega again, sliding his palm underneath the t-shirt to rub the skin on his back soothingly.

A drop. For fuck’s sake, Ilya is such an idiot.

“Is okay. I have you, little wolf.”

“Am not little,” Shane mumbles defensively. He feels warm again. 

He's also so tired. If Ilya pushes him away now, he won't be able to gather himself up and stand on his own.

“But have puppy eyes,” Ilya argues softly into Shane's hair. “When you are not glaring at me, of course.”

“Of course,” Shane repeats with a note of amusement.

Why is it Rozanov, of all people, who makes him feel so… not alone.

He doesn't even have the energy to fight it right now.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight?”

Ilya's grip on his neck tightens slightly. 

He didn't know Hollander could get like this. He's so sweet.

He's so fucking sweet, fuck. FUCK. 

This is going to be such a mess.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, because there is no universe in which he wouldn't let Hollander into his bed. “Want to leave now?”

Shane considers the offer, trying to understand what his body wants. The drop has subdued now, but it’s absolutely not gone.

“Not yet,” he decides eventually.

* * *

Ilya is out there again. Sprawled on the couch, all relaxed and confident. Arrogant. Laughing loudly at something with a beer in hand. 

He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Hollander, who's sitting peacefully next to him. Except that Ilya's other hand is resting heavily on the nape of Hollander's neck. The thumb is rubbing small, slow circles into the warm skin. It's a subtle but very possessive gesture. In some conservative circles it might be even called obscene.

Shane's fucking basking in it, his body tingling with satisfaction.

If somebody at the party notices any of that, they don't comment on it. 

From time to time, Shane leans to the side, pretending to whisper something to Ilya, but instead he just gently nips the skin on the alpha's neck. It excites him to watch Rozanov's shoulders tense up as he tries not to react in the middle of a conversation with other people.

The blond girl is still here. She walks into the room and Shane shifts his gaze to her immediately, then waits patiently. Eventually, she turns and they catch eye contact from across the room.

Hollander bares his teeth at her.

And then the drop slightly loosens its grip on the omega hormones. A wave of clarity comes and Shane, unknowingly echoing Ilya, thinks – oh. This is going to be a mess.

Chapter End Notes

I need to be put in the fucking time-out because every time I try to do pure smut, the plot just fucking appears, and every time I want to write mindless sex, the characters end up having complicated feelings. Not to mention I'm making myself sleep deprived again. 

It's all extremely unfair. That being said, I hope you liked it.

(Another chapter might appear, of course, but I'm still stubbornly considering this a collection of one-shots, which is why it remins marked as finished).

Chapter 4: conflicted

Chapter Summary

Ilya fears the day Hollander discovers the kind of effect he has on alphas.

Chapter Notes

When Shane steps into Rozanov’s apartment, he can’t help but glance around curiously. In the less than two years he’s been playing for the Centaurs, he’s been here exactly twice. Both times, it was a party, so the space was crowded and looked different. It smelled different too.

“Shoes off,” Ilya requests, closing the door behind him.

Shane obeys.

“How’s your knee?” he asks, sliding his gaze to the knee brace on Ilya’s leg.

“Shit,” Rozanov shots back, annoyed.

It’s only a light sprain, thank god, but he’s out of every game this week, including the one today. Which, of course, pisses him off.

Shane is still playing, though. That means he still needs to be claimed. With Ilya out, they could have a different alpha from the team do it, except that Rozanov would sooner fucking kill them all than let it happen. So. Here Shane is, in Ilya’s home.

“You’re early.” Ilya is watching with arms crossed over his chest. 

Shane nods awkwardly.

“I thought maybe we could finally talk.”

It’s been almost a month since his drop. He sucked Rozanov off, they slept in the same bed and then never discussed any of it. Shane was avoiding the topic out of the embarrassment first, but it’s impossible to just forget it all and move on when they still have to fuck regularly for hockey. So they need to communicate. 

Except that Ilya shot down every attempt to discuss the issue. His current expression suggests he’s about to do it again.

“Nothing to talk about.”

Shane gives him an annoyed look.

“Rozanov.”

Something changed and they both know it. Now, when they fuck, there’s less banter and more tension. Ilya nuzzles Hollander's neck suspiciously often and Shane is constantly plagued by the desperate need to be kissed by him. That’s not nothing.

Ilya sighs.

“Whatever. After.” He means after sex.

“Why not now?” Shane presses, frustrated.

“Because when we talk, you get annoyed with me, and then you are more difficult to fuck.” Rozanov says bluntly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yes. Let’s go. Couch.”

Ilya is already turning around, noticeably putting less weight on the injured leg as he moves, but Shane shakes his head.

“No. Bed,” he demands stubbornly.

Rozanov looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows.

“What, you are princess now? Couch is fine.”

Shane glares.

“So I’m not even worth your bed?”

Ilya flinches, but it’s barely noticeable, because he’s very good at burying all his emotions deep, deep down. Hollander is wrong, of course. Hollander is worth everything, always. But if they fuck in Ilya’s bed, the sweet smell of Shane will linger for days and Ilya already has trouble keeping it together, without a new, fun little challenge like that.

“My couch is nice,” he defends in a blank tone.

“Fuck you,” Shane growls, clearly hurt.

Well, then. It’s not like Ilya ever stood a chance.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Bed for spoiled puppy. Go.”

“Oh my god, I fucking hate you,” Shane muters under his breath but he does move in the direction of the bedroom.

It’s not true, of course. If Shane actually hated Ilya, they would have a very different problem.

* * *

They take off their clothes in silence. The room is slowly filling up with the smell of shared frustration, but there’s unmistakable desire mixed into it as well. 

“Lay down,” Shane suggests, folding his own sweatpants carefully. 

Ilya drops his underwear carelessly on the ground. His scowling, but half-hard anyway, because there’s a naked Shane Hollander in the same room with him. Come on.

“Why I lay down?” His frown deepens.

“Your knee is injured,” Shane points out. “I can…” He trails off, hesitant.

Ilya catches on and suddenly his entire attitude changes. He barely manages to suppress a wolfish grin.

“Go on,” he encourages innocently. “Finish.”

Shane clears his throat.

“I can ride you. I think that would be the best solution.”

“Ah. Solution. Of course.” Now Ilya is smirking openly, his gaze moving up and down Hollander’s lovely body. It will look absolutely delicious, bouncing on top of him. They’ve never done it like this before. What a terrible oversight. 

“Just lay down on your back, please,” Shane demands, impatient to get it over with.

It’s a difficult day. He’s feeling a lot of things at once. It would be nice for at least one thing to be easy.

Ilya shrugs, pretending to be indifferent about it, even though his scent betrays him. 

“When you ask so nicely? Okay. No problem.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but licks his lips subconsciously right after, watching as Ilya spreads his huge body on the bed, abs shifting as he lifts himself on the elbows.

It they had time – if this was real and just for them – Shane would lick those abs, kiss down the navel, lick the hardening lenght… 

If Rozanov was his, Shane would be good and worship him the way alpha should be worshiped.

“Hey. Hollander. You with me?”

Shane gets pulled out of his hazy thoughts, brought on by their mixing scents. There’s now slick dripping down his thighs and Ilya’s expression looks hungry.

“Yeah.” Shane clears his throat again and moves to climb onto the bed as well. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Rozanov chuckles at that.

“You wish, little wolf.”

“Not little,” Shane grumbles on instinct. Their builds aren’t that different. “And I mean the knee!”

There’s no need to delay anything, because Ilya gets fully hard the moment Shane settles above him, with those lovely, muscular thighs on both sides of Ilya’s hips. He decides to just lay back and watch, because who is he to try and interfere with a masterpiece like this.

Except when Shane guides his dick into himself, he slides it into the vaginal hole, even though he’s in the fertility window again.

“Hollander. Wrong one,” Ilya warns, his voice slightly strained, because there is a wet omega sinking down on his cock. 

Shane lowers himself all the way anyway, then rocks his hips gently. His breath hitches from the sensation. 

“I know,” he dismisses. He’s looking down and sounds distracted. “Want to get you wet first.”

Ilya is pretty sure the cause of his death is going to be a heart attack from something Hollander will say or do one day. He can be absolutely obscene sometimes and it always comes out of fucking nowhere. Most of the time, Shane seems to be unaware of doing it. Maybe that’s better. Ilya fears the day Hollander discovers the kind of effect he has on alphas.

Seconds pass. There’s still a fertile omega on Ilya’s bare, hard dick. He slaps Hollander’s thigh impatiently.

“Okay. Enough. Up.”

Shane rocks his hips slightly again. “In a moment." He seems to be in his own world today.

It’s not funny anymore. Ilya’s eyes darken while his cock twitches in the wet heat. 

“Hollander.” It comes out in a warning growl.

“Will you please shut up?”

Ilya’s fingers sink into the meat of Shane’s thighs. He might be patient, but he’s not this patient.

“Omega.” Ilya’s voice drops lower. “You get my cock in your ass or I fuck you and knot you like this. And then instead of playing hockey, you get locked in my house, raising pups. Understand?”

The lewd threat makes Shane’s hole clench around Ilya’s dick so hard, Ilya suddenly feels like he’s on the verge of popping the knot. His eyes widen and he grabs Shane’s hips immediately, trying to push him up roughly.

“Off, Hollander. Now! Fuck!”

Shane listens this time, lifting himself up quickly. A small whine leaves his mouth as his hole gets empty. 

Ilya closes his eyes for a moment, body tensing up, breath slightly uneven. His wolf dick got a taste of a fertile hole and now he needs to curb the primal craving to sink back into it and pour the seed deep inside. It’s pretty clear Shane didn’t have a wild sex life before Ilya. Sometimes, his inexperience is fun. Other times, it’s a fucking deadly weapon. 

Slowly, Ilya begins to relax back into the mattress. He looks up at his pretty problem.

 “Why you have to be difficult all the time?” 

“Shut up,” Shane mumbles, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s dick again. It’s now throbbing and covered in slick, which was the entire point. So. Success.

Shane remembered about the fertility window this time, so he came prepared, but it still takes a moment to push the thick head of Ilya’s cock past the ring of his asshole. His breath hitches at the breach and he deliberately doesn’t look down at Ilya, because he can feel the intensity of Rozanov’s gaze on his skin. It’s not exactly news that Ilya has a thing for fucking his ass.

Shane’s wet, empty hole pulsates rhythmically while he slowly sinks down, filling himself up in a different way. Maybe he has a thing for this too. It’s a tighter fit and he always feels more full. Now that he’s on top, the angle is different and his thighs tremble before he even gets down fully. He has to lean forward and place a hand on Ilya’s chest to catch balance. That makes the cock inside of him shift and drag against the prostate. He bites down the inside of his cheek to prevent a gasp, but his body arches into it, turning a wave of pleasure into something visible.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes quietly when he’s finally settled.

He risks a quick glance at Rozanov.

Rozanov fucking winks at him. God, what a prick. Shane rolls his hips forward, hoping to throw Ilya off balance. He throws himself off balance instead, gasping loudly, while Rozanov only lets out a calm, pleased murmur. 

“I want us to talk,” Shane says after rocking gently back and forth for a moment, getting used to the big stretch.

Ilya’s hands keep running up and down his thighs. 

“Now…?”

Shane lifts himself up half way, then sinks back down again.

“You’re going to– uh, brush me off after. You’ve– uh, done it for weeks. So yes. Ah, fuck. Now.”

Shane is slowly building a rhythm, which means Ilya is slowly losing the ability to think. He’s so fucking pretty up there, gasping sweetly, with the freckles and the golden skin, and a flush that’s going all the way down his chest. Fucking himself on Ilya’s dick, like a good little independent wolf that he is. 

“We are little busy now, Hollander, yes? Talk later.” To prove his point, Ilya thrusts his hips up, meeting Hollander half way. It’s fun to watch the pleasure light up the dark eyes, like a little flame in the night. 

“Promise we will,” Shane demands, leaning forward. He drags his hand down Ilya’s chest, leaving faint, red scratch lines.

Rozanov says nothing. 

Shane begins to move faster, more confident this time. He leans even more and grabs the headboard just above Ilya’s head. He uses it as a leverage to push himself up and down more vigorously. 

Rozanov lets out a quiet groan of pleasure.

“Good, pet. Fuck. Like that.”

Shane stills completely.

“Promise we will talk.”

Ilya groans again, but with frustration this time.

“You are horrible.”

Shane rolls his hips once, then stills.

“Talk later. Yes?”

“Da, da. Come on.”

“Rozanov.”

Ilya slaps his ass. 

“Yes. Promise. We talk. Move!”

Shane smiles above him.

“Okay,” he says simply and gets to work.

Ilya might need to injure himself more often. He just lies there and watches as sweat begins to drip down Shane’s chest, his breath becomes uneven – whines get swallowed, moans exhaled. Slick is pouring down onto Ilya’s groin, making everything smell delicious, while his cock keeps getting squeezed by the tight greedy ass. 

Only when the knot begins to form, Ilya grabs Shane’s hips again firmly, pulls him down and keeps him there, knowing very well Shane will get overwhelmed by the stretch and will try to escape. Hollander is an athlete and an overachiever, so Rozanov can knot his ass however many times he wishes, but in regular cases, it is not the easiest thing to take. 

“Easy, pup,” he soothes in a slightly strained voice, forcing the squirming Shane to stay down. “Just a moment, just– Ah, fuck. Yeah. There,” he breathes, pleased, as the knot forms fully inside the tight ass and the sperm begins to flow almost immediately. 

Hollander comes just from the sensation of getting filled. Like a well-trained, mated omega.

Fuck.

While his body is still twitching from the aftershock, Shane falls forward with a choked whine. He nuzzles into Ilya’s neck, then tries to push their lips together, but Ilya turns his head away, silently evading the kiss. He’s gentle about it, but the movement is clearly intentional. In the haze of pleasure, Shane stubbornly tries again and gets rejected again. Ilya hates himself for it silently, but it’s for the best. He scruffs the fucked-out Hollander instead, pushing his face into his own neck and keeps him there, allowing their scent to mix.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, rocking his hips gently into Shane, because his self-restraint has some fucking limits.

Because of Hollander's dirty little fertility stunt at the beginning, Ilya's knot doesn't want to go down quickly. Shane growls like a feisty puppy, then goes limp against Ilya's chest to wait it out.

They stay like that in silence for a while, both slowly coming down from the orgasm high. Rozanov's hand wanders to Shane's head, fingers brushing the dark hair lazily.

When Shane eventually speaks, he sounds serious, but also a little bit hesitant.

“I know my drop was a lot. I'm sorry.” He presses the apology into Ilya's neck. “But I think… Well. It was also nice. Right?”

“Hollander.” The word is a clear warning, but Ilya also sounds weirdly tired. Almost pained.

“You know it was.” Shane lifts himself slightly on one arm so that they can catch eye contact. He looks mostly stubborn, but there’s anxiety there, too. “And I thought that maybe we could–”

“Hollander,” Ilya interrupts him sternly. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Oh, come on! Can’t you just, for once, talk to me? And maybe admit that you–”

“What does your contract say?” Ilya asks, cutting him off.

Shane pauses for a split second, then looks away.

“Outside of the necessary claiming, no sexual or romantic relationships with other NHL players are allowed,” he recites numbly.

Ilya nods.

“There you go.”

A lot of primal instincts come into play when alpha and omega get together. Whether the relationship would be between teammates or members of different teams, it could greatly increase the risk of confusion, distraction, fighting, an accident or favouritism on the ice. That is, of course, the NHL’s outdated reasoning.

Rozanov always liked to follow the careers of promising prospects. Shane was never drafted, but he dominated the university hockey, where the scent blockers are still allowed and omegas can play, though they rarely ever do. But it wasn't pro level hockey and one thing about uni is – you have to graduate eventually. 

The official NHL rules describe the omega gender as A Destabilising Element. Not allowed. The league demanded that the Centaurs put some absolutely insane clauses into Hollander’s pro contract, before they agreed to let him in.

Shane’s expression is hard to read.

“Your contract doesn’t say that,” he points out, maintaining eye contact with Ilya bravely.

“Yes. But yours does, pup.”

“Then don’t fucking call me that!” Shane snaps suddenly. He pushes up, overcome with the need to put some distance between them. Only now he registers how disgustingly sticky everything is, and the cock shoved up into him is just a huge inconvenience, nothing more.

“Shh,” Ilya reaches out to soothe him, noticing the discomfort. “Is okay. You are okay.”

Shane slaps his hand away, annoyed, and lifts his hips up, grimacing at the pressure, but determined to get away. The knot has gone down significantly, so with some stubbornness, Shane manages to pull off Ilya's cock.

They both hiss quietly at the sensation. Shane feels a pang of satisfaction when Ilya’s sperm starts dripping onto his sheets. Good. Rozanov will have to clean it up.

“You used to offer to kiss me,” Shane accuses before he can stop himself. It was always light and quick, but it was something. 

Ilya sits up slowly, afraid that a sudden movement might either spook Hollander or make him explode.

“That was for the game,” he lies.

“Maybe I still need it for the game.”

“No. Now you just want it. And you want it too much.”

There’s murder in Shane’s eyes, but it’s framed by the hurt.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he spits out.

Ilya nods calmly.

“I know.”

Shane storms out to the bathroom to clean himself up.

The truth is, Ilya also wants to kiss Hollander. Constantly and way too much. But he manages to deny that to them both, because he refuses to be the one who ruins Hollander’s career. After all, he worked so hard behind the scenes to make it happen. NHL didn't just randomly decide to let an omega in and the Centaurs wouldn't agree to sign one without something in return.

* * *

Hollander comes into the living room freshly showered, which makes Ilya's eyebrows twitch in annoyance, even though the omega still smells almost only of him.

“Okay,” Shane announces loudly. It's clear he's been overthinking everything. “You don't care? Fine. Then I am going to need you to let me be with somebody else. Someone outside of hockey.”

Over Ilya's cold, dead body, but nice try.

Rozanov drags his gaze to Hollander slowly, dangerously calm.

“You met somebody?”

“Yeah, in your shower,” Shane snaps. 

Still furious, then. Good to know.

It may seem like there's a lot of space between the couch, where Ilya is sitting, and the archway, where Shane is standing. However a low, warning growl that rumbles in Ilya's chest suggests that distance can be very insignificant, if Ilya continues to be provoked.

Hollander wouldn't last very long as the only omega in the NHL if he got affected by that kind of display, though.

“I didn't,” he answers seriously this time. His voice is still full of frustration. “But I could meet someone and he could be the one erasing my scent before games.”

“No.”

Anger pushes Shane a few steps forward. 

“You can’t fucking do this to me!”

“I'm not doing it to you!” Ilya shots back, growing more and more frustrated. “We can't have stranger alpha scent with us on ice. It affects game! Coach would bench you.”

“I will drop again,” Shane hisses. “I have needs. I'm offering you choices and you can't even consider them for a second!”

“What choices? Breaking contract or getting fucked by other alpha and disrupt team? Both shit! Not real choice.”

“What am I supposed to do, then!?”

Hollander smells like Ilya, but also anger and distress, and it makes something inside of Ilya snap. 

“I can't fix everything for you, Hollander!” he yells. “Fuck!” 

He tried very hard to find a solution for this mess, but there’s no way out. The contracts are air tight and you can’t fight biology.

Shane glares.

“Well, maybe I want an alpha who can.”

Cold wrath spills all over Ilya’s insides, replacing the previous, hot anger. With his gaze trained on the arrogant, disobedient wolf, he gets up from the couch.

“Watch your mouth,” he orders. 

This is his house. His team. His fucking omega. Ilya has had enough.

Shane Hollander still doesn’t show any signs of fear. He’s had enough too.

“Yeah, right,” he shoots back and rolls his eyes.

“Hollander.”

“Fuck you. What the fuck do you want from me?! You have everything! Everything! You have it so fucking easy all the time!” Shane snarls. “All I want is a bit more than a quick, obligatory fuck before the game. Just so I can maybe feel like an actual human being, not an omega piece of meat! But no, that’s too much, huh? That’s too inconvenient for you. Well, sorry I fucking asked!” He makes a short pause and tries to even his breathing. “If you don’t care, then let me be free of your bullshit, at least,” Shane demands more calmly this time. “Let somebody else from the team take over the claiming responsibility.”

Black eyes shine with gold when there is fire in them. So beautiful.

“No,” is all Ilya says. 

Maybe Shane’s anger is good. The anger Ilya can take. It’s easier than hurt or misery.

“Oh my god, I hate you so much right now! You are fucking impossible!”

“I am trying to protect you!”

“It doesn't feel like it!” Shane snaps back. “It feels like you are protecting the team and its precious, future success!”

Rozanov’s fingers curl around Shane’s jaw, making him tremble with anger and something else. It’s a firm grip, but there’s something surprisingly sweet in the way Ilya’s thumb rubs the skin. 

The scariest alphas are the ones who don’t need to use brute strength. 

“You are the one who cares about hockey,” Ilya says slowly, taking half a step to put their bodies even closer together. ”I see you on the ice, pup. You are made for it. Is where you belong. I will not be the one who makes you lose that.”

The scent of fury in the room gets replaced by something equally hot but much more desperate. Thoughts and emotions clash inside of Shane’s head and he needs a second to choose the right one to follow. His gaze drops in the process, which gets immediately corrected by the slight tightening of Ilya’s grip on his chin. 

A wave of exhaustion settles deep in Shane’s shoulders. Obediently, he looks up again to catch eye contact. All he can smell is Rozanov. Almost every day, for most of the day. It’s always Rozanov.

“I want to know if any of this is actually real for you,” he says quietly. His voice is slightly hoarse from the outburst.

There’s something akin to apology in Rozanov’s bright eyes. Shane has never seen it before.

“It will make everything very difficult.”

“I don't care,” Shane says stubbornly.

Rozanov’s hand slides to cup his cheek. A thumb brushes over Hollander’s freckles.

“I think you do. You should.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya is a strong man, except when he’s met with Hollander’s pleading eyes. He lets out a resigned sigh.

“Is real,” he confesses gently. “Is hard for me too.”

Shane leans in.

“Prove it.”

“Careful, Hollander.”

“I said: fucking prove it.”

Well. Ilya is just a man.

“Okay. Your choice.”

Shane gets pushed against the wall and his mouth is claimed. Ilya kisses him hungrily and with a knee-buckling skill, licking into Shane’s mouth, holding his face in a possessive grip, nipping at the lower lip, while pressing his body close.

Rozanov has never kissed him like this. It was always just something quick, when necessary. Their lips haven’t touched at all during Shane’s drop. But now, this is…

His hot mouth is everywhere. Shane is too stunned and overwhelmed to return the kiss at first, so Ilya’s lips wander to his neck and then he rips – actually fucking rips – the neckline of Shane’s t-shirt only to get the access to his naked shoulder. The wet swipe of the insistent tongue is followed by the sharp teeth as Ilya bites down into the freckled skin. And again, and again. He leaves three angry red marks dangerously close to the mating spot, with a low, possessive growl. 

Shane is melting into his strong body, panting when the tongue licks his neck and then, when Ilya’s mouth is back on his, he hums happily and kisses back this time, equally hungry, shaking with need.

Rozanov leads the kiss, insistent, possessive, pushing closer and closer, with absolutely no restraint. It’s written all over his body and in his scent – how much effort he’s put into not doing that over the past months. Maybe the whole year.

Shane breaks the kiss to let out a surprised yelp when strong arms slide under his thighs and hoist him up against the wall.

“Your knee,” he warns, but wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist anyway. His words are slurring a little with pleasure as he slides one hand into Ilya’s curls while the other grabs onto Ilya’s shoulder, fingers digging deep.

“I have two,” Rozanov dismisses, his Russian accent heavy, before he goes in for another heavy kiss.

It lasts for a short forever. 

At some point, Rozanov takes Shane to the couch and lays him down only to climb over him immediately and resume the kissing. He slides one hand under Shane’s t-shirt, but doesn’t move it any lower. They don’t fuck again. They just kiss, pressed close together, desperate. The exact opposite of what they are allowed.

When Shane’s lips are wet and swollen, and his face is red from Ilya’s short stubble, Rozanov moves his mouth permanently to Shane’s neck and whatever he fucking does to it, it makes Shane gasp and moan and float into a state of lovely bliss.

It’s a testament to Rozanov’s skill and crazy self-control that no lovebites appear after that. They would definitely attract attention. Can’t have that.

“No,” Shane whines sweetly when Ilya eventually begins to pull away. Ilya isn’t wearing a shirt, of course, so Shane can’t hold onto the material. He just grabs Ilya’s huge bicep, fingers sinking painfully deep. “More,” he pleads, drunk on the feeling of being owned like this. “More.”

There’s pure satisfaction in Rozanov’s eyes.

“You have a game to win, little wolf,” he murmurs, distracted with tugging at the ripped piece of Shane’s t-shirt to reveal the bitemarks. He licks over them proudly again before finally lifting himself up.

The t-shirt is ruined. Hollander needs to change now. He’ll arrive at the rink in Ilya’s clothes. Maybe it’s a good thing Ilya can’t play tonight. He might do something stupid. It feels like only half of his brain is working properly, the other half filled with the sweet whines and purrs of a satiated omega. 

Shane blinks slowly a few times, trying to get out of the haze. He’s soaked in Rozanov’s scent and his own slick. 

The game. Hockey. Right. That sounds nice. 

Now, wait a minute.

The reality is slowly coming back to him, anxiety hot on its toes.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Fucking hell, they’ve fucked up. Shane has fucked up. Spectacularly. 

He’s lying on the couch – well fucked, well kissed – and his eyes are slowly widening with worry.

“Nobody can ever find out about this,” he whispers, still a little bit breathless.

Ilya is now standing over him, looking at Shane the way people on a diet look at cake. There’s a new, dark kind of tension in the room.

“Hollander? If after all that pushing and whining you will now tell me it can never happen again, you and I are going to have problem.”

* * *

There isn’t really nowhere to hide when changing in the locker room. Shane stopped trying a long, long time ago.

“Shit, Hollander!” one of the teammates laughs, looking at the bitemarks. “The captain went full wolf on you again, huh?”

Shane’s muscles tense up.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, not looking up. “He’s an asshole.”

He doesn’t even have to pretend to sound displeased. Ilya could have taken it easy with the teeth.

“As long as we’re winning, eh?” somebody comments.

“Hey! Watch how you talk about Rozy!” another player chimes in.

“You watch how you talk to me, then,” Shane snaps back. Too much is going on today for him to deal with this bullshit. “With Rozanov out tonight, I’m your only hope for winning."

Appreciative cheers and annoyed snarls fill the room. Shane still gets mixed reactions from the team. His second gender and undeniable skill make many people in the hockey world conflicted, on the ice and outside of it.

Conflicted. Right. Shane can very much relate to that feeling.

Chapter End Notes

So many kind words under the last one, thank you!! I couldn’t resist giving you more and I have a dangerous feeling that I won’t be able to resist another update either… Ups.

(I’ve also decided to come out of the shadows, hello! I have two other Hollanov fics, if you are still hungry.)

Chapter 5: giving in

Chapter Summary

Hollander used to squeeze his teeth to stop a moan from escaping when Ilya entered him. He quit that recently – lost the ability, maybe – and now the first thrust always drags a sweet, needy sound out of him. It's very nice. Ilya considered recording it to use as a message notification.

Chapter Notes

It's not the most important game of the season, but close. Eastern Conference finals, the deciding match. The Ottawa Centaurs against the New York Admirals. The winning team moves on to play in the Stanley Cup finals. 

They are losing. Badly. Hollander can't seem to win a single face-off and almost none of his shots lands in the net.

The coach is screaming at him from behind the boards, red in the face. 

Rozanov skates up to Shane, breaking hard and making their bodies almost collide on purpose.

“What are you doing?!” he growls, emotions running high.

He will not accept losing tonight.

"Scott Hunter is in rut on suppressants,” Shane hisses. It’s only one of many factors why he’s doing badly tonight, but it’s nice to blame everything on others. He hates losing too. “It's fucking distracting.”

That only makes Rozanov more angry. Also, it doesn't make any sense.

“You should smell me only.”

“Maybe if you gave me more than a quick fuck, I would!” Shane snaps back and skates off aggressively to restart the game with another face-off.

He loses the puck again.

They still fuck only for hockey. Fast, before the game. Obligatory. In the weeks that followed the argument in Ilya's apartment, they have developed an unhealthy habit of sneaking into dark rooms and bathrooms to make out sometimes, when emotions run too high and nobody is watching. And they touch each other even more often than before, even if mostly just platonically: their bodies drift together on their own, pulled by an invisible force. But the sex is still only for work – that's a boundary too dangerous to cross. Except that they sometimes kiss while fucking now and it all feels more intense.

They lose another point. Ilya is fucking furious: with himself, Hollander, the team. The NHL. All of it. Adrenaline on the ice makes everything sharper, bigger and harder to swallow.

When there is another pause in the game, Ilya crowds Hollander against the boards so aggressively, it almost looks like he's checking the player from his own team.

“Win this for me,” he growls, low and demanding. An alpha order. “Fucking win. Then I give you whatever you want.”

The coach is now screaming at them both. 

The primal need to please collides with Shane's athletic determination. They come together, creating a spark that fuels a wildfire that cannot be stopped.

The Ottawa Centaurs win the Eastern Conference finals with the comeback of a decade. 

The commentators talk and talk, and talk, speculating what was the magic factor in the sudden change of Hollander's form. Nobody gets it right, of course. Thank god.

* * *

The whole team goes out to celebrate. It's mandatory. New York Admirals are one of the most decent teams in the NHL, so even though they are crushed, they lose with grace and a good half of them ends up in the same bar as the Centaurs. They are friendships there, going above the colours of the jersey. 

Ilya is drunk on success. He left behind a spectacular career with the Boston Bears and there have been many moments of doubt whether he can really build the Centaurs up from the ground. It was a price he was willing to pay, but sometimes regret lingered.

He needed that win. Fuck. He'd be fucking crushed if they lost the chance to play for the Stanley Cup after coming so, so close.

The shots make him want to dance. He's so fucking proud. He feels light, gets handsy, laughs and laughs, and buys a drink for a hot girl just because he can. He can do anything. He's on top of the fucking world. 

There's only one thing missing.

“Where is the difficult one?” he asks, looking around the big booth reserved for the Centaurs.

Now that he shook out the excess energy – the dangerous, wild, irresponsible part of it – he's ready to look at the omega with the beautiful freckles and not devour him on the spot. That would create some issues.

It's a testament to Shane's stubborn character (or maybe to Rozanov's and Hollander's relationship) that the teammates immediately know who Ilya is asking about.

“Fraternising with the enemy.”

Ilya's gaze moves to where the teammate has pointed. His smile evaporates.

Shane Hollander is at the bar, laughing quietly at something Scott Hunter is saying. 

Ilya could swallow the fact that the guy is a captain of a rival team, especially since his own has just beat them. What he cannot let slide is the fact that Hunter is in the middle of a suppressed rut. He's standing way too fucking close to something that belongs to Ilya. 

With a dark gaze, tense shoulders and back straighter than usual, Ilya walks up to the pair. 

“Hello,” his voice is light, but the indifference is fake. 

When Ilya settles his hand arrogantly on the nape of Hollander's neck, his gaze is trained on Scott Hunter. The gesture is obscenely possessive – unacceptable in many ways. Shane has to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a whole body shudder.  

“Rozanov.” Hunter sounds calm and kind. “Congratulations again. Well earned. You kicked our ass in the second half.”

“Mhm.” It's the most non-thank-you thank you possible.

Shane steps on Ilya's foot, annoyed by his rudeness. Rozanov’s fingers dig deeper into his neck in response, almost scruffing him. In public. Right in front of another player! Half of Shane’s mind screams at him to elbow Ilya in the stomach for it. The other half wants to go limp, maybe fall to his knees.

It's not very dangerous for Rozanov to do this. He's a captain and Hollander is a team omega. Everybody in the league knows he needs to be claimed. But in this context, it's fucking rude. Unnecessary. Unfair, because Shane would never be able to do that to an alpha.

The anger lights up in Shane's stomach and he has to bite down harder not to let it get to his eyes.

The silence between the three of them becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Rozanov is doing absolutely nothing to change that. He's just staring Hunter down.

“You guys still crushed us in the first half,” Shane manages to sound casual. “Good game.”

The grip on his neck eases. Ilya's fingers rub the skin possessively instead, but luckily Scott can't see that from where he’s standing. 

Shane has to swallow a whine. He turns his head to glare at Rozanov. Rozanov sends him an arrogant smirk in return. 

Hunter eyes them curiously.

 “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he decides and just leaves.

Once it's just the two of them, Shane turns around, ready to growl.

“What was that?” he hisses, leaning in so nobody else can hear them. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows slowly, keeping his own anger at bay.

“That is question for you, I think.”

Shane frowns. Then his gaze darts in the direction where Scott Hunter disappeared. He unknowingly bites his lip with an odd expression on his face, then finally looks at Ilya again. There's a glint of stubbornness in his dark eyes.

“You said I'll get whatever I want.”

Careful curiosity blooms on Ilya's face. He's sensing trouble, but trouble looks cute on Hollander. It's distracting.

“Yes.”

Shane leans even closer.

“What if I want Scott Hunter?” he challenges in a whisper.

Murder flashes in Ilya's eyes – cold, slow, deliberate – but he keeps a tight leash on his wrath, so the worst of it gets pulled back almost immediately.

Every other alpha can be violent. It's Rozanov’s unyielding self-control that makes Shane slightly worried sometimes. (Mostly, he’s worried that he likes it.)

Ilya leans against the bar and slowly looks him up and down.

“You know what is curious, Hollander?” He asks almost casually, but there’s noticeable tension in his body. “You are very… how you say? Misbehaving. But get hard from praise.”

Shane licks his lips subconsciously.

“You are ignoring my question,” he points out, not wanting to go down without a fight.

Rozanov nods.

“I am. You are very lucky I am.” The casualty of Ilya’s tone morphs into something much more intense. “If I was not ignoring your question, you would be on your knees, right here, gaging on my cock for everybody to see. No more hockey after that, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Shane spits at him, cheeks flushed with anger and somethin else. “Now you care? You seemed busy,” Shane snarls, then bares his teeth, unable to stop himself.

He was ready to celebrate with Rozanov the second they got off the ice. But all he got was a squeeze on his waist, a kiss jokingly pressed into his cheek while their helmets collided together with a clank, and a typical yell – Good job, Hollander! Good fucking job – with a heavy pat on his back.

Here, he saw the girl Ilya danced with. And the one Ilya went outside to smoke with. And the girl Ilya bought a drink for. There's always so fucking many of them. All desperate for a piece.

“Yes, I was busy” Rozanov agrees easily, with no shame, because he’s an asshole. He leans slightly forward, even though there’s barely any space left between them. “And when I am busy, you sit pretty and wait until I am not busy. And if you really can't wait, you come to me and beg me sweetly. Is that clear?”

The last words come out forceful. Impatient. Shane’s still glaring at him, stubborn and bold, but his body moves on instinct: shoulders rise up slightly, as if to hide the neck and make him look smaller. He’s never done this in front of Ilya before and he’s clearly unaware that he’s doing it now. 

But Ilya notices and he stills for a moment.

There's a big difference between a player being reprimanded by their captain or an omega being corrected by a random alpha, and an omega being scolded by their own alpha.

Fuck.

“Yeah, right.” Shane’s attitude is very different from his subconscious instincts. “You fucking wish, asshole.”

After what he’s just witnessed, Rozanov is suddenly finding it very difficult to stay angry. He just wants to kiss this stupid menace. He manages not to, thankfully, and instead sighs.

“I was planning to take you home, puppy,” he whispers, letting his voice drop into a low murmur. “Give you a nice, long fuck, fill you up as reward… Not for hockey, just for you. Would keep you for the night, make you come again in the morning. Maybe even feed you… Shame.” 

He shrugs and watches as want and need swirls in the black eyes, then spills all over the freckled face. They still haven’t done it. All that kissing, all the tension, the little touches, but they are yet to fuck outside of the NHL rules. 

“Ilya.” The word falls out of Shane's mouth like a gasp and he moves closer, desperately trying to press his body against the alpha.

“No. Don't beg me now. Too late.”

“Wait, no, come on…”

“What? You suddenly can behave?”

“I can.” Shane declares at the same moment as a pretty, young, male bartender comes close to them, with the intention to get Ilya’s order.

Shane growls at him. 

Ilya laughs quietly and waves the guy off, while his attention stays on Hollander.

“Jealous little puppy.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“But you growl like baby.”

“I do not.”

Shane’s grumpy face is so fucking sweet, Ilya’s fingers twitch with the need to reach out and brush his cheek. He manages to stop himself, knowing that there surely are people staring at them secretly: they are pro athletes freshly out of the very important game. A tender gesture would raise some eyebrows for sure. That’s dangerous. 

It’s time to move this along. Rozanov looks around, bored, as if ready to leave.

“Okay.” He says simply.

Shane frowns.

“Wait. You promised me something. You can’t take it back now. I won for you.”

Ilya shakes his head, pretending to be indifferent.

“You won for the team,” he corrects. “For yourself also.”

Shane makes a grimace. He’s getting frustrated.

“Oh my god, I am sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?! Fuck, just…” he trails off, glances to the side cautiously, then leans in closer to whisper the rest. “I want what you said. About going home with you. I would like to do that.”

Ilya leans away and crosses his arms over his chest. He has to, because it’s becoming impossibly hard to keep his hands away from Hollander’s body. 

“Well. I am not done here yet,” he announces and lets his gaze shift ostentatiously to an attractive woman passing them by.

Shane bares his teeth again.

Ilya wants to devour him. Soon. He grins.

“Ah. Puppy really is jealous.”

“You're playing with me,” Shane accuses, now looking hurt. “It's shitty.”

“People are watching, Hollander,” Ilya reminds them both. “I am being Ilya Rozanov. Is good for us both. You are the one throwing yourself all over an alpha in rut.”

“We were just talking!” Shane argues, annoyed. “He is nice.”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. 

“So you want nice? That it?”

Shane looks away silently.

“Answer me, Hollander.”

“I don't know,” Shane mutters.

“You don't know what you want?”

“Ilya.” It’s not a whine. Not yet.

“So you do or do not? Is very confusing for me, Hollander. English is not my first language. You need to be more specific.”

Something in the air shifts. Shane swallows, suddenly feeling too hot. He forces himself to look at Ilya again.

“I want you,” he says quietly, running out of strength to keep this game up. “Please.”

Rozanov nods. He’d pay a lot of money to be able to grab Shane by the jaw right now.

“Then you sit down and wait,” he orders sharply.

Shane does that small, submissive thing with his shoulders again and whines quietly, looking at Ilya pleadingly with those big, expressive eyes.

“No, no, no, Hollander. None of that. Is time I get more strict with you, I think. You are spoiled. Is bad. Bad for me, bad for team…”

“I am not! Fucking hell…” 

“Then show me,” Ilya demands. “Good pet waits for orders. Da?” He leans in closer, just to be sure that nobody else will hear it. “So sit the fuck down with your own team, Hollander, and wait until I feel like I want to fuck you. Then we leave.”

A full-body shiver goes through Shane, but the moment he recovers, he glares.

“Yes or no?” Rozanov demands, unmoved. 

Shane glares harder, but just beneath that expression there’s an ocean of want, want, want. 

“Yes or no, Hollander. You choose.”

Twisting it into being Shane’s choice is a cruel, cruel trick.

“Okay.” He exhales. “Yes.”

“Good.” Ilya watches as Shane’s eyes lit up at the praise. “Now go sit. Is my turn to talk to Scott Hunter, I think.” He flags down a bartender. The pretty one.

“You are such an asshole,” Shane mutters under his breath, unable to stop himself.

“Sorry? You said something?”

“Nope.”

Ilya is falling for a fucking brat. That’s just perfect. He watches Shane go back to the booth and it takes a lot not to chase after him. 

* * *

Shane can barely sit still. Anticipation is buzzing under his skin while waves of hot craving roll down his back every few moments. It’s been many years since he went through an unsuppressed heat (which is not what doctors recommend, but he’s busy), so for a short moment he even panics, worrying these are the symptoms of going into one.

Obviously, it’s not that. It’s just his uncontainable yearning for Ilya fucking Rozanov and his promise to fuck Shane for real tonight. Just for them, just for pleasure. No contracts attached. 

Shane is secretly a quite proud guy. He has a decent amount of self-respect. It should be impossible for an alpha to make him feel this pathetically needy. Fucking hell.

It’s not even biology. They are all on suppressants. Everybody in the NHL and, to be honest, almost everybody everywhere. It’s a standard practice in the modern world. Suppressants aren’t the same as contraception or scent blockers. All they do is minimize the exaggerated hormonal responses of the body during heat or rut to make it normal instead of primal. 

Scott Hunter played a regular game today while in rut and the only major difference was the change in his scent. Just like Shane is living a normal life during his fertility window, except that on these days he gets Ilya’s cock pushed into his ass instead of the other hole. 

He’s thinking about Rozanov’s dick again. Great.

His phone chimes.

Rozanov: go outside in 5. 

i wait in taxi

Finally. Thank fuck.

* * *

They sit awkwardly straight in the back of the taxi, fighting the urges to touch because the cab driver can see them in the mirror. Shane is resting his hand palm down on the middle seat. Ilya places his own casually next to it. Their pinky fingers brush against each other. 

It’s not nearly enough, but Ilya has a weird feeling nothing ever will be. 

“Hey, sorry, but… Do you boys play for the Ottawa Centaurs?” the driver asks when they are getting out.

Shane tenses up, while Ilya just nods.

“Yes.”

“Would you mind signing something? My niece is a fan.”

They agree. 

“Great game tonight,” the guy says again when it’s time to leave.

“Right?” Ilya forces a smirk, looking into the vehicle with his hand on the still open door. “Team is celebrating. Private after-party.” He says that just in case. Better safe than sorry.

“Very nice! I bet it’s gonna be a good one. Have fun, guys!”

“We will.”

* * *

The metal wall of an elevator is cold when they both lean their back against it.it.

“The taxi guy didn't seem suspicious, I think,” Shane thinks out loud, slightly panicked. “Right?”

Ilya closes his eyes for a moment. The fact that they are already worried says a lot about the quality of their choices.

“Is bad idea,” he says quietly. “We shouldn't do this.”

Shane’s gaze snaps to him.

“You promised.”

“You begged.”

“I did not!”

“Did. In your spoiled, stubborn way.” Ilya sighs. “I should not offer,” he sounds slightly annoyed with himself. “Is risky.” 

He doesn't know how to get Hollander out of his head, but he’a also still terrified of ruining his career. They aren’t equals here. Shane would get kicked out of the team, maybe even NHL all together, and Ilya would just be that captain who fucked his omega teammate. It’s unfair. He should have been better about saying no. Hollander is his responsibility. Everybody in the team is.

“But you offered,” Shane says stubbornly, clearly worried there will be a last minute change of plans. His eyes are shining with want. He turns his body to Rozanov, leans in…

Ilya takes a step to the side, putting more distance between them.

“Easy, little wolf,” he murmurs and nods at the corner of the ceiling. “Cameras.”

Shane lets out a frustrated groan.

The elevator opens and Ilya walks out, swallowing the urge to wrap his arm around the omega and make sure he follows. 

“You are very desperate,” he observes calmly, digging in his pocket for the keys. He should still be worried, but gets distracted. His hands are almost shaking with the desire to push Shane against the nearest wall. They will worry later. Preferably together.

Who’s desperate now, huh?

“You made me sit and think about your dick for an hour,” Shane accuses.

The mouth on that boy…

“I think you liked it.” Ilya comments, opening the door to his apartment.

“I did not,” Shane shoots back, walking inside.

Ilya leans in close as he passes.

“Then why are you wet?”

He can smell it. The faintest note of sweetness just underneath his own smell from the claiming and other scents collected throughout the day. Suppressants help contain the excessive arousal symptoms, but there’s a limit to their power.

Hollander’s face heats up.

Ilya closes the front door behind them and about two seconds later Shane gets pushed up against them. It’s a hungry, rough kiss, but it doesn’t last long.

Ilya takes a step back.

“Take a shower.” 

“What?” Shane is breathless and confused.

“I smell Scott Hunter on you. Is annoying.” 

Shane doesn’t argue, because he feels kind of sticky after the bar anyway. He just makes a mental note that Rozanov’s sense of smell is crazy sensitive, even for an alpha.

* * *

When Shane emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped modesty around his waist, Ilya is already sprawled naked on the bed, stroking his own dick lazily. He lifts his hungry gaze to Hollander and shamelessly licks his lips.

“Come here.” His voice is low and raspy.

Shane shivers and obeys.

He crawls on top of the bed eagerly, towel forgotten, but stops midway. Rozanov’s swollen cock is right there. A drop of precum gathers on the tip as Ilya strokes himself slowly, big fist traveling lazily up and down. Shane can smell him. A familiar scent of confidence and care.

“You like?”

Ilya’s question makes him realize he’s staring, stuck halfway above the alpha.

“Yes.”

“Want to suck my cock for a bit? Get it nice and wet for later?”

“Yes.”

Rozanov chuckles.

“So eager,” he murmurs, but his amusement morphes into dark craving as he watches Shane lean down to suck the tip. “Fuck, Hollander. Such a good mouth.”

Ilya’s hips move up slightly and Shane listens to the wordless command, taking him deeper. He’s greedy about it, trying to fit as much of it in one go. Starved.

“Fuck,” Ilya repeats with a quiet growl and slides his fingers into the dark hair. Some Russian words fall from his mouth.

It shouldn't be happening. The thought lives permanently in the back of Ilya’s head and he feels like an asshole for letting himself have it. But he's just not strong enough to not take it, when Hollander offers. 

Reckless, stupid little wolf, offering something so sweet and precious to somebody like Ilya. 

God, Rozanov wants him. He's never wanted anything in his life this much. 

It shouldn't be happening, but it already is. Too late to turn back now. 

He might as well enjoy it.

His hips jerk as Hollander swirls his puppy tongue around the head of Ilya's cock.

“Enough,” he orders roughly, tugging at Hollander's head. “Up. Up! Come here.”

Shane's a doll in his hands, drunk on sucking cock in a way that should be explored, but not tonight. Right now, Ilya needs Hollander underneath him.

He guides Shane up, then rolls them both and looks down at the freckled face. Hot satisfaction goes through Ilya's body as he tangles their fingers together, only to move Shane's hands up, and pin them to the mattress above his head.

“Good little wolf,” me murmurs, burying his nose in Hollander's neck. He breathes Shane in – the sweet and spicy scent still mixed with his own – then drags his teeth against the skin, licks it, kisses it gently, then again, again, getting greedy. A pleased growl rumbles in his chest when he feels the body underneath him squirm and arch. 

“Uh,” Shane gasps, overwhelmed. 

Ilya kisses him on the mouth as a reward for that sweet sound. It still hasn't gotten old – licking into Hollander's mouth. But soon, Ilya's lips travel to Shane's neck again, this time the other side. He kisses the spot right at the scent gland, his grip on Hollander's hands tightening. 

Half-restrained, Shane arches up, chasing friction against his now fully hard cock. Ilya's kisses turn to half-bites, oddly intense. 

The proximity of Roznanov’s lips to Shane's mating spot shoots a mixture of fear and excitement down Shane's spine. He tenses up, then shivers again, letting out another soft gasp.

Ilya notices and pulls away. 

“I think my rut is starting two days early,” he murmurs. 

Fucking Scott Hunter.

“Oh,” is all Shane says, gazing up at him with wide eyes. 

That would explain Rozanov's sensitivity to all the scents.

Ilya frees Shane's hands to brush a thumb against his cheek gently. He's holding himself up above Shane on one arm, his bicep hard and impressively big. 

Everything about Ilya is big. The first time Shane saw him in person, he almost choked on his own saliva. I'm supposed to get under that? – he thought, both dumbstruck and scared. – Regularly?! 

Yeah, he did. He is. He could fucking live on Rozanov's monstrous cock. He's gotten pathetically addicted to it, so much so, he’s currently risking everything to have more of it. 

No, he’s not. Nobody’s going to know. They are teammates. They have the right to… platonically chill at one apartment together. 

Ilya gives him a slow, soothing kiss, settling between Shane's legs. It chases all the worries away. 

“You tell me when is too much, yes?” he murmurs in a hoarse voice.

Shane lets out a pleased sigh, melting into the mattress.

“Yeah,” mumbles. Then frowns. “Wait, what?”

“Focus, pet. If I get lost in your sweet scent and you need break, you tell me. Da? You say stop and I stop.”

Shane frowns deepens.

“But we've done it during your rut before.”

That's true. They also fucked during Shane's heat. Many times. They fuck when they play, and they are playing constantly. It doesn't matter that much on suppressants. 

At least it didn't, before.

Ilya smiles at him. It's normal at first and then, slowly, the grin turns feral.

“Was for hockey. This one is for me,” his lips find Shane's neck again. “I take my time with you.”

Rozanov rolls his hips, pushing his hard cock against Shane's hipbone. Shane precum smears all over Ilya's abs in the process and he makes a choked moan at the friction.

“But is okay to say is enough,” Rozanov murmurs into his ear.

“I, um…” 

Shane squirms underneath Ilya. He suddenly seems uneasy.

Ilya pulls back to study his face.

“What is it?” He asks, his voice turning more serious.

Shane swallows, fixing his gaze on Ilya's collarbone.

“I.. I kind of like that sometimes you know what I need better than I do,” he admits. “I don't know if that makes sense…?”

“Ah. I see.” A new kind of interest dances in Ilya's eyes. This is going to be fun. “Is okay. Different word, then. If is too much, you say: red.”

“Red? Why.”

Hollander's innocence drags a bark of laughter out of Ilya.

“Puppy’s life really is just hockey, huh?” He smirks. “Word is from a different game. Maybe I teach you one day. For now, just say ‘red’ when you want to stop, da? Is like traffic lights. Red means stop.”

Shane scowls at him, slightly offended by the comment, but then nods anyway. He's too hard to argue right now.

“Good,” Ilya praises, just to watch the dark eyes light up with need. “So can I fuck you now?”

Shane's hips arch on their own.

“Yes, please.”

“Such a polite little slut…”

“Fuck you!”

“No. The other way,” Ilya corrects with a stupid grin and pushes into Shane's wet hole.

Hollander used to squeeze his teeth to stop a moan from escaping when Ilya entered him. He quit that recently – lost the ability, maybe – and now the first thrust always drags a sweet, needy sound out of him. It's very nice. Ilya considered recording it to use as a message notification. 

He pushes all the way in, burying himself into the wet heat, because Shane's body invites him greedily. It stretches easily, while the excess slick drips down to Shane's asshole and then onto the sheets. 

Ilya has fucked a lot of betas and omegas, but not a single body has ever sucked his dick in the way Hollander's does. He growls at the familiar sensation, letting the wolf come out and begins to build the rhythm, watching Shane's face. That's a treat. They rarely do it face to face, which is heartbreaking, because: the freckles! But fucking Hollander from behind is easier to do in a locker room.

This is not that. This is very, very far from that. They are actively ruining their lives, probably. 

That's too bad. 

It feels fucking great.

It goes from one to one hundred real quick, because they've been waiting for it all night.

Ilya's mouth finds Shane's neck again and he growls, kissing the mating spot while he’s pushing in, in, in.

“Ilya,” Shane begs mindlessly as his hands fly up to wrap around the alpha.

Fingernails dig into Ilya's back, sliding down. It happens three times, each one rougher than the other. On the fourth, the sting turns into sweet pain, skin on Ilya’s back breaking.

Ilya is not surprised. From the first moment they met, he knew Shane Hollander had claws.

Now, Ilya thinks about the locker room and wonders if Hollander will let the others know he's the one responsible for the masterpiece on Ilya's back. There's no way it heals until the next game.

Ilya would be fine with it never healing.

He needs to get deeper, though, so he straightens his back, untangling from a whiny omega. He grabs Hollander's hips and lifts his ass off the bed, shifting all the weight onto his own knees. He fucks Hollander onto his cock like that, almost dragging Shane’s shoulders and head up and down the mattress with the force of each thrusts.

Ilya has had him during a rut before, but couldn't do anything about it. He’s never been exactly gentle, but always remained kind of… professional. A quick fuck. A necessary fuck. As indifferent as possible (which he never quite managed, let be honest). It has gotten more and more torturous as the time went on – to be able to sink into that omega, claim him with sperm, but never actually own.

Now he can do whatever he wants. The wolf part of his brain gets drunk on that feeling and he finally, fucking finally lets go and just takes, takes, takes.

Shane has trouble forming words, so he doesn't warn Ilya before he comes. He just falls apart on Rozanov’s cock soundlessly, mouth permanently open, jaw lax, eyes rolling back while the white ropes of come shot all over his own stomach. Absolutely, toughly wrecked. 

Ilya's dick gets coated in more slick and it just fucking slides fruther, almost on accident, while the hole pulsates around it greedy. He growls and starts snapping his hips even faster, nostrils flaring at the smell of a satiated omega. It's that smell that pushes him close to the edge eventually, knot slipping in easily because of the excessive wetness. 

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbles, throwing an arm over his own face, suspended in the state of bliss. 

“So good for me,” Ilya praises, his voice still dark and rough.

He pushes Shane's hips down and leans over him, resting one hand next to Shane's head. With the other one, he peels Shane's arm away from the lovely face to get access to his mouth.

He pants against Shane's lips as he begins to come, then kisses him hard as the sperm keeps spilling where it belongs, hot and thick. It goes from rough to lazy – he does playful licks and bites against Shane's mouth, basically lying on top of him, as the knot slowly goes down.

Eventually, Ilya's lips move to Shane's neck again. It's definitely the rut speaking.

He desperately wants to say something into Shane’s skin to express how fucking gratefull he is for this, how much he wanted it, how insane it is that Shane is offering, how important and perfect it all feels, but he just can’t find the words. They are all too small. Thinking isn’t easy when all he can smell is happy Hollander.

Fingers slide into Ilya’s curls gently.

“Are you… purring?” Shane asks in disbelief. 

It drags Ilya out of the haze.

“No.”

His face remains buried in Shane’s neck, so they can’t see each other, but somehow Ilya is absolutely sure Hollander is smirking.

“You are. Oh my god. I didn’t know alphas could even do that.”

“They can’t. I am not!” Ilya blindly reaches down to slap Shane’s hip. “You are saying nonsense.” He nibs at Shane’s neck, then pushes up to hoover above the omega again. “Alphas do not do this.”

Shane's smile is big and bright and there’s a startling amount of fondness in his eyes.

“Hi,” he says dumbly. 

So sweet. 

“Hello,” Ilya indulges him, then places a chaste kiss on Shane’s lips. Then, immediately after that, he kisses him again, this time sliding the tongue in, because nothing is ever enough when it comes to this.

The sweet moment shifts into something hot and heavy again. Ilya breaks the kiss and slaps Shane’s thigh playfully.

“Roll over.”

Shane frowns.

“Why?”

Ilya looks meaningfully at his own dick and only now Shane notices it’s almost fully hard again. It shouldn’t be possible, seeing as he has a hole full of Ilya’s fresh seed.

“What are you–”

“I warned you,” Ilya simply says and flips Hollander over in a few easy moves. “Am very fun in bed.”

He doesn’t have to stay hard. With suppressants, a decent alpha is able to will the erection away after the first round. But Ilya likes using the endurance gifted by rut for fun, when given an opportunity. Hollander just never had a chance to experience it before. There was never time nor reason to go again.

Now there is. And that reason is pure pleasure.

Shane’s too fucked-out to hold his own weight on his hands, so he immediately sinks down into the mattress face first, while Ilya’s strong grip keep his hip up. 

“Come on,” Hollander complains mostly just to complain, because he’s a brat. 

When he was on his back, the slick kept dripping down, so when Ilya pulls his asscheeks apart now, everything is wet and glistening. Ilya rubs his finger there, trying to gather as much slick as possible before he pushes it against Hollander’s asshole.

Shane groans into the mattress.

“Wait.” His limbs are heavy, mind still a little hazy, but he manages to push his horribly heavy body up on an elbow. He turns his head, trying to look at Ilya over his shoulder. “You can’t– ah. Fuck. Rozanov!”

Ilya’s finger slides inside. There is some resistance at first, but there’s no better lube than omega’s sweet slick and after the first knuckle, Shane’s ass sucks him in. It’s tight, almost still pulsing, because Shane’s legs are still shaking a little bit from the last orgasm.

“Is okay,” Rozanov says innocently, curving the finger inside Hollander slightly. It takes him no time to find what he’s been looking for.

Shane’s entire body spasms. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he gasps, then moans beautifully. “Oh fuck. Too much!”

He drops back down against the mattress, but his hips stay up, held by Ilya’s determined grip.

Ilya wants to smooth his hand down Hollander’s lovely back, but he’s run out of arms. He lets out a soothing hum instead. 

“Remember our word, Hollander?” he asks, stilling the finger completely, just in case.

There’s a silent pause.

“Fuck you,” Shane mumbles eventually. 

Ilya’s face splits into a wolfish grin.

“Mhm, I think you do. Good little wolf, so nice to me, huh?” Ilya moves his finger again, then pulls it out and presses back in with two this time. “Lets me do whatever I want.”

Shane gasps and his body jerks forward, trying to escape the intensity of it all.

“Wait, I– Ah!” his words turn into quiet whines. “No, fuck, no.”

He’s tight post-orgasm. Tighter than usual, but opening up for Ilya sweetly anyway. Two fingers become three soon, and then Ilya is out of patience. Shane is a twitchy, gaspy little mess underneath him and Ilya needs to get inside him again.

“Such a good pup,” he murmurs, hoping to bribe the omega with praise as he begins to press his cock inside. “You’re doing so well.”

“Fuck. No, Ilya, I can’t!”

“You can, there you go…”

“Oh my god, I can’t, I can’t– AH, FUCK!”

“There you go, pup,” Ilya keeps soothing, murmuring the words in a low voice while his gaze stays transfixed on his thick length which is slowly disappearing into Shane’s ass. “Just a bit more, like this. Fuck. Da. Like this.”

When he manages to get all the way in, Shane moans loudly, almost desperately, tenses up so much Ilya almost pops a knot from the pressure, and then goes limp, melting into the bed with a soft whine.

Ilya covers his back with his own chest and presses a few sweet kisses to the freckled shoulder. His arm wraps around Shane’s middle protectively.

“You okay, puppy?”

Shane lets out an incoherent grunt in response.

Ilya chuckles and kisses the nape of his neck.

“Words, Shane.”

“Hmpf.”

Ilya gently rocks his hips, barely pulling out and presses more kisses to Shane’s sweaty back. The omega whimpers sweetly underneath him. Ilya makes a slow thrust, groaning at the tightness. Shane whimpers again, but his body doesn’t tense up. It stays beautifully open for Ilya.

“Tell me you’re good, pup, or I won’t fuck you,” Ilya demands with his lips still close to Shane’s nape.

“‘m good,” Shane slurs. 

Ilya lets out a satisfied growl. 

“Bet I can make you feel much better.”

It’s a slow fuck this time. Shane is a puddle of need and overstimulation – the sensation of too much and not nearly enough tangle together in his body, pushing him into a floaty feeling of bliss and no responsibility. Ilya stays pressed to his back, breathing the scent in and murmuring Russian praises while his throbbing cock slides in and out of the tight asshole.

Every drag against the prostate makes Shane’s vaginal hole clench, then release, then clench again. With each pulsating movement it releases a bit of Ilya’s cum. He’s dripping slowly – alpha’s seed forced out of him bit by bit by the cock getting buried deep into the other hole. 

After a while, they are a mess of whines, growls, pleas and murmurs. Ilya doesn’t try to stretch Shane’s rim on the knot this time, too out of it himself. He just lets it inflate inside, kissing and licking Shane’s shoulders and necks soothingly, while Shane whimpers desperately and shakes, and shouts when Ilya wraps his hand around his already hard again cock.

They come at the same time, which could be called romantic. Ilya feels him up again, a different hole this time, and it makes Shane feel fuller than ever before, though it might be purely a mental thing. 

Ilya rolls them onto the side before his knot even goes down.

“Come here,” he murmurs, slightly out of it, holding Shane tight while pushing himself up on one arm to lean in and reach Shane’s mouth. “Come here, come here, come here.”

He growls into a surprisingly desperate kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth, and admiration.

“So fucking good for me, fuck.” He breathes into Shane’s slack mouth. “Perfect, Shane. Fucking perfect.”

Shane whines at the sound of his own name, but that’s about all he can do. There’s a knot in his ass, his muscles don’t work, his brain doesn’t either. He’s right where he should be, though, pressed close to an alpha that’s a little bit feral, but still so safe, he wants to cry a little. Maybe he is crying. Whatever. Sleep now.

* * *

There’s a heavy, warm weight on Ilya’s chest, which feels nice, except that something is poking at his shoulder.

“Rozanov. Rozy.”

“Mhm.” He makes a sleepy sight, not opening his eyes.

“I’m hungry.”

Ah. The bratty little wolf is here. Ilya still doesn’t open his eyes, but his dick stirs. 

“For my cock?” His voice is rough with sleep.

A foot kicks his foot. Unnecessary. 

“For food, you asshole!”

At that, Ilya loses interest, ready to go back to sleep.

“Ilya!” Shane demands and then sinks his sharp little teeth into Ilya’s collarbone.

“Fuck!” Ilyas eyes fly open. “Oh my god. Is middle of the night,” he complains, and wraps his arms more tightly around the restless body that’s lying half on top of him.

Shane gives him a look.

“It’s seven am.”

“Is what I said.”

“I always get up at this hour.”

Fucking hell, Ilya does not deserve this. He closes his eyes again, squeezing Shane’s hip blindly. 

“Shushhh.”

There’s no more teeth. Shane gives his collarbone a few needy licks instead, suddenly all innocent and sweet.

“Feed me.”

Shane could make himself breakfast in Ilya’s kitchen, of course. But his muscles burn from the night workout and, more importantly, there’s still Ilya’s come deep inside both of his holes. He’s pretty sure he deserves a meal for that.

“I’m asleep,” Ilya informs him.

Shane moves his mouth to his throat.

“Make me food and I will suck your dick.”

“Okay. Am awake now.” 

Shane scoffs.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t know that word,” Ilya lies, stretching slowly. Then he finally opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Shane properly.

“Hello.”

Shane’s expression softens.

“Hi,” he whispers.

They crossed a boundary. The dam finally broke yesterday and desire spilled all over everything. There's no coming back from that.

Ilya tangles his fingers into Shane’s soft  hair with a heavy sigh. 

“You smell like me,” he murmurs. He’s still waking up.

“I smell like you most of the time,” Shane points out.

“Yes. Very distracting.”

It is. The routinely claiming by the team captain was supposed to make the team omega less distracting and less distracted. That was the whole point. And it worked for everybody around, except them. Now, keeping their hands off each other is going to be an absolute torture. They will have to suffer through practice, games, galas and interviews, existing together professionally while hoping to find a scrap of time and a dark space here and there to be something other than teammates. 

Well. The highest highs come with the lowest lows. Some would say that’s fair.

Chapter End Notes

Uff, this one was looong!

A friendly reminder: I treat this as a series of one-shots, so it's marked as complete, but another part might always appear. I'm a slut for praise, so begging in the comments will probably get you somewhere.
xoxo

Chapter 6: losers

Chapter Summary

Anger is much easier to endure than regret.

Chapter Notes

They lose the Stanley Cup to the Minnesota Nomads. 

It’s crushing for some, still a kind of victory for others. Two years ago the Centaurs wouldn’t dream of coming this close to winning. 

Some of the guys from the team go out to drink the sorrows away, taking advantage of the fact that the season has just ended and they can get shitfaced without paying the consequences on the ice later. 

The photos start circling around almost immediately. Rozanov with a girl's arms wrapped around his neck, grinning wildly. Rozanov doing bodyshoots with a different chick. Blurry pics taken outside in the dark, a group of people smoking and laughing. Some shaky, short video from inside of the club, the Centaurs dancing, all drunk and handsy. Rozanov’s body pressed against another body.

Alone in his hotel room, Shane scrolls: he looks at the pictures and clips from the game, from the celebrations, from the pity party; he reads the comments about Rozanov being hot and good in bed, and other comments blaming the only omega in the NHL for the defeat, and he just… spirals. 

He had one job. He got distracted. And he fucked it up.

* * *

06/16/26 3:40 AM

Rozanov: puppy u still up ?

11:23 AM

Rozanov: They told me you flew back home early. Everything ok?

Rozanov: missed call 

7:44 PM

Rozanov: Are you ok? 

06/17/26 10:00 AM

Rozanov: Hollander.

Rozanov: missed call 

06/18/26 00:12 AM

Rozanov: missed call

3:28 PM

Rozanov: Are you okay???

Rozanov: missed call

4:48 PM

Rozanov: talked to coach, he said you are fine

I thought u r dead, asshole

answer me

06/22/26 1:02 AM

Rozanov: Hollander what the fuck is this?

9:45 AM

Rozanov: why you are not answering???

06/28/26 2:24 PM

Rozanov: Hi. I am confused. Can we talk? Don’t have to last long.

06/29/26 11:57 AM

Rozanov: Shane.

06/30/26 2:32 AM

Rozanov: missed call 

3:04 AM

Rozanov: missed call

07/01/26 6:11 PM

Rozanov: Why?

07/02/26 9:15 PM

Rozanov: I deserve explanation, Hollander.

Hollander: I need to focus on hockey. 

You can find other ways to entertain yourself.

Please stop texting me. 

We will see each other after the break.

Rozanov: just because we lost the cup??

is shit, but we win next time

or is it party…? 

i was drunk

nothing happened, stupid articles online always lie

Hollander.

Hollander: I don’t want to do this anymore.

It was a mistake.

Please stop texting me. 

This time, Ilya listens.

* * *

Three weeks into the off-season Shane meets Rose Landry at a charity event. Their friendship forms fast and when he drops, Rose is there to offer her alpha pheromones to soothe him. 

Than fuck.

It’s platonic and way less effective than Rozanov’s assistance was, but Shane isn’t naive. He knows – or suspects, at least – that nothing will ever feel as good as belonging to Ilya. Except that it costed nothing for Ilya to get him, while Shane was risking it all. And they probably weren’t even exclusive. Not with the way Rozanov likes to party.

What’s done is done. Now Shane has a close alpha friend and another hockey season to prove his worth. Life isn’t always about feeling good. Sometimes (most times, maybe) it’s about feeling stable and in control. 

* * *

“You’re late,” Shane accuses the second Rozanov walks into the locker room.

It’s an echo of many previous times, except the roles were sometimes reversed.

Ilya’s step falters at the sight of Hollander, but he recovers quickly. He walks up to his locker and lets the duffle bag hit the floor. Only then he turns and fixes his gaze on Hollander.

“I was not aware we are doing this.” 

“The break lasted barely 3 months,” Shane points out coldly. “I didn’t think you’d forget how this works.”

Rozanov’s face was blank, but now a flash of annoyance appears.

“You disappeared. You will not talk to me. How the fuck would I know what is going on?”

“So you assumed I magically changed the terms of my contract?”

“Hollander.” The word falls out of Ilya’s mouth as half-plea, half-warning.

Shane swallows many, many emotions stirred by Ilya’s tone and gaze, and just shakes his head, keeping his expression as indifferent as possible. What betrays him is the noticeable tension in the shoulders and the unhealthy determination shining in his eyes.

“We come early, you fuck me, I get on the ice and play,” he sums up bluntly. “Let's get it over with, yeah?”

“No.”

Shane is unable to hide his surprise at that. He ran many different scenarios in his head, but this one never came up. He mistakenly assumed Rozanov would never say no to fucking him.

“Sorry…?”

There’s a shadow of hurt in Ilya’s eyes now, but the anger is lingering nearby as well.

“You think I am okay with… forcing you to do this?” He pauses, as if the words got stuck in his throat. “You think I am asshole that much?”

Shane had to build walls around many emotions to get this far in his career as an omega. What is one more?

“We’ve done it before,” he points out stubbornly.

Ilya shakes his head.

“You did not hate me before. Not really.”

Shane looks away.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let's just get it over with, please.”

Rozanov says nothing. He just stands there, staring. He feels impossibly distant. 

Hollander can feel his piercing, accusatory gaze and it forces him to make eye contact again. Ilya’s silence doesn’t help. 

“You’re making it more difficult right now,” Shane says, frustrated.

Rozanov’s gaze darkens, but there’s also a certain… helplessness emanating from his broad, strong frame. It doesn’t suit him.

“Is not just your body, Hollander. Is my body too. I can’t just…” The words refuse to come out. He takes a breath. “It will feel like hurting you,” he admits quietly. He looks a little bit pale. Like maybe he’s about to get sick.

To make his own life easier, Shane worked hard to see Rozanov in his head as that guy from the pictures online, from the parties and the gossip columns. The arrogant player who winks at interviewers, the bastard making dirty jokes in the locker room, the womanizer who’s been seen with a curly-haired model multiple times these past few months... Loud. Unapologetic. Careless. An asshole. But the person standing in front of him isn’t exactly that – not entirely, at least – and it’s suddenly so much harder to not care.

“Okay.” Shane exhales loudly. They need to get through this somehow, so he can focus on the game. “You’re right. Sorry. This is difficult.”

The look Ilya sends him is murderous.

“Yes.”

Shane frowns.

“Listen. I want to play hockey. I know what I signed up for. I don't want to be one of your fucktoys outside of work–”

“You were never…”

“–and I don’t think we can be friends, but I would like for you to do the claiming so I can actually go and do my job. I am okay with this happening. There. Is that good enough?" 

The whole atmosphere is horribly weird and awkward, and tense. Once again, Ilya stays infuriatingly quiet and just stares. He’s not even glaring. He’s just… expressing a hundred different things at once with his eyes alone, but refuses to turn that into words. Or maybe he doesn't know how.

The time is running out. Their teammates will arrive eventually. Shane is not allowed to even have a practice while smelling like an omega and he sure as hell is not skipping the first one after the off-season. This year he needs to work even harder than before. He can’t lose focus again.

He raises his chin and narrows his eyes. If a polite explanation didn’t work, there’s always a language much more familiar to Rozanov – a provocation. 

“Fuck me,” Shane demands, “or let another guy from the team take over the responsibility, captain.” A note of sarcasm slips into that last word. He can’t help himself. He’s hurt. Lashing out feels almost good.

Except that even though Shane plays tough, he wouldn’t be able to stomach getting claimed by anybody else from the team. From the very first day there was chemistry between him and Rozanov, and that's the only thing that made this shit show survivable. So his threat now is an empty one and maybe they both know that, but it works anyway.

Ilya’s eyes darken. He considers something in silence for a moment. 

“Okay,” he says eventually. His tone is blank.

It’s so fucking awkward and tense, it almost feels like their first time doing it. Even the place checks out. With time, they’ve gotten dangerously comfortable with the routine and now suddenly that comfort is all gone. 

What a waste.

The most frustrating thing is: Shane kind of needs this. His contract is full of the NHL’s unjust bullshit, but the break made him realise that being cocooned in Rozanov’s scent all the time is, unfortunately, actually quite helpful. It might not even be an omega thing, but… a Shane thing. His brain has always been difficult to settle. He gets overstimulated by other scents easily and when that gets paired with his racing thoughts and other sensations, it can turn into a sort of exhausting buzzing. Then it dances around the corners of his eyes and sticks to his nerve endings, making everything itch. 

He used to do a lot of yoga at uni to centre himself and shield from it. But ever since he joined the Centaurs, the issue disappeared.

Well. No point thinking about that now.

Shane takes off his hoodie to get the whole thing going before Ilya changes his mind. He folds it neatly and places it on his bench. When he turns around, Ilya is already there.

The alpha leans in, then freezes. His entire body tenses up, face going absolutely blank for a moment. Then a new kind of darkness floods Ilya’s eyes

“Ah. Does he know that you do this?” His tone is almost mocking.

Shane frowns, confused.

“Who…?”

Ilya leans even closer.

“I can smell an alpha on you, Hollander.”

Oh. He watched a movie with Rose last night, cuddling under the same blanket.

Shane clears his throat.

“That's none of your business.”

Ilya grits his teeth.

“Right.”

He slides a finger underneath the neckline of Shane’s t-shirt and yanks to reveal the mating spot.

“Are you insane?!” Shane snaps, but doesn’t move. 

“Hockey or not, I am not fucking a mated omega,” Rozanov warns in a dark tone, even though he’s already seeing that the spot is clean.

Relief floods him like a tsunami, almost making him sway. He tries to ignore the feeling, though, and desperately clings to the anger, like he’s done for the past few weeks, because anger is much easier to endure than regret.

“I am not mated,” Shane snaps, pushing his hand away.

“You better not be,” Ilya hisses so quietly, it might have been intended as something just for himself. 

Anger sparks anger, this time in Shane, because how dare Rozanov be jealous, after he’s the one having other people hanging on his arms wherever he goes. Shane has to hold back an urge to bare his teeth.

“Turn,” Rozanov orders. 

Shane listens, because their time is limited.

“Trousers,” comes another command.

Ilya is yet to touch Hollander. He watches greedily as Shane pulls the clothes down his buttcheeks – joggers and underwear at once. They stay there, around his thighs. Not completely off.

The sickening smell of an unknown alpha mixes with something sweet. Ilya's gaze travels down and he notices an already wet spot inside Shane's boxer briefs. 

He still gets dripping wet for Ilya. 

The knowledge shoots up Ilya's spine like electricity and it finally convinces him that doing this will not be a horrible abuse. And now that he is convinced, the wrath and jealousy take over. 

His team. His omega. How the fuck Shane dares to come here smelling like somebody else again. He belongs to Ilya and Ilya only.

The smell of the omega's arousal makes Ilya's cock harden. With a low growl he kicks Shane’s legs apart, then puts a hand right over the mating bite, because he's petty. He swallows all the words of praise that live permanently on the tip of his tongue and just pushes into the wet heat.

Shane's hands fly up to grip the edge of the wooden shelf that's above every bench seat, leaning forward slightly.

“Fuck,” he exhales quietly and tries not to clench down as the familiarly huge dick slowly fills him up.

The problem is, his treacherous body was waiting for this for weeks. He hates that it still feels good to have Rozanov inside. Arching his back to make the slide easier is a muscle memory. The smell of a strong, possessive alpha floods him and makes him shiver with need.

That's bad. That was supposed to be in the past.

Ilya bottoms out with a low growl.

“Good?” It sounds like a swear word, all rough and impatient. Still, even when angry, he checks in.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees reluctantly. His breath is shaky.

That's all the time Shane gets before Rozanov begins to snap his hips forcefully. 

There's anger behind each thrust, that much is obvious. Frustration and hunger, mixed together, create a rough, dirty fuck that makes Shane's knees almost buckle. He's gripping the shelf so hard his knuckles turn white and there might be blood in his mouth from how hard he's biting the inside of his cheek not to make a sound.

He used to moan on that cock. 

Ilya starts speaking Russian. It's an unfair advantage, to be able to hide behind the language barrier. He fucks Shane from behind like a feral, starved wolf while the litany of something falls out of his mouth. His voice is strained, words slightly shaky. It might be insults or a reprimand. It might be praise. Shane wouldn't know.

Shane focuses on the sound alone, as if it was a white noise and tries not to think about the hot pleasure. Fuck the omega biology, made to love an alpha dick. God. It's so fucking big and gets pushed so deep inside of him, over and over again. He missed that. 

No, he didn't.

Fuck.

Meanwhile, Ilya tries to behave, he really does, but each time he catches the faint note of the other alpha’s scent, the primal needs to bite and claim lights up in his brain. He keeps his hand over Hollander’s mating spot firmly – a protection, just in case. The temptation to sink his teeth into it is nothing new, but after weeks apart, it’s harder to control.

When the knot begins to form, Ilya moves his other hand to wrap around the omega progressively and press their bodies together – close, mine, home, stay! But Shane slaps it away immediately. Ilya lets out a growl of pain, not anger this time, but obeys and goes back to gripping Shane’s hip.

No unnecessary touching. Right. Got it.

It’s all pretty fast. Rozanov comes the moment his knot is done growing. Sperm keeps flowing, filling Hollander up and there seems to be more of it than usual. Shane notices: his inner walls stretch and stretch to accommodate, belly becoming noticeably heavy. It’s that sensation, or maybe just the awareness, that pushes him over the edge and he ruins his t-shirt, which he refused to take off. Great.

Ilya murmurs something in Russian again when Shane spasms on his cock. It sounds soft. Shane pretends he doesn’t hear it. He untangles himself from Ilya as soon as possible, clenching his hole before the sperm can drip into his underwear, and escapes to the bathroom stall.

* * *

Ilya is already in his under armour when Shane comes back. The rest of the team is not here yet, but they are probably just minutes away.

Shane looks up. Rozanov is already staring at him, his gaze oddly haunting.

“Need anything else from me?”

Shane swallows.

“No.”

It’s barely noticeable, but Rozanov flinches.

Chapter End Notes

Ok, so I have a thing planned, but it is taking more pages than I expected, so I’m splitting it into two chapters. Up next: Ilya Rozanov begging.

And thank you for all the looove!! Please never contain your enthusiasm, I am a big fan of watching it spill all over my comments.

Chapter 7: deprivation

Chapter Summary

Ilya is good at pushing, but he never really learned how to ask for things.

Chapter Notes

I've added two chapters in less than 24 hours so be careful not to skip the previous one!

Three weeks into the new season, Ilya gets sick. 

Hollander gets a call about it early in the morning. Don’t come to the game – the coach says, audibly frustrated. – Rozanov’s out.

Because if Rozanov is out, Hollander is out as well, unless Ilya’s issues don’t prevent him from claiming the omega. Clearly, this is not one of those cases.

It’s okay. Shane can somehow survive missing one game. He decides not to be an asshole about it.

Hollander: Do you need anything?

Rozanov: No.

Thank you.

Sorry.

Hollander: Just get well soon.

But one game turns into two, which turns into three. Rozanov is out for the whole week. Shane is working out way too much, trying to burn the excess energy somehow. He’s restless, stuck at home, frustrated. Impatient and maybe, just maybe, also worried. Ilya is never sick. Injured, yes, sometimes, like all of them, but in that case he informs the team what exactly is wrong. This time, nobody knows. He’s just “sick”.

On Saturday, six days in, Shane loses his patience. 

Hollander: Is there something I can do to help?

He really, really needs to get back on the ice. He is actually contemplating getting fucked by a different teammate. What is even more concerning is the fact that the coach might be doing the same thing. Without both Rozanov and Hollander, the Centaurs aren’t exactly a force.

Shane watches as the three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. It takes a while for Ilya to finally stop typing and press ‘send’.

Rozanov: Could I come over?

It’s weirdly polite and grammatically correct. That scares Shane a little. He stares at the message, trying to figure out what could be behind it and how he should respond.  He wants to ask: what for, exactly?! But that seems rude now.

He goes for a safer option.

Hollander: You are not contagious or anything, right?

There’s another pause.

Rozanov: is nothing like that

doesn’t have to be for long

Hollander: All right. Five pm?

Rozanov: Okay. 

Hollander: I can also come to yours, if that’s easier…?

Rozanov: no. I come to you.

* * *

Ilya knows how he looks. He slept probably a total of fifteen hours in the last six days. His cheeks are sunken, eyes framed by the dark shadows, curls mat and skin paler than usual. He kept forcing food down his own throat not to lose weight, because his body is his job, but the dropped shoulders and slightly hunched stance make him seem a bit smaller than usual.

It is, therefore, not surprising that Shane’s eyes go wide the second he opens the doors. 

He’s wearing glasses.

 Ilya forces his throat to work.

“Hello.”

The first thing Ilya does is sniff the air and look around carefully. He’s not exactly hiding it. He’s too exhausted to do that. So Shane notices, of course.

“There’s nobody else here.” He sounds slightly offended.

“Okay.” Is all Ilya says, while something inside of him loosens and he has to push away a sudden need to cry with relief. He’s becoming a horribly weak individual.

There’s worry in Shane’s eyes, which is more than Ilya deserves, probably. 

Shane looks very sweet and comfortable in an oversize hoodie and soft joggers. Ilya wants to touch him. There’s acid in his veins, eating him alive from the inside every second that he’s not touching Shane Hollander. That is how it feels. Still, Ilya manages to keep his hands to himself. He toes off his shoes and raises the plastic bag in his hand slightly. 

“I bought food. I…” Fucking hell, it’s so hard to get the words out. “Do you like tuna melt? I can make us. If is okay for me to use your kitchen… If not, is no problem.”

Shane is staring at him, confused. That’s understandable.

“You came over to… make food? Has something happened to your kitchen?” He sounds genuinely worried. 

He’s so fucking sweet.

A painful shiver runs through Ilya’s overheated body. Muscles drag against the bones, veins scratch underneath the skin. Not a single part of his body feels like it fits. He grimaces visibly before he can catch himself. The grip on the bag tightens as he fights another wave of need to touch the omega.

“Is difficult to explain,” Ilya answers elusively. That’s not true at all. It can be explained with one word, he just doesn’t want to say it. “You said you like tuna melt once,” he says a bit pathetically, hopping – begging inside – for Hollander to just let him do this without the interrogation.

Shane must have noticed some of the suffering on his face, because he nods stiffly after a short pause.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “We could also order something. You… look like shit. Sorry, but it’s the truth. Are you sure you even have the energy to cook?”

Ilya winces slightly. 

“I want to do this for you,” he confirms.

Shane looks only more confused.

“For me?”

Ilya is barely fucking standing. He won’t survive this for long.

“Hollander, please just… let me.”

Something in his tone makes Shane’s pupils widen again. Then his lovely face turns blank again, but he nods.

“Okay. Can I help?”

Ilya shakes his head, his gaze barely focused, then moves towards the kitchen island.

He needs to do this. Every fiber of his being screams at him to take care of Shane Hollander, but he’s been denied every opportunity. Shane has set very clear boundaries and he bares his teeth every time Ilya’s touch turns accidentally gentle or protective when they fuck.

Ilya can’t kiss him, can’t hug him, can’t put his hands on him for anything other than platonic touch, even though the omega smells like him and is his. It makes the alpha inside of him go insane.

Insomnia came first. Then the temperature – an insatiable fire consuming him from the inside, but not the fun kind. Shivers, lack of appetite, lack of energy, paranoia, exhaustion. There’s nothing surprising about it.

A textbook case of deprivation: the alpha equivalent of an omega drop. 

Fun.

Shane sits down at the other side of the island, his gaze trained on Ilya.

“You’re scaring me a little bit here, Rozanov,” he states quietly.

Ilya catches a whine in the last second before it comes out of his mouth. He winces instead. How is he still causing the omega discomfort? Why is he so fucking bad at this?! He should be able to take care of Shane. It’s his fucking job.

“Sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “Brought you this.”

He takes out a can of Canada Dry from the bag and leans over the island to push it in Shane’s direction. It’s still cold from the fridge at the store. It should be cold enough. Shane should like it. Ilya is trying his best. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, just a stupid drink, but it’s all he can do. He’s trying so hard.

The feeling of helplessness and the exhaustion have such a strong grip on him, he’s constantly getting stuck at the verge of tears.

Fucking hell, that’s pathetic.

“Um. Thank you.” Shane sounds surprised. 

Ilya begins to make the tuna melt, looking like a beaten dog and Shane stays mercifully quiet, watching him in silence carefully, in those lovely, lovely glasses.

See, the thing is, this is all Ilya’s fault, so he deserves to suffer. He does. He understands that. It doesn’t exactly make the pain less numbing or the fever less exhausting. 

It’s… difficult to explain why he does it – the fuckboy thing. He hasn’t actually fucked anybody else other than Hollander in a long time, but he makes it easy for others to believe that he has. Escaping into that role feels familiar, is all. He can hide behind that persona and shield everything else from the world. 

He’s expected to be that guy, too. There are some jerks on their team who respect him for being like that, and that respect is needed when you are the captain. All the brand deals he signed want that guy. Loud, naughty, wild, popular. All the fans wait to see him like that: so hot, so confident, so fun. It’s easy to be that guy, once he pushes the real emotions deep down. He can sink into it effortlessly – the alcohol, the laughter, the heat of sweaty bodies – so he does. It gives him a twisted sense of security. A guy like that would never get hurt or sad.

He selfishly wanted to have it all – offer the Asshole Rozanov to the world and lock the real Ilya away with Shane safely, shielded from the league and everything it stands for. It didn’t exactly work out as intended.

He forgot to take into the account that his growling, stubborn, strong omega isn’t actually indifferent and immune to everything. Ilya ruined the one real, good thing he had and he doesn’t know how to get it back. 

Ilya is good at pushing, but he never really learned how to ask for things that he wants. It doesn’t feel like he deserves them.

It would probably be helpful to explain all this to Hollander, but Ilya doesn’t know how. Not in English, not even in Russian. He doesn’t understand it himself and even if he did, he was never very good at… communicating. 

To cook on the stove, Ilya has to turn his back to Hollander. He uses that opportunity to take a deep breath, his eyes falling shut on their own. The whole apartment smells like Hollander. Just him, nobody else. No trace of the stranger alpha. Selfishly, that’s why Ilya wanted to be here. 

He needed to check, needed to know. And this way, even if he can’t touch the omega, he gets to be surrounded by his smell. It soothes some of the acidic agony that’s been flowing in his veins for the past week.

The painfully tense muscles relax the tiniest bit as he lets himself scent the air, chasing every note of Shane’s smell and breathing it in greedily. He’s so fixated on that, his mind floats, partly turned off from the exhaustion. He doesn’t register the other smell at first.

“Uh, Rozy? Are you burning something…?”

Ilya’s eyes snap open. The flinches so hard, the spatula slides out of his hand and hits the floor. He’s not thinking clearly, so instead of taking the pan off the heat, he desperately tries to flip the sandwiches with his fingers so they don’t burn any further on one side. 

So he burns his finger instead. The pain is barely there – it feels like nothing compared to the constant, unyielding pain of deprivation that has settled deep into his bones – but the sensation is shocking enough that he swears in Russian, withdrawing his hand immediately.

It’s a fucking mess, all of it. He’s fucking it all up again. He wants to scream, punch something and then just sink into the deepest, darkest well and stay there forever. 

“Fuck!” he snaps, anger shielding him from tears once again.

He turns off the stove. The smell of burned bread and butter is slowly filling the air. He stills, staring at the pan blankly. He can’t even make a fucking tuna melt right. Something inside of him might be finally falling apart.

Shane is already rounding the island. He stops next to Rozanov with a concerned frown. 

“Are you okay?”

Ilya doesn’t move. He just stands there, weirdly numb.

“Ilya?” Shane sounds lost. “Can we maybe talk about that the fuck is going on?” 

Ilya forces himself to turn and look at Shane. He’s met with big, dark, expressive eyes framed by the glasses, freckles and a soft, almost worried expression. Ilya’s body burns, another wave of pain crashing into him as a punishment for not reaching out and touching the omega. He can’t take it anymore. Fuck, he can’t. 

He tried to fight it on his own, out of respect. Six days. Six days of this hell, and he just can’t anymore.

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Can I…” He reaches out, until his hand is hovering over Shane’s face. So close. So fucking close. It’s visibly shaking from the effort that it takes to keep it from making contact. “Is okay if I touch?”

“What…?”

“Sorry. Just… Please.” The word feels foreign in his mouth. He barely ever uses it, but he’s about to drop to his fucking knees if that is what it takes to get his hands on Hollander. “Please, let me. Just for now. I am biggest asshole and you deserve only nice people. Am very, very sorry. Should not come here, I know. I do whatever you want, whatever you need. Just- I can’t-” 

The rambling switches to Russian and Ilya’s exhausted, sleep deprived brain doesn’t even notice.

Shane’s lips part in surprise. His frown deepens. Stunned into silence, he just nods wordlessly, his gaze trained on Ilya.

The first touch is feather-like, because Ilya is terrified of fucking this up as well. He brushes his finger against the freckled cheek and immediately, a soothing, cooling sensation washes over his fingers. In contrast, the rest of his burning body feels only more feverish. 

With a pathetic, pained growl he finally loses the last shreds of strength and puts his other hand on Shane’s waist. He doesn’t dare to sneak it underneath the hoodie, so it’s not skin to skin contact, but it’s something. Dazed by the relief, he shifts closer and finally, finally buries his nose in the crook of Shane’s neck, inhaling his scent.

It feels like being submerged in cool water after days of hellish fever. He lets out a choked sound at the sensation, while his brain slowly reboots.

Shane’s hand travels into Ilya’s curls on instinct, which squeezes another whine out of the alpha. 

“What is happening?” Shane asks, worried and confused, but he doesn’t wait for the response to wrap his other arm around the big alpha’s body. It feels like a crisis, so the explanation (and the fight) can wait.

Ilya melts into him and takes another deep breath, his nose pressed closely to the skin. He keeps his eyes shut and counts, feeling as his body recenters itself. The pain doesn’t go away, but it gets subdued and he is becoming mostly lucid again. Which means he is capable of realizing how pathetic this behaviour is. 

Fuck. Ilya just can’t get anything right these days, huh? Fucking hell, what a shit show. 

He counts down from ten and forces himself to straighten, then takes a step back. He immediately winces at the sensation of acid being poured back into his veins the moment he loses contact with Shane. 

Shane raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Ilya clears his throat, fighting to become respectable again.

“Sorry. Just… depri,” he admits reluctantly. “I should not come here. Was unwise.” 

Shane’s eyes widen at that.

“Do you mean deprivation? Like, an actual one?”

“...da.”

“I thought they were very painful…?”

Ilya looks away, clenching his teeth to prevent another wince. His muscles are slowly tensing up again. A sudden feeling of helplessness pushes tears into his eyes, but he manages to hold them back and not let them roll down his face. 

“Are you in pain right now?” Shane demands in disbelief. “And you decided to, what, make food in that state? Here?! What the hell?!”

Ilya flinches at the accusatory tone and then he just… gives up. He shifts his gaze to Shane again, this time not trying to keep the pain and yearning from his eyes.

“Was trying to take care of you somehow, puppy,” he explains slowly, his voice heavy from exhaustion and sadness. He reaches out to brush Shane’s cheek again, because what the fuck deos he have to lose at this point. “Who do you think I am deprived of?” he adds quietly, his voice almost small.

“How would I know? You’re always with somebody.”

Ilya makes a weird cough-like sound as another zap of pain goes through his body at the omega’s clear displeasure. He swallows it quickly and manages to shove the agony back down underneath his ribs. It’s been living there comfortably for a while now.

This, he actually deserves. It would be unfair to want pity now.

Still, he would like to give an explanation, even though he doesn’t know how.

“Am dumb at parties, yes. Is my fault. But nothing ever happens,” he confesses, while the throbbing pain in his temple distorts his vision slightly. “Is always just you, at the end.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing it? You know it hurts, right?”

Again, Ilya winces. 

Shane notices.

“Sorry,” he mutters with a sigh and looks away for a moment. “Probably not the right moment to snap at you.” 

He’s too sweet for his own good.

“No,” Ilya corrects gently. “I am sorry. You are perfect.” The suffering makes him more honest, clearly.

Shane narrows his eyes.

“Was that sarcasm..?”

“Was not. I am just… fucking everything up.”

“Kind of, yeah.” 

Shane has every right to be mad. It’s probably better that he is. Ilya is aware of that. Still, he winces again, while squeezing his jaw. His fever spikes and it won’t be long until his lucid mind succumbs to it once more. 

“I should go.”

Shane gives him a look.

“To collapse in my elevator?”

Ilya does not have an answer for that. He’s also a little bit distracted by Hollander being all confident and commanding. It’s very captivating. Such a good, strong, fierce omega. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Shane declares, “but I really need to get back on the ice. And you helped me with my drop before, so.” He sighs. “Would sleeping on my bed help, you think? You look exhausted. And it smells like me.”

Ilya should say no, because it feels like abusing the fact that Shane’s a decent person, but he just can’t bring himself to refuse. He wants to cry from relief, just thinking about laying down on that bed.

Deciding on how to respond clearly takes Ilya too long. Shane, still slightly irritated,  simply grabs him by the bicep and begins to guide him towards the staircase, which leads to the bedroom.

Ilya’s brain is not working properly and that is probably why something stirs inside of him at the realization that Hollander might as well be dragging him by the collar. He’d follow literally anywhere, on command. Gladly. As long as he’s not going to be left alone again. 

In the bedroom, Shane’s smell gets more intense and Ilya almost trips over his own foot, trying to get closer to the bed. He hesitates at the last moment and turns to Shane with a question written all over his face.

Shane nods with a small sigh, already thinking about the fact that his bed will be smelling like Ilya for days.

“Yeah, you can.”

Ilya takes off his trousers, socks and undershirt in a rush, wanting to let the smell sink directly into his skin. Then he climbs onto the mattress, not wasting another second. A rumble of relief escapes his chest as the smell envelopes him. He relaxes into it, closing his eyes. The pain takes a step back, subdued again. Feeling this good feels overwhelming after days of suffering. 

Something soft and heavy settles on top of him

“I use this blanket a lot,” Shane explains calmly. “It might help.”

He’s probably about to walk away, but Ilya is faster. He opens his eyes and, with no dignity left, curls his fingers around Shane’s wrist.

“Hollander,” he breathes. “I never go to party again. I never drink alcohol. Whatever you want. Whatever you need, pet,” he murmurs, openly desperate. “I can get on knees right now and beg if that makes you mine again. I mean it. Is what I want. I am going fucking insane, Shane. Say what you want and I do it.”

Shane goes dangerously still. His expression is impossible to read.

“Is this deprivation talking?”

“No. Is not. Is not,” Ilya assures forcefully. “Whatever you want,” he repeats, looking up at Shane like a starved, beaten dog. 

Shane takes a deep sigh and gently removes Ilya’s fingers from his own wrist.

“How you acted was shitty, but it’s not just that,” he says gently. “People judge me more than they judge you. I need to stay focused on hockey, that’s all I have. I can't risk my contract. I could lose everything. It's just… too much. It was stupid of me to let us do anything in the first place.”

It would be much easier if they never got a taste of being together for real. Shane has no idea how he let that happen. He pushed for it, even. It was complete insanity, but he’s sobered up now.

Ilya’s arm falls back onto the mattress. He wants to scream – not at Hollander, at the fucking legue and himself, and everybody who ever existed – but that would be just dumb. All he can do is respect Shane’s choice, no matter how cold and devastated it makes him feel.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I am sorry.”

He closes his eyes, bracing for the footsteps. Instead, there’s quite a long pause and some gentle rustling, and then the mattress dips. Shane pushes at Ilya gently, signaling for him to move further to the middle of the bed. He’s already taken off his hoodie and the joggers, and slides underneath the blanket in just the underwear and a t-shirt. He settles against Ilya’s naked, burning chest, turning himself into a little spoon.

Ilya’s arms move embarrassingly fast, wrapping around him needily before the menace has a chance to change his mind and run away.

“Just for tonight,” Shane whispers, pressing his own arm on top of the one that’s wrapped around his waist. There’s a familiar note of stubbornness in his voice. “Last time.”

Ilya pushes his nose into Shane’s neck with a quiet growl of relief. Sparks of pleasure begin to tingle in all the places which used to be burned from what felt like acid pulsing inside of him.

It’s perfect. Hollander was made to lie in Ilya’s arms like this. He’s here. So close. All for Ilya. The unbearable heat is slowly leaving Ilya’s body, seeping into Shane’s instead. Omegas get cold during a drop, alphas burn in deprivation. It’s not a coincidence. They are supposed to be together and regulate each other. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s lovely neck, exhausted but unable to stop himself. “I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Mne tebya ne hvataet. I miss you.”

Shane shivers against him, even though he’s warm.

“I miss you too.”

A pleased sound rumbles deep in Ilya’s chest, because his tired brain has already forgotten that in the context of everything, this is a sad declaration.

After a week of fighting insomnia fueled by the deprivation, Ilya falls asleep in seconds, purring quietly.

* * *

Rozanov lets out a growl, still half asleep, and tightens his grip on the squirming omega in his arms.

Shane only begins to move more, clearly trying to escape his embrace. That pulls Ilya almost completely out of the dream.

“No,” he pleads, his voice raspy with sleep. “Not yet, not yet, stay.” He nuzzles into Shane’s neck blindly with his eyes still closed and places a soft kiss there. “Stay.”

Shane goes boneless, predicting that anything else will only make Ilya’s grip tighten.

“I need to piss,” he whispers with a note of amusement. “Let me go, please.”

Ilya groans into his skin and keeps holding him tight for a moment longer, but eventually loosens his hold.

“Be back,” he demands, blinking slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. 

Once Shane stands up, he turns to look down on Ilya, who’s fighting the exhaustion to gaze up at him almost starry-eyed.

With an unexpected spark of satisfaction, Shane thinks: who’s the puppy now?

He considers his next move while he takes the leak. He shouldn’t go back to bed. Ilya has already slept for ten hours and judging by the state he arrived in, he can go for another ten. Shane doesn’t need it. It’s also a slippery slope, to lie like this with an alpha who shouldn’t be his. 

But the deprivation is a cruel thing and Shane finds it difficult to leave him just yet. Rozanov is not just an asshole. There’s another side to him as well and Shane became a witness of it almost falling apart. That was scary. Nobody deserves that.

He comes back to the bedroom and slides back into the bed, even though a part of him knows this is a bad idea. Strong arms wrap around him like vines immediately, pulling him close to the furnace that is Ilya’s naked chest. He smells divine like this – in Shane’s bed, desperate to make Shane happy. 

A pleased murmur vibrates through Ilya's body when he presses his nose back against Shane’s neck.

Then there’s a kiss on Shane’s shoulder. And another one, and another. The lazy, possessive touches of hot lips travel slowly up and down the exposed skin.

Oh.

Ilya’s half-asleep, with a brain still half-scrambled by the deprivation and he’s clearly not registering that they have stopped being… that. Shane should shake him awake and demand that he stops.

Instead, he melts into it with a soft hum, because everything is so warm and it feels so good, and Ilya is basically doing this in his sleep, so what does it matter? Tomorrow, they will get their shit together. They still need to have a talk, probably. Make a plan, establish new boundaries that allow them to remain platonic, fuck only for hockey, but also not drop or go into deprivation. 

Right. Should be doable. It has to be.

Just… not yet. For now Shane tilts his head and lets himself have it, basking in being Rozanov’s omega, so nicely held and loved. Maybe it will be dark outside for a little longer. Rozanov will drift partly out of sleep, while Shane will drift partly into it, and they could get lost in the heat together somewhere in the middle. If nobody pays too much attention, bodies could get pressed together in that lazy haze, and maybe Rozanov will – almost by accident – make Shane full again. They could rock and stretch together in it all for a moment, kissing for real, but allowing it to feel like a dream.

An arm tightens around Shane's waist. Hot tongue licks over his mating spot, before Ilya’s head settles and he goes still, falling back asleep easily now that the omega smells more like him. Shane lets out a soft whine and allows himself to feel it all one last time.

Starting from tomorrow, they will not be anything other than teammates. They can’t be. This is just… a goodbye. 

Chapter End Notes

Ahh, so sorry, the plot plotted so hard, we didn’t even get smut in this one. Pls don’t be mad!

xoxo

Edit: ok so just to be clear, I'll repeat the statement form before, because I've seen some confusion in the comments. I treat this fic as a collection of one-shots (except the last two chapters were technically one). That is why the story is marked as complete, but new addition might still appear (if you ask nicely 😏).

Thank you for reading ❤️

Chapter 8: last ones

Chapter Summary

Some holes, once opened, cannot be closed.

Chapter Notes

The locker room is loud when they are taking off their gear.

“Ask Hollander too,” Ilya orders as he pulls off his jersey. His voice is stern.

“What for?! He never comes out with us!”

“Is his choice. You still invite him,” Ilya demands. “Then he can say no.”

“Fucking hell,” the teammate mutters to himself. “Hollander! Our captain wants me to ask if you'd like to go get shitfaced with us after the win!”

“Our captain is an idiot,” Shane shoots back. “You guys know I'm not drinking this season.”

“Told ya!” The guy's grin is friendly. “How about you, Rozy? Ready to celebrate?!”

Ilya grabs his phone. 

“I don't know,” he says out loud to the team. “Maybe I rest today in hotel room.”

Rozanov: ?

Hollander: Maybe.

Rozanov: i will suck you off

“Come on, Rozy! You're less and less fun these days!”

“Am not. Fuck off!”

Hollander: On your knees.

Ilya looks to his left and leans out a bit to get two other changing teammates out of his line of sight. He makes a brief eye contact with Hollander, sending a wordless “watch it!” his way. Then his gaze snaps back to the phone.

Rozanov: fine

Ilya’s ego is suffering a bit, but he'd probably even crawl on the fucking floor, if that's what it takes to get a taste of Shane Hollander.

Hollander: your room, 10 pm

“I decided.” Ilya announces loudly. “You go out without me. Am very tired.”

On the other side of the room, Shane scoffs.

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are back to being platonic acquaintances. They fuck for hockey, because that’s what the league demands, but that’s it. There’s no kissing in the bathroom stalls or storage rooms, there’s no unnecessary touching, no visiting each other’s apartments, no talking in the locker room – nothing. Ilya goes out to party here and there and Shane has a ten-step morning and evening routine designed to make him the best player NHL has ever seen. It’s great. Everything is as it should be. Professional. Safe. In order. Under control. 

They just can’t seem to figure out how not to fuck during the away games. 

The away games make up half of all games played during the season. 

It might be an issue.

It’s just so fucking easy. Their hotel rooms are almost always on the same floor and if they don’t want to go out, there’s not much else to do on the road. 

Ilya would never dare to break Shane’s boundaries. It was Shane. Three weeks after their goodbye, he knocked on Ilya’s door, needy. A moment of weakness – he later said, frustrated. – This was the last time.

In the past two months, there’s been twenty “last times”. It’s about to be twenty one. 

Some holes doors, once opened, cannot be closed.

* * *

Hollander’s brilliant brain can come up with three new strategies to win in mere moments, mid-game, but it gets stuck when old socks are lying on the floor. Ilya took too long in the shower and now he has to pick his mess up quickly, because there’s already a knock on the door.

Clearly, he wasn’t quick enough, because Hollander pushes inside aggressively, scowling.

“You make me stand there, when–”

“Sh, sh, shhh,” Ilya interrupts him immediately by pressing him into the wall and connecting their lips in a greedy kiss. 

The way Shane’s body always molds itself against Ilya, yielding despite the little growls or scowls, never gets fucking old.

Ilya slides his hands underneath Shane's lovely, muscular thighs and hoists him up against the wall, pressing their groins together.

Shane makes a desperate, choked off sound of surprise.

“You can't just–”

“Let's get you on my cock, solnyshko, da?” Ilya murmurs, lips wandering on Shane's hot neck. “You complain less then.”

Ilya opened the door shirtless, so Shane's fingers dig deep into his naked skin.

“Asshole,” he grunts, then licks Rozanov’s neck like a starved puppy.

“Is true! You are very sweet on cock.”

Sharp nails drag down Ilya's shoulder blades. 

On weeks when Ilya is not partying, the teammates automatically assume every horny mark on his body is from claiming the team omega, which usually results in some dumb locker room talk. Selfishly, Ilya doesn't remind Shane about it now. He likes being marked by Hollander.

He carries Shane to the bed, which isn't a long walk in the hotel room, and puts him down there, then proceeds to crawl on top, grinning.

Shane looks extremely comfortable underneath him, but shakes his head anyway.

“Your mouth first,” he demands.

Ilya lets out an impatient groan.

“So spoiled.”

He takes Shane's shirt off, then his trousers, and then dedicates a moment of his precious time to fold them, though not as neatly as Hollander does. He puts them on the chair. He's not exactly exaggerating: Shane is getting spoiled, because Ilya doesn't have the strength to refuse that motherfucker anything. Not one thing. He might act all tough and scary, but if Hollander wants, Hollander gets.

Luckily, Ilya gets something in return. 

Hollander looks delicious, spread out on the bed in nothing but his black underwear, ready for the taking. Ilya's lips stretch into a wolfish grin as he comes closer.

“Move.” He gestures for Shane to scoot back even further, planning to lie between Shane’s legs on the mattress comfortably and suck him off that way.

Shane shakes his head again. “Hey. Not like this.” He sounds stern and shifts the other way, to the edge of the bed, until he’s sitting with his feet placed firmly on the ground. “You agreed.”

“God Hollander,” Ilya groans, as if his dick didn't twitch at Shane's tone. “So bossy.” 

“I’m waiting.”

Ilya’s been working hard to make up for all the girls he flirted with. It was his initiative to get on his knees for Shane the first time, even though that’s generally Shane’s job. Now Shane’s gotten a taste for it. Ilya probably called him a puppy one time too many and this is revenge.

Ilya makes a show of looking up at the ceiling, exasperated, but then he does drop to his knees at the edge of the bed, between Shane's legs. It's one of those ridiculously high hotel beds, made to give the illusion of luxury, so at least Hollander's crotch is at a pretty convenient height when Ilya sits on the balls of his feet.

It’s not the worst place to be – between the muscular legs of the NHL star omega hockey player.

Ilya places a lazy kiss on Hollander's knee, then lets his gaze wander. There's a wet patch on the front of Shane's underwear. The smell of Shane's precum, slick, and shower gel become an unresistable mixture. Ilya breathes it in greedily, shifting closer and in the moment something possesses him to rub his cheek against Shane's inner thigh. He looks up as he does so, his bright eyes dimmed with a hungry, dangerous kind of worship.

Shane seems hypnotized by the sight, with his lips slightly parted. For a moment, nothing but their electrifying eye contact exists. Then Shane's gaze softens and his fingers slide gently into Ilya’s curls. 

“I still can't believe you can get this nice,” he whispers almost to himself.

Ilya nuzzles more into the hot skin, getting his nose closer to the source of the smell that’s already made him fully hard.

“Yeah? You like?” He smirks, then turns his head to playfully bite the soft, tender skin on the inside of Shane’s thigh. “I am not nice.”

Shane’s breath hitches at the stimulation. His cock twitches and the wet spot on the underwear grows noticeably.

“Ah. You are,” he argues stubbornly and runs his fingers through Ilya’s curls again. “For me, you are.” 

That might be true. Ilya was never a selfish lover or a real asshole in bed, but he can't remember ever offering himself to somebody the way he's offering himself to Shane. Nice is probably not the right word for it. Obsessed. Addicted. Smitten. Whipped. That’s more like it.  

(In love. But that one’s too dangerous to use.)

“Suck my dick,” Shane demands. It’s clear he’s trying to sound all commanding, but his breath is shaky with the need to be touched. The smell of slick gets stronger.

Ilya smirks again and runs his hands up and down Hollander’s naked thighs.

“You will have to be more polite than this.”

Shane glares a bit. He’s very beautiful when he does it.

“Please, suck my dick.”

“You are lucky you are pretty,” Ilya murmurs and pulls down Shane’s underwear, trapping the edge of the material under Shane’s balls. His cock springs free, red and so wet from the precum alone. “And lucky you have such a big dick for an omega,” Ilya ads, grabbing it at the base. “Would be shame to waste it.”

He drags his thumb over the head, gathering the new drop sipping from the tip, then moves to massage the underside.

“Ah, fuck,” Shane gasps. His legs jerk uncontrollably. 

Ilya makes a reprimanding sound with his tongue.

“So impatient.”

“You talk a lot today.”

“You like my voice,” Ilya shoots back.

“Gonna suck my dick or not?”

“Yeah, yeah. I am. You know I am, you spoiled brat.”

Shane smiles down at him, suddenly looking extremely fond. It makes something inside of Ilya’s chest hurt, but almost in a good way. He drops his gaze, takes the nice dick into his mouth and gets to work to distract himself from saying something stupid.

Hollander gasps and moans almost immediately, because Ilya swallows him down without much foreplay. He’s good at sucking cock. Efficient. Even like this, he remains mostly in control. When Shane is on his knees for Ilya, Ilya uses his mouth however he likes. When the roles are reversed, Shane just sits there and takes whatever is offered. It works out great because Ilya knows how to give.

It doesn’t take long for Shane’s legs to start trembling under Ilya’s fingers. He licks the length obscenely from the balls all the way to the top, looking up with a challenge in his eyes, then takes it all into his mouth again, sucking hard and moving his tongue just the way he knows Shane likes.

“Fuck.” Shane’s a wreck above him. “Oh my god, yeah. That’s so good. Oh fuck, I’m gonna… Ilya, I’m going to-” 

Shane interrupts himself with a groan of pleasure and spills into Ilya’s mouth, while his head falls back. Ilya lets the seed hit his tongue and he keeps it there as he pulls off, pushes Shane back onto the mattress and crawls on top of him. Shane’s eyes are glazed with pleasure, his breath still uneven, lips parted to let out small gasps. It’s laughably easy to kiss him and let the mixture of sperm and saliva travel to his mouth.

Shane makes a noise of protest – Ilya, that’s so fucking gross! – but Ilya keeps kissing him to make it better, enjoying the flavour of them way too much. Deprived of the ability to speak, Shane is forced to relax into it. He swallows his own release and lets Rozanov get away with it, just like he would with anything else.

There’s a balance in their desperation for each other. They both push and they both yield in the end. It feels fair. 

“Good,” Ilya murmurs the praise into Shane’s ear, while his thumb rubs a soothing circle into Shane’s hip. “Now scoot up the bed, pet. I’m not done with you yet.”

Last month their flight got delayed because of bad weather and the team had to stay in the hotel for a whole another day. That’s when Ilya seemed to have developed a new philosophy for fucking outside of hockey: that when it comes to Shane, the first orgasm is just a warmup. 

Shane groans, already feeling the future strain in his muscles, because Ilya likes to push him to the edge and keep him there, spasming and trembling. But he listens, moving up the bed. His soaked underwear slides down his legs in the process. Ilya takes it off all the way and drops it on the floor, then his own joggers as well. His alpha dick is straining the material of the underwear, swollen and ready to be pleased, but Ilya leaves them on for now.

“Look at you. Fucking dripping for me, huh?” 

Fingers slide down Shane’s spent cock and rub against the wet breeding hole. One slides in – just a tip.

Shane’s whole body jerks at the contact, legs trying to close on instinct from the oversensitivity. Ilya pushes them apart easily, settling down on the mattress.

Shane lifts his head to look at him.

“Wait, what are you…? Oh my fuckign god. Rozanov!”

Ilya’s tongue slides into the dripping hole as easily as the finger did. He laps the slick with a hum, enjoying the sweet, familiar taste. 

“I like that you have different flavours,” he announces, then digs in for real. 

Male omegas always were his secret weakness. To get a dick, a wet hole and a tight ass, all at once? Come on. A bisexual’s dream. 

There’s no clitoris, but the inner rim of the opening is almost as sensitive as one, packed with nerves. Ilya swirls his tongue around, putting pressure and Shane’s body spasms violently, while he moans so loudly it’s almost a shout. His fingers grip the curls desperately, strong legs closing on Ilya’s head.

“Wait, wait, I can’t!” 

Ilya looks up, amused.

“You can’t come on my tongue?” he mocks. “We’ll see about that, pet.”

They don’t do this very often. Ilya is usually occupied with filling Shane up any way he can. That’s why Shane is helpless against it, not as used to this particular brand of pleasure as he is to other ones. 

Shane’s crying when he comes – a shaky mess dripping with slick. His cock got hard again and it spurts a sad amount of pearly liquid onto his stomach, while Ilya’s strong hands force his thigh to stay apart, keeping them in place. Shane’s whole body jerks and twitches, abs tensing up, arms flying up on instinct, wrists coming together into a position that’d make it easiest to restrain him, even though Ilya doesn’t.

The room is filled with Shane’s panting and choked sounds, because bliss got stuck in his throat and he can’t even make a full moan. It’s joined by the obscene sounds of Ilya lapping up the slick that pours out of Shane. There’s so much of it, it soaks the bed, even though the alpha is drinking cups worth of it.

After the first few waves of muscles tensing up and loosening, Shane’s body gives up and just goes absolutely limp, mind barely conscious.

“Enough,” he begs in a broken whisper, his eyes falling shut. “Enough, alpha, please.”

Ilya lets out a deep, rumbling sound of approval at that and he does finally stop, moving up to kiss the mouth that has just called him an alpha. Shane never does that. Well, almost never.

“Good puppy,” he praises between the lazy kisses. “Tastes so fucking sweet. Such a perfect body, just for me, huh? So good, Hollander. So fucking delicious.”

Shane’s mouth is still useless – lax and he tries to recover the ability to control his muscles – so Ilya licks into it as he pleases, unbothered with it being one-sided.

“Now roll over for me, pet. Come on. Easy, there you go.”

Ilya rolls him over, Shane’s body offering no resistance. He just makes a quiet groan as his spent dick gets trapped against the mattress. His thighs twitch slightly, but that’s about it.

It’s fucking delicious. All those muscles, the freckles, the golden, soft skin littered with small bruises from the game – everything laid out bare and pliant for Ilya to worship. He kisses, licks and bites on his way down, until he gets to Hollander’s meaty ass. 

Shane groans as his cheeks get pulled apart and a hot tongue slides against the tight ring of muscles. 

“What the fuck. You’ve got a checklist or something?" he complains into the pillow. He has just barely regained the ability to think and it’s about to be stolen again.

Ilya chuckles while his fingers gather the slick and bring it up to coat Shane’s asshole.

“And people say you’re not funny.”

A tip starts rubbing the rim. Shane clenches down.

“No, seriously, Ilya. I can't do another one.”

Ilya just smiles and slaps Shane’s ass playfully.

“Yeah, you can,” he decides and goes back to using his tongue. It pushes against Shane’s asshole, wet with saliva and slick, persistent and demanding. Shane’s asshole twitches and that creates the tiniest give. That’s enough for Ilya to work the tip of his tongue in and once that’s done, Shane’s defenceless. His ass opens up to the familiar intrusion, loosening and allowing the tongue to slide deeper.

“Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated, but it mixes with the pleasure too.

Pleasure is a constant when it comes to his relationship with Ilya and maybe that’s why it’s so fucking difficult to let it go. Shane’s brain got infected. Trained to want it. He can’t imagine not having this, ever. It’s a problem. He’ll deal with it after this. For sure. 

Ilya hums and the vibrations which it creates on Shane’s rim go straight to his cock. He gasps, way too fucking sensitive for any of it.

It’s not a surprise that after Ilya licks Shane’s ass open, making the circle of muscles loose and yielding, a tip of the hard cock is pressed against it. By then, Shane is in a weird state of having his very justified frustration and annoyance interrupted by the impossibly strong waves of pleasure and submission, over and over again. 

“I have a– fuck–  perfectly good opening that can take your dick effortlessly, but– Oh god,  come on!–  you just have to shove it up my ass instead! Fuck, Ilya. Fuck!”

“Is that complaint?”

“It's an observation. Wait. Wait, wait, oh my god–” Shane’s grumbling complaint gets interrupted by whining when Ilya slowly sinks all the way into his ass.

“See? Feels good. Tight ass, but so greedy for cock. There you go.” Ilya watches as his dick stretches the twitching hole, because the view never gets old. “Is what you needed.”

Ilya does have a thing for this, yeah. He likes that he has to work for it – convince Shane’s body that it can take it, can fit the thick length where it was not designed to go. It’s a different kind of thrill than sinking into a wet, open hole that’s always welcoming. 

He’s been rock hard for very long, so it’s time for Ilya to get a little selfish. He drags Shane’s hips up, making sure the angle lets him sink as deep as possible and begins to thrust without any more teasing. The body underneath him tenses up with a whine, then goes pliant after a moment of struggle, opening up nicely. Ilya rewards it by changing the angle.

The drag of his dick against the prostate makes Shane sob loudly. His muscles burn from two previous orgasms and there’s no brain space left for him to process another round of pleasure, but Ilya is making him take it anyway. He dragged out the feeling of bliss from Shane every way possible tonight and he’s not even done yet. 

“Taking it so well, pet, fuck. Look at that. Made for me. That’s it. All of it, there you go.”

Ilya picks up the pace.

It’s a big, big cock, filling Shane up all the way, making his stomach bulge slightly. Shane’s brain latches onto that and his mind floats, thoughts scattering away until there’s only this one, scorching hot, sharp awareness of just how much he’s being stretched out on alpha’s big dick. He doesn’t register that he’s moaning into the pillow with every thrust. 

He also doesn’t register he’s about to come for the third time, until the orgasm hits him. It’s almost painful this time. Almost.

Everything gets foggy after and it’s a miracle he notices when Ilya’s dick starts growing inside of him. That drags Shane back into reality.

“Don’t come inside me,” he mumbles, his breath shaky, because it gets pushed out of his lungs with every hard snap of Ilya’s hips. “You– ah already–y did before the– ah! ga–ame. I don’t have the e–energy to clean up again– ah, Ilya.”

Ilya’s deep, fast thrusts slow down suddenly.

“You say this now?!” He hisses.

“Yes. Not in me. Please.” Shane is gripping the sheets for dear life, body twitching from being pushed past the edge over and over again.

Ilya stills completely above him.

“Blyad!” He growls in Russian suddenly, fingers digging into Shane’s hips. “Blyad, blyad! Fuck, Hollander, fuck! Don’t fucking move, baby! Can’t fucking squeeze me now. Fuck. FUCK!” The effort he puts into resisting the primal needs and wants of his own body is audible in his deep, loud growl. With gritted teeth, he slides out and immediately grips his cock tightly in the place where the knot has just deflated. “Okay, fuck, okay,” he hisses to himself. “My god, Hollander, you kill me.”

Shane’s hole gapes, then clenches on nothing desperately, while he lets out another choked whine. Then he somehow manages to find the strength to lift up his head and twist it to look at Ilya.

“Did you just… Stopped the knot?” he mumbles, stunned.

“Yes!” Ilya hisses. His pupils are blown wide and his dick is throbbing in his hand, leaking angrily. “You told me to! Fuck, Hollander. Warn me sooner what you want next time. Fuck!”

Shane can’t look away. 

“That’s so hot…” he sounds dazed.

Ilya is barely listening, focused on his own cock. He can feel the knot forming underneath his fingers again. He was so, so close. God, he still is.

“Give me your mouth,” he snaps.

Shane, still transfixed, doesn’t move, but his lips do part on instinct. 

“Now, Hollander! Right fucking now! On your fucking knees for me!”

Shane yelps like a startled puppy, then scrambles to turn around. Pure lust floods his face and he almost crashes into Ilya’s pelvis with how fast and hungry he swallows him down.

A growl of relief leaves Ilya’s mouth and he relaxes in an instant, muscles going from tense from the restraint to tense from a building orgasm.

“That’s it. All mine.”

Shane’s used body barely has the strength to stay up on all fours, but the eagerness to please the alpha overrides that. Ilya doesn’t let him prove himself, though. He gets a tight grip on Shane’s dark hair and fucks into his mouth roughly, taking absolute control. 

It doesn’t take long, not after what happened. A few more snaps of the hips and he’s coming down Hollander’s throat. He forces Shane’s face as close to his groin as possible, making sure the lips are pressed against a swollen knot which they cannot possibly fit around.

Shane whines, with his mouth full of cock, nose pressed against the pulsing knot and eyes watering. Ilya watches from above and the dark, primal possessiveness slowly melts away, shifting into a soft admiration. The rough grip on Shane’s hair loosens, then becomes a soothing scratch on his scalp.

“Good,” he praises quietly. “Keep it all in.”

Shane moves to pull off when the sperm stops flowing, but Ilya keeps him in place, though the pressure is more coaxing than rough.

“No. You stay on it,” he orders softly and uses the other hand to brush his knuckles against the freckles. “Is always something with you, huh? I want this mouth quiet for a moment.”

Ilya’s dick slowly softens in Shane’s wet, hot mouth while they maintain eye contact and there’s nothing else in the entire world but this. Once the knot goes down, Ilya slides the rest of the base in for no reason – just because he can. Shane glares a bit, but doesn’t choke. Well trained.

Ilya smiles at him, brushes his cheek again and finally pulls out.

Shane gasps, then blinks rapidly, as if coming out of the trance.

“You called me baby,” he says. He sounds wrecked.

Ilya falls onto the mattress with an exhausted groan. 

“I did not.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Shane doesn’t know why he’s even bringing it up. His brain isn’t working very well right now. He wants to lie down too, but the sheets are a gross mess, soaked with sweat and his slick. He stares at it with a frown.

Ilya groans again, this time because he knows he’ll have to move again. There’s no fucking rest with that boy, fucking hell. They have a routine in hotels – fuck in one bed, make it filthy, then move to the other room to sleep in the clean one. 

“Give me kiss,” he tries, hoping to distract Shane for a moment. He’s tired.

Shane’s body moves on instinct to settle on top of Ilya and Ilya can feel that his lovely legs are still twitching slightly from all the orgasms. Hollander is clearly too tired to kiss, so he just licks Ilya’s neck and then rests the head on his shoulder with parted lips, allowing the alpha to do whatever he wants with his mouth.

Ilya accepts the offer happily, always pleased to taste himself on Shane’s tongue, but it’s lazy and doesn’t last long. Their bodies are sinking into the mattress, refusing to work. It might take a moment before they’ll be able to walk to the other room.

An arm wraps tightly around Shane, pulling him closer. Ilya nuzzles into the warm neck, breathing in a scent of a satiated omega. 

“This was the last time,” Shane mumbles into his skin.

“Yeah,” Ilya agrees easily. “Last one.”

Chapter End Notes

Per usual: this fic is a collection of smuty one-shots with a loose, loose plot tying them together. That's why it's marked as finished, but there's always a chance you'll get another one.

love ya & hoped you had fun!

Chapter 9: a fucking mess

Chapter Summary

Fasten your fucking seatbelts. That’s it. That’s the summary.

Chapter Notes

The whole team flies out to the charity gala. The Ottawa Centaurs have recently become officially involved with another foundation. This time, the money goes to support children who can’t afford getting into the sport. Equity, not equality.

Shane is buzzing with excitement, which makes Ilya struggle to resist smiling fondly all the time. 

The thing is, this charity focuses its efforts on betas and omegas. Nobody is talking about getting these kids into the NHL, of course, but just a few years ago it would be unthinkable for the league team to officially support something like this. It’s a small step, but feels huge.

It’s not just Shane who flies out, though the team often likes to parade him alone for PR events aimed at omegas. It’s not just Shane and Ilya either, even though they are often put in front of the cameras together – a wet dream for many brands. No, it’s the entire team. A show of solidarity is forced by the management, obviously, but the players actually don’t complain much. It might have something to do with the fact that when one tried to mock the initiative, the team captain almost choked him out against the locker. Rozanov is rarely a scary, violent alpha, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be.

Scott Hunter is involved with the charity as well and he comes to the gala with his omega, Kip, who later drags them all to an amazing afterparty. It reminds Shane of something Rose would take him to – a space that feels fun and safe: full of friendly, smart people. Except there are players there, too. Ilya. Some of their teammates. Scott fucking Hunter.

It’s intoxicating to feel hope, comfort and support without leaving the hockey world completely on the other side of the door. Usually, Shane has to choose. 

Excitement morphs into euphoria and that creates the kind of carefree atmosphere which one may call reckless. Or, in other words: Shane lets himself drink and he gets absolutely shitfaced. Rozanov too. It’s a blur of laughter and dancing, and hidden touches, and more laughter, and sneaking out to the bathroom for a messy kiss (you look so hot in a tux, fuck), and shots, more shots, more dancing, more drinks, the taste of nicotine, the taste of freedom and – just for once – so much fucking fun. 

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

* * *

The sheets next to Ilya are still warm and he could swear he had a lovely omega in his arms a second ago, but now as he’s slowly regaining consciousness, that doesn’t seem to be true anymore.

“Ilya!” 

The call comes from somewhere further, muffled. Ilya’s mouth is too dry and the room is too bright to keep his eyes open. Fuck, he can already tell it’s going to be one of those hangovers that follows him around for an entire day. His memories are foggy. There’s a black hole where most of the night should be. Knowing his luck, he can already read about most of it in the tabloids.

“Rozanov!”

Yup, that sounds like Shane. So he did sleep in Ilya’s hotel room tonight. That’s nice. Or maybe Ilya is in Shane’s. Who the fuck knows, they all look the same.

“ROZANOV!”

The fog lifts enough for Ilya to finally recognise that Hollander sounds distressed. He scrambles off the bed, wincing at the headache that crashes into him immediately, but that’s not enough to slow him down.

“What is…” The words die on Ilya’s lips the moment he walks into the bathroom. 

He freezes completely, eyes trained on Shane.

Hollander is just in his underwear and he’s staring wide-eyed at the mirror. There’s a collection of dark bruises all over his neck, shoulder and chest – lovebites from a particularly hungry alpha. There is also a very clear, very fresh bitemark in the spot where the neck and the shoulder meet: directly over Shane’s scent gland.

A mating bite. 

“No.” The word quietly slips out of Ilya’s mouth on an exhale, while cold dread and scorching hot, selfish joy flood his stomach at the same time.

Not like this – he begs in his head, because he doesn’t even fucking remember it. But also – mine, mine, mine, finally, finally mine.

He walks up to Shane, his legs barely cooperating and lifts his gaze to the mirror as well.

There are no lovebites on Ilya. He’s covered in the actual bites, all angry red, though not many broke the skin. Baby-bites of a feisty, needy, growling puppy. There’s only one that stands out. The one over the mating spot is so fucking deep, there’s dried blood all over Ilya’s shoulder. 

“I don’t…” Shane sounds broken. “I don’t fucking remember anything! Ilya, what the fuck! What did we do?! We are– We are–”

“Mated,” Ilya says quietly, his voice raspy and deep not with sleep, but something else. “I also remember nothing.”

Shane turns to face him. The panic is shining clearly in the dark, wide eyes.

“I will lose my contract,” he chokes out. “I broke the– Oh my god, I will lose everything. This is a nightmare. This is my actual nightmare! What can we do?!” He’s shaking as the worlds keep spilling out uncontrollably.

“Is okay.”

Ilya finally dares to reach out and touch him. He puts both of his hands on Shane’s biceps, trying to steady the omega. He manages to keep his voice soothing and mostly calm, even though he’s wrestling with an overwhelming sense of guilt. 

“Shane, solnyshko? Is okay,” Ilya repeats, remaining confident for them both. “We figure it out.”

How could he let this happen? Like this. Like this?! To not even remember it… It should be special. Shane should be celebrated and praised, and it should be good, perfect, right, and not… Not this. 

A nightmare – Shane said. Ilya flinched, but luckily, it went unnoticed.

“How?! How are we going to… Fuck! What the fuck!” 

Shane pushes forward, pressing his body into Ilya’s. He buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck and lets out a choked sob, overwhelmed. Ilya wraps his hands around the omega immediately, holding him close. 

What a mess. 

What a fucking mess. 

FUCK.

“You know my contract,” Shane whispers into the alpha’s skin, then pushes himself away as fast as he’s gone into the embrace. His brain is working in overdrive, body restless. He starts walking back and forth in the bathroom. “I can’t be bonded. Fucking hell, Ilya, they will throw me out of the league!”

Ilya watches, his face completely blank. He’s trying to focus on the problem, he is, but half of his brain just keeps screaming: mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!

“Maybe is okay?” he risks slowly. “Maybe it just stays the same…”

Shane glares. He’s not angry at Ilya, not really, but Ilya is, unfortunately, the closest target right now.

“You know that’s not true!”

Yeah. Ilya knows. They both do. 

The issue is, being mated doesn’t erase the omega’s scent (the distracting, confusing element that destabilises the game – according to the NHL), so the claiming is still necessary. And it has to be done by a member of the team, because on the ice, they are a pack. There’s no space for the smell of a stranger.

These little details mean that two bonded players are the last thing any coach would want.

“If you ever get injured and have to retire early, I’d have to retire too! No way somebody else could take the role of claiming me before the game, when I’m bonded!” Shane keeps talking, because saying things out loud makes them easier to process. “And that’s if, a very weak if, the NHL even lets us onto the ice together. You know how they are about the primal instinct bulshit! They’ll say it’s unsafe now: somebody checks me against the boards and you might go crazy on them without meaning to–”

“I am not like that,” Ilya points out, slightly annoyed.

“I know!” Shane snaps, then winces at the pain in his head which it causes. “But that’s how the league thinks! And even if we convinced them to let us play, the Centaurs would have to give us some fucking… three-way contract, and make a rule that we can get traded only together! That’s a circus, Ilya! No team wants that! They’d rather drop one of us and have peace. And I wonder which one, huh? Fuck! You know that I’m right! Not to mention this already breaks the very clear rules of my current contract! Oh my god! This is a disaster! A fucking disaster, Rozanov! This is the end of everything! How did this even happen!?”

Well, yeah. Not a bad question.

They should have seen it coming and be more careful. There were… signs, recently. Hollander started developing a habit of licking Ilya’s neck excessively after sex, instead of searching for a kiss. And Rozanov… Well, he’s been down bad from day one, to be honest. Sleeping in the same bed after every other game didn’t exactly help with that.

Still, it’s not like they planned to get black-out drunk. And it feels surreal that they let it happen, even in that state. It’s a monumental, life-altering decision. And they let alcohol, of all things, make it for them.

Ilya watches Shane suffer while his heart quietly breaks in half.

“Come here,” he pleads, opening his arms. “Just stop for a moment, pet, and breathe.”

Shane whines at the soothing tone of Rozanov’s voice and the pull of the bond that urges him to seek comfort in his mate. He listens and crashes back into Ilya’s strong embrace again. The nauseous feeling in his stomach eases a bit.

They fit so horribly, terribly perfect together.

Ilya wants to kiss Shane’s mating spot, now permanently marked with his own teeth. He wants to kiss Hollander too. Take him back to bed, make love to him, maybe even fill him up with pups, lock him away somewhere far away from all this bullshit and just love, love, love him forever in peace. That’s all he needs, really. He’d be happy to sacrifice everything for that.

But Hollander is different. He’s built to succeed and he needs hockey to breathe. And Ilya might be the one who just accidentally took that away from Shane.

Never in a million years would Ilya guess that finally getting Shane Hollander could feel wrong. But it does. Right now, it does.

Shane relaxes in his arms slightly. His breath becomes more even and the shaking stops. Ilya pushes his nose into the black hair and breathes in.

“Is okay,” he murmurs once more and desperately wants to believe it. “We make plan. Just relax first. Drink water, eat something. Then we think.”

They are still terribly hungover and in need of a shower. After the first wave of emotions passes, that part is slowly making itself known again. 

Shane groans quietly. 

“Okay, okay.” he verbally agrees, but his brain doesn't slow down. He turns in Ilya's arms to look at the mark in the mirror again. He frowns at it, but there's also a spark of need in his eyes. “The bond can be professionally broken only after it fully heals, which should take… about 2 weeks? So maybe we just need to figure out a way to hide it until then.”

Ilya's body goes numb and his hand falls from Shane's hip on its own. He stares at the omega in the mirror dumbly.

“What…?”

It's probably the easiest solution. Ilya’s selfish brain just didn’t register that breaking the bond would even be an option. He feels like crying, suddenly.

Shane notices the change in Ilya’s expression in the mirror, but he reads it wrong. 

“My parents have a friend who had it done,” he says softly, reassuring. “She said it didn't hurt much.”

Oh, it’s already hurting. Ilya smiles oddly, feeling his sanity slipping. He has a splitting headache and his mouth is dry, but he’s not sure if that's because of the hangover. Maybe it’s the heartbreak.

Meanwhile, Shane’s gaze in the mirror shifts to Ilya’s mating spot. Only now, when the initial panic has partly settled, he notices the blood and how deep the bite is.

“Fuck,” he breathes and turns to face Rozanov again. “I’m sorry. That looks painful." It’s also… It's hard to describe the emotion that’s growing inside of Shane, but he can’t look away.

Ilya is standing weirdly stiff, his shoulders all tense.

“Is okay.” He seems to be stuck on those two words. Like maybe he’s trying to convince himself they are true.

Shane shakes his head stubbornly, eyes still locked on the mark. Marks, really, because there are bitemarks on the skin all around it too. He kind of wishes he could remember it. The evidence suggests it was… intense. Desperate. He’s heard mating with somebody you’re compatible with feels ten times better than an orgasm. He suspects this happened during an actual orgasm. It’s the worst thing that could have ever happened, but fuck, in the moment, it must have felt so good.

Seconds pass. Ilya is still standing completely still and Shane is still staring at his own work.

“I… with all those other bites, I think maybe I’ve started it,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling guilty. Ilya left lovebites on him. He didn’t use teeth anywhere else but on the scent gland. 

“You don't know that.” Rozanov’s voice sounds strained. Distant.  

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Shane whines, his voice breaking slightly again and he finally lifts his gaze to catch eye contact.

“Is okay,” Ilya repeats numbly again. 

Shane wants to kiss him. He wants to get him on the bed and settle on top of that broad, warm chest, and nuzzle as close as possible to make them both feel safe. Instead of that, he looks away and shifts his focus back to the mating bite. 

His vision spins slightly as he does so. God, he needs to drink some water. He’s already thrown up the alcohol. That’s what woke him up – the stomach rebelling. He stumbled to the bathroom, threw up, flushed the toilet, rinsed his mouth obsessively and washed his teeth half-conscious, then finally focused on his reflection in the mirror and the reality came at him like a fucking freighttrain. 

They were so incredibly stupid last night. Like fucking teenagers. 

Shane swallows, ignoring the dry throat. He’s still staring at Ilya’s marked scent gland.

“This might take longer than two weeks to fully heal,” he mutters, annoyed with himself. Ilya is stronger and for sure drank more last night, but he managed to be gentle. “Sorry. Let me clean it for you, at least.”

He turns to wet the hand towel. 

“Water will be bad for it, I think,” Ilya reminds him quietly.

Oh. Right. Fresh mating bites shouldn’t be disturbed with anything foreign for the first few hours. There’s no telling how long ago it happened. Shane has no memory of leaving the party, but they definitely stayed out until late. 

He also has no idea what hour it is now.

Fuck, did anybody saw them? Were they all over each other at the party? Or in the hotel lobby? The elevator?! They should check their phones.

Shane doesn’t want to. He focuses back on the mating bite, anchoring himself with it, before he spirals once more. 

“Let me just…” he leans in, still determined to clean the skin. 

He drags his tongue over the wound gently. Then again and again, while his hand lands on Ilya’s naked chest to steady himself. It should feel gross – the dried blood, the broken skin – but it doesn’t. He loses himself in the task, dedicated but also hypnotised by the smell of them both combined which now clings to Ilya’s skin. 

This is his man now. His. It’s Shane’s job to make sure he’s all clean and comfortable, and happy. 

Ilya shuts his eyes and balls his fingers into fists, fighting against his biggest weakness. If he lets himself enjoy any of this now, he’ll never be able to let it go and Shane has already put an expiration date on this bond. Ilya has to respect that, because he’s not the one whose career is on the line. He could have both – this mate and hockey. Shane can’t. So Ilya has to respect his decision, even if it might fucking kill him. 

A choked off growl escapes his mouth when Shane’s finally done with licking over the most sensitive, most precious, new part of Ilya’s body. He tries to look anywhere but at the freckled face, but Shane makes a quiet, needy sound and pokes him gently with his nose.

Ilya looks at him then, defenceless – always so fucking defenceless – and he’s met with the sweetest, lost expression.

“You smell like me,” Shane breathes. He sounds dizzy.

“Da.” 

Ilya noticed it too. Their scents are already mixing. Until the bond is broken, he’ll smell a little bit like Shane, and Shane will smell a little bit like him all the time, even without the claiming.

He might throw up.

“I need water. And food,” he declares suddenly, taking a step back. “Maybe puke, also.”

Shane snaps out of it and nods.

“Room service. We’re in yours, so you have to order. I borrowed your toothbrush, sorry.”

Ilya nods, reaching out to lean on the wall. Standing is suddenly difficult.

“Also need to piss,” he decides.

They’ve done many things together, but for some reason Shane’s cheeks turn slightly red at that.

“Go for it. I will…” he looks in the direction of the bed and grimaces, “...check my phone. And social media. To see if we did anything else stupid last night.”

Ilya rubs his face nervously. Yeah, that’s another thing he hasn’t thought about just yet.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. 

Their mating marks sting, fresh and unwanted. 

Well, not unwanted, no. Just not allowed. But to a certain degree, it’s the same thing.

* * *

There’s nothing on the internet. Nothing from their friends either. Thank fuck. 

One day later Shane does get one cryptic message from Scott Hunter, though. It might be nothing or it might indicate that he knows something, depending how you interpret it. Either way, it seems he’s not trying to get all up in their business, so it's fine. Shane writes back something basic and polite, and lets it go. He has worse things to worry about.

“Hey, Rozy! You’re hitting the showers or what?”

“You go. I have to watch Hollander do backhand. Is very weak. Needs extra training.”

“Whatever, man! You guys are hockey freaks even among hockey freaks, fuck me!”

It’s a very shitty excuse, but for this short amount of time, it does the trick. They can shower alone, once everybody else is gone. And changing before the game was never the problem, because they still come before anybody else, to fuck. In every other situation, a t-shirt with a tighter neckline is enough to cover the bonding mark. 

There was a three-day break following the charity gala. Now they play two home games in a row. No traveling, no hotel rooms. They can stay separated for most of the time. That’s good. That’s fine.

Push the need aside. Lock the hunger away. Deflect, deflect, deflect. 

It would be easier to do if the marks did not sting and if they weren’t haunted by the faint smell of each other every night as they fall asleep in beds alone, but – oh well. 

The plan is simple. Hide the mating mark from everybody. Fuck for hockey, play, win. Break the bond. Stay platonic teammates, for real this time. They might still be able to survive this absolute shitshow, but they sure as hell will not have that kind of luck twice. 

Simple. 

Right.

* * *

“I don’t want it like this,” Shane says suddenly in a weird, kind of broken voice. He stops moving on Rozanov’s cock, but doesn’t get off either. He just sinks all the way down and stays in Ilya’s lap, slightly breathless and sweaty, with an unfocused gaze.

A warm, strong arm wraps even tighter round him.

“You chose it, Hollander,” Ilya reminds him.

“I don’t mean the position,” Shane snaps. His anger is shaky. There’s something desperate just underneath.

Ilya becomes worried in nanoseconds, tensing up and dragging himself out of the cloudy pleasure and into the acute awareness. They are playing the away game in about an hour. It’s not their rink, not their locker room. Not the best place for a crisis.

“What is it?”

“I can’t–” Shane interrupts himself with a sad whine, but it turns into a helpless frustration almost immediately. “I don’t want just a quick fuck! I can’t do it anymore!” He grips Ilya’s shoulders harder, clenching down on his dick subconsciously and pushes his face into the crook of Ilya’s sweaty neck. 

They’ve been bonded for eight days. They fucked twice, for hockey. They spent zero nights together. They barely talk. All those were Shane’s ideas – clear boundaries designed to save his career, which is his entire life. He came up with it. And now he’s the one falling apart.

“Get up, maybe, yes?” Ilya suggests. It feels wrong to watch Shane go through something serious and still be buried inside of him.  “We don’t have to do this today. We tell coach you feel bad…”

“No! Fuck you. No, I want… Ilya!” He gasps – almost chokes on air. “I want you all the time! I can’t… You can’t just give me one sad fuck and… and… I’m going fucking crazy!” Shane whines, drowned in the feeling of being absolutely helpless and out of control. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair! I need you. I want more! Please, just… more. It doesn’t even feel like I’m yours! It’s not fair…” he repeats and this time it’s a quiet sob.

Mine, mine, mine, mine.

With shaking hands, Ilya coaxes Shane’s face out of his neck to be able to see him and just as he feared, there are tears rolling down the freckled cheeks.

“No.” It falls from Ilyas mouth first, on it’s own, because he can never fucking agree with living in the universe that makes Hollander sad. “Shh. Is okay, baby. Is okay. Let us stop for moment, da? Talk.”

He tries to kiss the tears away, but they keep coming.

“No,” Shane says stubbornly, blinking at Ilya with a determined frown. “Want me. Want me more! Fuck me like you used to, asshole. You’re so distant now!”

Ilya growls at that. He can’t help himself. He’s been fighting for his life, trying not to push Hollander against the wall and deepen the bonding bite every fucking time they see each other. And he almost died, fucking him the last two times and trying to make it quick and clinical, just like Hollander demanded. And now that frustrating, really fucking frustrating omega dares to say Ilya should want him MORE?

“Don’t do this to me, Hollander.”

“I’m not, I’m not. Just, please, give me something,” Shane begs, then tries to connect their mouths in a desperate kiss, but Ilya grabs his chin and keeps his face in a safe distance.

“You’re sitting on my cock right now.”

“Fuck you! You know what I mean. You know what I need.”

“Hollander!”

“What?!”

“You push me, I will break,” Rozanov warns in a low growl. “And when I break, I will make you mine forever. For good. No changing your mind. No stupid breaking the bond. Fuck! Is NOT what you really want,” he reminds Shane sharply, but there’s sadness hiding in his voice too. “So do. Not. Push me.”

Shane forces his chin out of the hold and crashes their lips together while rolling his hips in a way that makes Ilya groan as animalistic pleasure overrides the complex emotions for a moment.

“Sorry,” Shane gasps into his mouth. “Sorry. I just need you. Sorry. It fucks with my brain,” he explains, much more lucid now, and not crying anymore, but still very much desperate. “Don’t be mad. I’m sorry.”

Shane moves to lick the mating spot, frantically trying to soothe them both. Ilya growls at that again, but the tension is melting away from his shoulders anyway. 

“What do I do with you, Hollander?” he asks out loud, in turmoil. “What the fuck do you want?”

It’s not Shane’s fault. It’s unfair to put this on him. He just wants what Ilya already has – freedom to play hockey on normal terms. But Ilya is just a man and he’s going crazy. Shane’s going crazy too, apparently. It feels like they are sitting in a burning house but nobody is getting up.

Speaking of – Hollander rolls his hips again. He’s ridden Ilya enough times to know how to choose the perfect angle, so they both gasp at the movement.

“Just fill me up,” Shane decides. Sad and breathless, and needy, and stubborn, and so fucking tired of it all. “Want to feel you.”

They’re playing a game in less than one hour, so Ilya can’t exactly argue.

It’s a dirty fuck. Ilya picks Hollander up and fucks him against the locker roughly, and Shane melts into it greedily, chasing the feeling of being owned. There’s something almost cruel about it, coming from both sides. They push and pull, and punish each other by punishing themselves. 

* * *

“I’m a mess,” Hollander grumbles once he comes out of the bathroom after cleaning himself up. He’s much more composed now, but visibly annoyed with himself.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees with a sigh. “Very dramatic.”

“Asshole,” Shane shoots back, but walks up to him. His gaze is both fond and apologetic. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

Yeah. Ilya has a life-long experience in not getting the things he wants. He doesn’t say it out loud. He just nods, trying to make the exchange funny. It’s a good way to cope, usually.

Shane sees right through it. He steps closer and gently cups the side of Ilya’s face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Now what do you need?”

“Win the game for me,” Ilya suggests, still trying to put some healthy, emotional distance between them.

“Rozanov,” Shane scolds quietly. His eyes are very dark and very big. “How can I make it better?”

Ilya swallows. Shane can’t, is the thing. Nobody can. But the weakness is already slithering in, putting the words into his mouth before he has time to bite his own tongue.

“When we are back in Ottawa, let me sleep in your bed again. Last time?” he sounds unsure. Almost scared.

The last time. They’ve been here before. They should be smarter than this, fucking hell.

Shane nods without hesitation.

“Of course.” 

He kisses the corner of Ilya’s lips. Sweet, sweet motherfucker. 

* * *

They lose the game. It feels fitting. 

* * *

A day later Ilya is lying on Shane’s couch while Shane is leaning on the kitchen counter, searching for a recipe that could accommodate both his dietary restrictions and Ilya’s demands to eat “real food”. 

They came here together straight from the airport. In the separate cars, of course.

“What if I quit hockey?” Ilya asks suddenly. He’s staring at the ceiling, but sounds serious.

Shane's head snaps up.

“Sorry, what?”

“I quit, we stay bonded,” Ilya continues in a pensive tone. “I become second assistant coach or something. Still part of the team, technically, da? In the pack. So maybe then is okay that I claim you still, not anybody else. And you play, of course. Contract bans relationships with NHL players only.”

Shane blinks.

“Sorry, what?” he repeats dumbly.

Chapter End Notes

I apologise for nothing. The suffering is canon.

Chapter 10: revised

Chapter Summary

Shane likes routines and rules, and things that are easily predictable. Desire is not. Neither is love.

Chapter Notes

“What?!” Shane repeats, clearly stuck.

Ilya gives him a look.

“My English is not that bad, Hollander.”

“Well, yes, I understand what you said, I just… don’t understand.”

“Is simple,” Ilya repeats with a tired sight. He can already tell he’ll have to handle a cute but growling wolf in the nearest future. “You can’t play when we are bonded players. I do not want the bond gone. So I do not play.”

Shane keeps blinking at him. His eyes are wide, shock taking over the entire face. Ilya waits patiently for his pretty little brain to reboot, unbothered. 

Eventually, Shane swallows. Then he takes a deep breath.

“Ilya. You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Ilya answers easily. He has already made up his mind and it’s… surprisingly easy. He was expecting to be at least a little bit scared or conflicted, but he’s not. He knows what he wants. He’s looking at it.

Shane abandons the vegetables he was cutting on the kitchen island and rounds it to get to the couch, where Ilya is sprawled.

“That is insane,” he informs stubbornly, still not past the shock.

Ilya looks up. Now, here’s the part that is still a little bit difficult for him: letting the emotions show on his face, instead of hiding them; gazing up at Hollander with clear hope; offering everything in not just gestures, but words as well, making himself vulnerable. He’s getting better at it, he is. But it’s still a bit scary sometimes.

“I do not want to break bond,” he repeats slowly. “This is solution.”

“It’s not!” Shane argues immediately, getting agitated. “You wouldn’t be able to play! You– That is– You wouldn’t be able to play,” he repeats lamely, unable to find the other words.

With a quiet sigh, Ilya pushes himself off the couch to stand in front of Hollander. They are of similar height, but something about the way Shane looks at him always makes Ilya feel bigger and taller. It’s nice. 

He reaches out to curl his fingers around Shane’s jaw in a way that’s very familiar for them both by now.

“Is okay.” He says quietly, worried Shane might overthink himself all the way into a panic attack. “I don’t care about hockey.”

“You do,” Shane whines, frustrated, but doesn’t push his hand away.

Ilya kisses him sweetly, because what else is he supposed to do with a mouth like this.

“I care about this more,” he murmurs, letting his lips travel to Shane’s neck, and lower, to the bitemark he left behind little over a week ago. 

Mine.

All should be good now. He solved it. He beat the system and all that. But a few seconds pass and Ilya begins to feel there’s tension slowly building in Shane’s shoulders. He pulls away with a frown and is met with a pair of dark, worried eyes. That’s not good.

“What is it?” Ilya’s tone is suddenly carefully blank. 

“Ilya,” Shane sounds almost… apologetic. “I would love to. I would. But it's just…. It’s not realistic to do this now,” he says quietly. His gaze slides somewhere onto Ilya’s collarbone, then shifts to the wall. “I don't think we have ever spent a full day together. We have never been out in public for anything not hockey-related. We don’t know how it really is to live together, share the space, the routines…” Shane's voice breaks a little. He swallows and forces himself to look Ilya in the eyes. “We've never been in a real relationship,” he points out quietly.

Ilya’s insides twist, then turn ice cold, becoming a dead, hard sculpture that’s bound to cause pain every time he moves.

“Is not what you want,” he says, not asks. His voice sounds hollow.

Hundreds of hours of painful yearning flash in Shane’s dark eyes.

“That's not what I mean!” he argues. “What I'm trying to say is that ruining your career feels like too big of a sacrifice for something we haven't even really fully figured out.”

Ilya just looks at him, extremely unimpressed.

“I feel the way you feel, I do,” Shane assures gently, “but there's also… rational thinking. I can't let you trade your whole life to go into this blindly," he says out stubbornly.

“Is my choice,” Ilya points out, maybe a little bit too coldly. 

“But it affects me too. I can't…” Shane is struggling with words again. Once more, he breaks eye contact. His shoulders drop under the weight of guilt. “I… don't know if I'd be able to just… carry this huge fact that you had sacrificed so much for me. It's a lot. I'd… always feel like I'm in debt to you. And I’d worry you might grow resentment,” he admits quietly, 

“No,” there's something desperate in the way Ilya says it. “Never.”

“You don't know that,” Shane disagrees gently. “Thats my point: we can't predict anything. Imagine that months from now we win the cup and you just watch from the side, and the regret just… hits. And it's because of me. Or maybe I suddenly have enough of hockey–

“Right,” Ilya mocks.

“Shut up!” Shane's lips twitch into a smile, despite everything. “Maybe I will! But I'd feel this… obligation to keep doing it, because otherwise I'd be wasting what you gave me. Or maybe with time, you get sad, or bored, and I have to keep thinking if you would be happier, if you stayed on the ice. It's just… too big, Ilya. This would loom over our heads forever. It could fuck up everything between us, I think.”

Ilya's expression grows colder.

“That is a lot of words. If you don't want me, just say that, Hollander.”

Annoyance appears on Shane's face this time.

“That's not it! I need you to hear me what I say–”

“But you don't hear me when I say I chose this!” 

“It’s not the same!”

The silence that follows is tense. They stare at each other, both hearts beating heavily. When Ilya finally speaks, his voice is quiet and full of anger.

“Fuck you, Hollander. You are scared? Be scared. You want space and to not be tied to me? Okay. Fucking say that, then. But don't twist it like this is impossible or wrong. Is a solution. I offer. You are saying no. Fucking own that.”

“Ilya…” Shane breaths, feeling helpless.

“No. Go on. I want to hear you say it to my face.”

“You're being cruel,” Shane accuses while his body language shifts into something more defensive.

Ilya scoffs.

“Me? I am cruel one right now?”

Come to think of it, maybe it's all Ilya's fault. He might be the one who accidentally made Hollander think the whole fucking world revolves around him and his choice is the only right fucking one. 

Shane swallows.

“Ilya,” he begins softly again. “I don't want to break the bond. I don't. But if the only way to keep it is for you to change your entire life, then I'm sorry, but I think we should have it removed. For now...” 

Ilya turns his head to the side stiffly, his whole body tense. His lips are pressed tightly together, partly because he's fucking angry, but mostly because this is the only way to prevent the bottom one from quivering pathetically. He can feel his eyes watering.

Oh, he's become so horribly weak.

Shane inhales loudly, as if punched by the view, and reaches out to cup Ilya's cheek. 

Ilya jerks his head, rejecting the touch.

“You get what you want, Hollander,” he yields in what was supposed to be a blank tone, but the hostility manages to drip into it. 

He doesn't look at Shane. He's not sure he'll ever be able to look at him. For a brief second, a new, foreign emotion crashes into Ilya.

You ruined it. 

I hate you.

It's gone almost immediately, but the bitter taste on his tongue remains. Maybe Hollander wasn't wrong about the resentment. He just got it the other way round.

Ilya begins to turn the whole body away and the atmosphere makes it clear he's about to leave.

“Don't go,” Shane pleads, grabbing Ilya's shoulder desperately. “You can be mad, but please don't leave now.”

“I am tired after game.”

“I know. I know, fuck, Ilya, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! You can go lay down, we don't have to talk. Just please don't leave like this.”

Shane sounds broken and panicked, but it's his own fault, so why the fuck should Ilya care? But he does. Even now, even like this, he's not strong enough to say no to Shane Hollander. It doesn't help that the bond tugs at him, urging him to comfort his distressed mate. 

He has nothing else to say. He's tired. He's suddenly so fucking tired. Still not looking at Shane, Ilya turns and walks away, in the direction of Shane's bedroom.

* * *

Shane is freaking out inside and the only coping mechanism he has for that is to hold onto the routine desperately tight. So he forces himself to finish cooking dinner, eats it alone in silence, then takes a shower and does skincare. Normally, he’d read for a while, but his thoughts are too scattered, brain buzzing nervously, so he has to skip that one.

He considers sleeping on the couch. It’d probably be a decent thing to do. But he just can’t. 

Still, he tries to be good. He enters the bedroom quietly and his gaze zeroes on Ilya immediately. The alpha is laying on his side, shirtless, with his back facing the door. It’s a broad back: big, hard muscles and a long stretch of pale skin dotted with moles. It looks like a wall designed to keep Shane away. It’s impossible to say if Ilya is actually asleep or just pretends to be.

The room feels cold.

Shane climbs onto the bed carefully and lies down stiffly, staring at the ceiling. He wants to be good. He tries so, so hard, but every fiber of his body screams at him to get closer and soothe the upset alpha. It’s making him dazed, like he’s drunk with need. 

He fights the urge for five more minutes. That’s all he can manage. Then, not knowing anymore if he’s doing this for Ilya or, selfishly, for himself, he shifts closer.

He molds himself to Ilya’s body and places a kiss on the naked shoulderblade. Once that dam is broken, the need spills all over and there’s no stopping in. Shane places another kiss, then another, each one slightly bolder. His arm sneaks around Ilya’s waist and Shane clings to him as he nuzzles more and more into his shoulder, gently prodding. 

Eventually, with a small whine, Shane hooks his chin over Ilya’s shoulder, pressing impossibly closer, leaving gentle kisses, licks and small nibs with his teeth, and trying to somehow get more, more, more. 

He knows it’s wrong and pathetic, and probably annoying, but he just doesn’t know how not to do it.

Ilya stirs, letting out an annoyed growl and finally, finally he rolls slightly into Shane. It’s enough for Shane to wiggle his way over his shoulder while at the same time pushing it more down. As a result, Ilya ends up mostly on his back. 

Shane makes a quiet whine again and all but climbs half on top of the alpha’s big, warm body, settling on the right side of his chest. His lips find the neck immediately. He nuzzles into it, inhaling the smell, then whines again, because it feels off. Sour. Lonely.

The bonding mark is right there, in the spot where the neck meets the shoulder. Shane licks it gently and his body melts into Ilya’s even more. Then he does it again and again, desperately trying to soothe and fix everything. 

The solid, warm mass underneath Shane mutes the overthinking part of his brain. He doesn’t slip into any feverish trance. He still knows that what he’s doing is probably bad, but he can’t figure out how to be good in this fucked up situation. And he wants to be good. So he just gently licks the precious mark, trying to make it smell like love. Over and over, his tongue drags against the hot skin.

Maybe it’s okay when he does it at night, in the dark room, where silence is disturbed only by his quiet, needy whines. Maybe like this, they can pretend everything is fine and easy, and it will end well.

Or maybe not.

Ilya stirs again and growls, this time louder. It sounds lucid and, yeah, his fingers suddenly curl around Shane’s shoulder.

“Enough,” he rasps.

“‘m sorry,” Shane mumbles between the desperate licks. “‘m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry.”

Ilya’s hand moves to the nape of Shane’s neck. He grabs him roughly and drags Shane’s head away, then actually pushes Shane off of himself. Then he sits up angrily and glares.

“You don’t get to do that,” he hisses. “You can’t fucking do this to me, Hollander. Can’t have it both ways! You don’t want it? Then it is not yours!” Ilya snarls.

Shane flinches, then curls into himself with wide eyes, more ashamed than scared that he made his own alpha mad. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers again in a broken voice.

He is. He is. He hates this too, but he’s trying to steer them away from a disaster – a tight knot of sacrifices, regrets, dependency and helplessness. At the same time, he understands why Ilya is hurt by this. It breaks Shane’s heart and he doesn’t know how to fix it! He can’t find the solution. He’s so fucking sorry, and he’s drowning, and it hurts, and there’s no fucking way out. 

“Good,” Ilya snaps, overcome with hurt and anger. “Be fucking sorry!”

He gets up with that, grabs his hoodie from the floor and storms out of the room. He doesn’t shut the front door behind himself violently. It’s a regular sound – the lock gently clicking shut. And yet, Shane can hear it all the way in the bedroom and it rings in his ears, like a loud bang.

* * *

“You’re late.”

“You’re fucking lucky I came at all,” Ilya snaps back.

So he’s still furious. Got it.

Shane tries to contain his own annoyance.

“Rozanov. You are allowed to be mad at me, but it can’t mess with our jobs. We have a game to play. You came so late, the rest of the team will be here soon!”

Ilya’s response to that is to grab Shane roughly by the throat. He starts walking him back like this towards the bathroom and Shane lets him, because his head is spinning for a moment, everything jumping into overdrive.

Ilya shoves him into the empty bathroom stall and closes the doors behind them both with a loud smack. The lock clicks. Shane gets pushed down onto the – luckily closed – toilet seat. His head snaps up wordlessly, because he’s still too shocked to make a sound.

Towering over him is Ilya Rozanov in all his angry glory. His eyes seem black. He undoes his own jeans impatiently and takes out his cock. It’s barely half-hard, but even like this, the size is impressive. 

“You want to get fucked, so you make it hard,” Ilya barks the order, pushing his hips closer to Shane’s mouth.

The aggressiveness is concerning. So is the fact that a part of Shane’s brain likes it. He’ll always want Ilya, whatever way he can get him. Angry or gentle, or sad, or sweet, or playful, or pensive, or when he's an asshole. Anything. Shane will take anything.

His mouth falls open almost on its own, urged by the thick smell of his mate. He wants to lick it first, ease into it, but Ilya shoves a cock between his lips roughly, almost hitting the back of Shane’s throat in the first thrust.

“There,” he growls, watching Shane with an intensity that seems almost obsessive. 

Shane chokes, eyes going wide. He sputters around Ilya’s cock, but doesn’t gag, at least. He can feel the length begin to fatten up on his tongue almost immediately. He sucks obediently, relaxes the throat and swallows Ilya down all the way. He had a lot of practice. It’s a muscle memory by now.

He’s afraid to look up, but at the same time, he can’t stop himself from doing it. With mouth full of cock, he shifts his gaze to Ilya again. He cheats a little by humming quietly around the length, sending the vibrations all the way down to Rozanov’s light pubic hair. 

Ilya is a dark desire, and Shane is a wordless submission, and it’s probably not healthy, but in this exact moment of time, it works.

Way too soon, Shane’s mouth is empty again.

“Off,” Ilya orders, gesturing at Shane’s joggers.

Shane has to get up to follow the instruction. In the cramped space, his face ends up inches away from Rozanov’s. His breath hitches, then he stops breathing all together while his lips fall to Ilya’s mouth.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ilya warns and leans away, letting his back hit the closed door. 

Shane whines at that before he manages to stop himself.

Ilya shakes his head.

“That doesn’t work on me anymore,” he lies.

A shiver runs through Shane’s body – a weird mixture of hot desire and painful need. He grimaces at the unhygienic conditions, but still pushes down his joggers and boxer briefs, letting them fall at his ankles. 

“All the way off.”

Shane makes a grunt of annoyence, then toes his shoes off so that the clothes can go past his feet. The floor feels cold even through the socks. He stares at the mess: everything laying rumpled on the floor. Either he or Rozanov will step on it, if they move even slightly.

“Good,” Ilya says on instinct, then swears at himself in his own head. He didn’t plan on giving Shane that.

As if to offset the mistake, he grabs Shane by the nape and turns them both around in the small space. 

The clothes get ruined.

Shane is dragged into Ilya's lap and there's no real pause before a big arm wraps around his middle, lifting him partly up. He can feel the head of a thick cock prodding at his vaginal hole right after. Then the hard length slides all the way in, punching the air from his lungs. The material of Ilya's jeans feels rough against his ass.

He briefly wonders if Ilya would shove a cock into him roughly even if he didn't have a hole that's wet and moderately easy to stretch: designed to welcome the intrusion and mold around it. Then the fucking becomes too dirty to wonder about anything at all.

“Let's fucking win this one, boys! Who's with me?!”

Shane falls all the way down onto the cock, his thighs hitting Ilya's. He freezes, clenching down and biting his lip not to make a sound. His fingers dig into Ilya's shoulders in panic, eyes widening.

The first of their teammates just walked into the locker room, which is only one, thin wall away from the bathroom.

“What are we going to– Uh!” 

Shane's panicked whisper gets cut off when his shoulder blades hit the bathroom stall door. Ilya has gotten up from the seat and lifted Shane as well by sliding his arms underneath the muscular thighs. He gave no warning or time to adjust – he just let Shane's upper body fall back, until the hard surface of the door stopped it.

Now Shane's torso is stretched in a diagonal between Ilya's crotch and the higher part of the doors. And Ilya, unbothered, doesn't stop fucking him. 

His biceps flex beautifully under the weight of Shane. With every thrust he buries his hard cock all the way inside and the force of the movement slides Shane's shoulders and his head a tiny bit further up the cold doors. Then he slides down, because, you know – gravity. And then he gets jostled up again.

“Yo, guys, have you seen my fucking glove? I have only one! The fuck?!”

“Shut up, man. Your gear, your problem.”

Shane almost bites his own tongue, desperately trying to be quiet, which is extremely difficult when a thick dick of an idiot alpha drags against his prostate over and over again. His own cock is bobbing up and down, smearing precum onto Shane's black t-shirt.

Ilya's gaze is still dark, but now also focused. He changes the angle slightly and–

“Oh fuck!” Shane moans, then slaps a hand over his own mouth and tries to glare at Ilya, but his eyes roll back before he manages. 

He's shaking with pleasure, every nerve sparkling while his body gets tighter and tighter, with a promise of release.

“Hey-o!” Another one walks into the locker room. “Wait, what is that sound?”

“What sound?”

“The… dunno. You guys don't hear it?”

The hinges and the lock are groaning rhythmically with every thrust. The bathroom stall doors weren't designed to withstand the strength of an alpha. Definitely not one as impressive as Rozanov.

Shane's eyes widen at the comments floating in through the wall and he bites down on his own hand, horrified and turned on, and so, so close. Ilya seems entirely immune to having an audience. The corners of his lips even twitch slightly upwards at the face Shane is making. The amusement doesn't reach his eyes, though. They remain two black pits.

“Whatever. I need to piss.”

Oh god no.

Ilya yanks Shane's body forward, more into himself to get a good grip and drops down onto the seat again. I'm one, sudden movement Shane sinks down onto a full knot. He yelps, surprised, then bites down onto his hand again with a broken whine, desperate to make himself quiet.

The bathroom door opens. The footsteps are close. The chatter in the locker room gets louder. All that while Shane gets filled with thick, hot sperm. 

His hole is stretched tight around Ilya’s pulsing knot and Shane’s own dick keeps twitching, all red and leaking. Ilya's hand wraps around it when another person walks into the bathroom.

Shane's entire body jerks and it's a miracle he doesn't scream. The breath gets punched out of him again, his eyes widen even more. He feels helpless, backed into a corner, stripped out of all control. The last thing that pops into his head before the mind gets all foggy with pleasure is: oh. This is payback.

It's a horrible orgasm. It hits like a truck, but instead of riding it out, Shane has to fight against every second of it. It’s probably only long before his body finally stops spasming, but it feels like eternity.

The bathroom is empty again when Ilya pushes him off. There's no kiss, no caress, nothing. Even after an orgasm, there's tension in Ilya's body: the anger runs deep, rooted right in the heart. 

He leaves a panting, dripping Shane in the stall and walks into the changing room, unbothered.

“Woah, Rozy. You've been here this whole time?”

“God, I love taking a good shit right before the game,” another teammate jumps in. “Best feeling ever.”

Shane can hear Ilya's response clearly through the wall, because Ilya speaks unnecessarily loud.

“Was mediocre. I had better.” 

(It’s very common for wounded animals to act aggressive.)

Shane's still dripping with alpha’s cum. Maybe Ilya fucked some of the frustration and anger into him along with it, because he fills a sudden urge to bite.

* * *

All the players pile into the locker room after the game, buzzing with adrenaline after a good win. The excitement, however, doesn’t last long. Ilya clears his throat and his loud, confident voice cuts through the buzz, shifting the atmosphere immediately.

“I am leaving team. You all should know.”

Shane’s gaze snaps to him while a myriad of emotions runs through his mind. He clings to panic for a moment, then settles on fury, but doesn’t move from his spot.

“Yeah, right,” a teammate chuckles. “We won, Rozy. What is this dramatic speech for, eh?”

Ilya shakes his head.

“I am serious. Fucking Hollander is nice. I want to do it more often. Court him, date him, maybe bond. We will see.” He shrugs. “So I leave the team now.”

Shane feels like he’s hallucinating. What the actual fuck is going on?! Ilya just stands there, all casual and confident, completely relaxed while he announces half-truths to everybody. 

“Okay, Rozy, we don’t give a shit about who you’re banging. What the fuck does it have to do with you leaving?!”

Ilya, once again, shrugs theatrically.

“Hollander’s contract says he can’t date players. Is very sad, but not my fault. So now I quit, to focus on trying to get nice omega for myself. It works, maybe, or maybe not and I try someone else. I don’t care much. Is bad for you, though, because Centaurs could win the cup this year. But not without me. You know this. But, oh, well. Life.”

Shane is going to kill this man.

“But you guys are already fucking,” someone points out, confused.

“For hockey, yes. That is allowed. But not for fun. Hollander can’t do that with people from NHL.”

The team’s attention is focused entirely on Rozanov now. They grimace and frown, and huff, annoyed.

“That is stupid,” one says. 

“Very,” Ilya confirms lightly. He almost sounds pleased.

The more careless and casual he is about it all, the more frustrated the players get.

“Wait, Rozy. This is a joke, right? You’re not, like, actually telling us that you’re quitting in the middle of our best season ever…?”

“I buy myself out of contract next week. Is decided.”

“Whoa, woah, woah, dude. Slow the fuck down! You guys fuck however much you want. Get fucking married, for all I care. Just don’t go messing around with OUR team! We have a real shot at the cup this year. A REAL one. What the fuck, Rozanov?! You’re going to fucking rob us all of that on a whim? Just because your dick wants more of that?” he gestures at Shane.

Ilya’s eyes narrow briefly at the way the guy is talking about his omega, but he doesn’t let it ruin the entire act. 

“You want me so bad as captain, go talk to team manager or director. Is not my fault they put stupid shit in Hollander’s contract. I can play and date him, no problem. Is them who don’t like it.”

“This is some bullshit, for real, Rozanov. Why is your personal life our fucking problem?”

Ilya shrugs again.

“Is not. You should ignore it. Just be okay with losing the cup.”

“We’ll still have Hollander! He might be enough to win,” another person chimes in.

Ilya scoffs.

“Is not. This team has chance only with us both. But keep dreaming.” He winks arrogantly at others, then turns around to begin putting the gear away.

The topic continues in smaller groups. Complaints, swears and scoffs fill the room, some addressed at Rozanov, but, surprisingly, almost half at the management. At first not everybody believes that Rozanov is truly serious and means what he said, but something about his body language quickly changes that. He’s comfortable in his arrogance. Calm, almost amused by it all. He looks like somebody who has already made all the decisions. The more they watch him, the more scared they become.

For the entire time, Shane holds himself painfully stiffly and looks at his own stuff, avoiding eye contact with anybody. His gaze is intense. He grits his teeth and tries to fucking survive the insanity which Ilya sprung on him.

Ilya and Shane still have to hide their bondmarks, so they move slowly and find additional tasks to fidget with to stay behind. Nobody questions them, especially not now that Ilya has publicly declared he’s into Hollander and would like to date him. 

It’s all very backwards and very, very fucking crazy. Shane can feel his skin tingling from the anger burning underneath. He lets the silence hang between them for a moment once they are alone, silently counting to sixty in his head. Just in case somebody from the team comes back for something.

Once it seems like they are left alone for good, Hollander turns around and glares openly.

“What was that?!” he hisses. He’s all in Ilya’s face in just a few steps. “How dare you do something like that without talking to me first?!”

The muscles in Ilya’s jaw shift as he tries to contain his own fury at the fucking disrespect the omega is showing. He’s recently gotten fed up with that disobedience.

“I can do whatever I want with my life, Hollander,” he growls back. “I talked about me and I made choices for myself. You don’t get to dictate that. Is my life.”

Shane opens his mouth in outrage and for a second nothing comes out, because he just can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“It was about me, though!” He argues finally. He’s almost shaking with anger. “How fucking dare you! Who do you think you are?!”

It is, to put it simply, a wrong question to ask. Something dark and possessive spills all over Ilya’s face and when his hand moves, it’s so fast, Shane barely sees it. It lands further underneath his jaw than normal. Fingers splay in a firm, punishing grip just above where the neck starts. Shane’s head is forced up and when he swallows thickly, his throat moves against Rozanov’s hand.

“I am your alpha and the captain of your team,” Ilya answers in a voice that’s so low and angry at first, it’s barely recognisable. Then he leans closer. “You smell like me, you wear my mark on your skin and you will crawl to me begging on the day a real heat takes you. And yet, you fucking continue to speak and act like I am some fucking random friend.”

His whisper is seeping into Shane’s body. It's vibrating in Shane's bones. It’s filling his insides up with something heavy and syrupy. It’s making his head spin, while his sense of smell sharpens, but the only scent around is just Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, who continues to speak.

“There are alpha's out there who would never bother to ask what the fuck you want. They would take you, mate you, drag you out of hockey, lock in the house and breed. I am not that, Hollander, and I will never be. And you just fucking have to take advantage of it, huh?”

Shane wants to protest. His lips part with a desperate exhale, while the rest of his body seems almost impossible to move, as if waiting for an order or permission. Before he gets a word out, however, Ilya grips his jaw harder, forcing it to stay closed.

“No. Quiet,” he orders sharply. “Take a moment to think about how hard I try to make it good for you, da? All the time. Maybe learn to say thank you.” He pauses and takes Shane in. Some sort of weakness flickers in his eyes for a moment. “Fuck, pet,” this time it comes out more like a frustrated sigh than a hiss. “You just don't fucking know when to stop.”

Ilya’s hand is gone then. He takes a step back, but keeps his gaze focused on Shane. 

Shane leans slightly forward, chasing the alpha on instinct, but he catches himself at the last moment and pulls back. He blinks a few times, overwhelmed, trying to get free of a thick fog that clouds his mind. It evaporates eventually, allowing him to snap back to reality. Defensive mechanisms click in place; restraint and pride, and stubbornness chase away all the wants and needs.

“This…” his voice sounds wrecked. He has to clear his throat. “This is not okay, Rozanov.”

Ilya laughs in his face. It’s an ugly, arrogant sound.

“Oh yeah? Go fuck yourself, Hollander.” He grabs his duffel bag and leaves.

* * *

Shane’s manager calls on Friday, at the end of the day. Apparently the team’s GM reached out about making alterations to Hollander’s contract. 

“They said something about an email from Rozanov? And many other teammates were calling, displeased or angry. Some internal frustrations,” the manager says, dismissive. “I don’t know the details. They’ll have the draft ready first thing after the weekend. Minor changes, I hear, though they did have the NHL board take a look at it. It’s been approved, so no drama there. It’s supposed to be something about your dating limitations…? I’ll take a look and send it to you on Monday or Tuesday. Just a formality, I’m sure.”

Shane needs to sit down.

This should be a triumph. Well, it is. But he just… can’t shake off a certain bitterness. 

He fought for months, before getting signed to the NHL. He argued and negotiated, and tried to gain ground by proposing dozen small changes to the contract, because it sounded like a fucking joke. And it got him nowhere. Nobody listened. Nobody cared. Not that he knows of, at least.

And it’s suddenly so easy – so inconsequential – to make the change now, when it’s others who are being inconvenienced or threatened by it. All it took was a few successful, respected alphas who got annoyed they might lose the playoffs. And it would never even happen, if another alpha did not leverage his position for Shane. 

It’s nothing new, that bitterness. That is how inequality works. Shane wasn’t born yesterday. He could die begging for something that people above him can offer easily and with no detriment to themselves, but just chose not to. And then, one day, they’ll simply choose to do it, with no effort at all, the way some people choose to switch from drinking red wine to white. Because the potential mess is easier to clean up.

This is a win and Shane will take it. He’ll even celebrate it. He has an infuriatingly brilliant person in mind to do that with and this, at least, makes him feel all warm and excited. But he needs a moment first, to let himself rage at the way the world works. 

Rose said it’s healthy sometimes: to let yourself feel it all.

* * *

“No.” Ilya says immediately after he opens the door and sees Hollander on the other side.

He tries to close the door, but Shane is faster. He slides his foot to block it and then starts pushing to make the small opening wider. 

They are both strong athletes. For a moment they are actually fighting, both straining their muscles in a ridiculous, almost boyish duel. 

Shane wins, because Ilya lets him.

He grins wildly and ducks inside, buzzing with optimism.

“Hi,” he breathes, turning to look at the alpha who's twisting the lock.

Ilya drags his unimpressed gaze up and down Shane's body.

“No.” He repeats in a flat tone.

Shane doesn't get discouraged. He sends him a small smile, blinks a little too slow and suggestive for it to be accidental and begins to move closer.

“You're a fucking asshole, but a very smart one,” Shane declared with sparks in his eyes.

He tries to collide his body into Ilya’s, wanting to feel him everywhere and nuzzle into Ilya's neck, but a strong hand placed firmly on his chest stops him.

“And you are spoiled and annoying,” Ilya announces grumpily. “I did not invite you.”

Shane just grabs his biceps, trying to get any kind of contact. He tries to push closer once more, now also tugging at Ilya. His muscles strain again at the strong resistance, but he's grinning all the way through it. He leans in, nose chasing Ilya's neck. He's feeling shameless. Carefree with his attachment in a way he rarely ever does.

“Come on,” he breathes, a little desperate. “Let me. Whatever you want,” he promises, gazing up at Ilya sweetly.

Ilya is stronger. His palm remains planted firmly on Shane's chest and he keeps the whiny omega at an arms length. 

“I want nothing,” he says darkly. “Am busy.”

He untangles himself, rounds Shane and walks back further into the apartment.

Shane turns after him, but says in his spot. He watches. Analyses. Contemplates. Ilya doesn’t seem angry, not really. Exasperated and grumpy, yes, but something about it is…performative, almost. And he let Shane in. Kind of. Well, Shane forced his way in, but then Ilya turned the lock willingly with Shane on the other inside. As far as Shane is concerned, things are looking quite good for him right now.

Ilya sits on the couch and turns his attention to a movie that has already been playing. From his current position, Shane can only see the back of Ilya’s curly head and his shoulders. That’s still a nice view. Or maybe Shane is simply starved.

He moves, stops behind the couch, right above Ilya, and leans down to kiss the crown of his head. Then he slides the fingers into the soft curls with a pleased hum and leans even lower, until his lips find the sharp jawline. He presses a lazy, slow kiss there, his entire body tingling with happiness.

Ilya can smell that happiness, but he forces himself to ignore it and remains impossibly, painfully still and tense. Because Shane needs to be punished. Ilya can't spend the rest of his life giving in to that frustrating, obsessive creature.

The problem is that Shane knows all his favorite spots. Ilya barely manages to swallow the groan of pleasure as hot lips close around his earlobe. Then Shane’s hand sneaks underneath his t-shirt, fingers grazing the nipple.

“Get your hands off me, omega,” Ilya orders through gritted teeth. 

“But we succeeded,” Shane says, all innocent and sweet, while his fingers drag up and down Ilya’s chest. He places another few kisses to the alpha’s neck. “I signed the revised contract today. You made us get what we both wanted and I am yours now,” he murmurs in a tone that should not be legal. 

Ilya is struggling and Shane can probably feel some of it – Ilya’s abs tense up almost painfully underneath his fingertips. It’s unfair, because Shane almost never talks to him like this. Ilya has no tested strategy. 

“You can have me however you want, whenever you want,” Shane promises in a whisper between the kisses. “I'll buy a t-shirt with a collar loose enough to reveal the bonding mark and let you parade me around. And I can live with you, or you can live with me, and you will fall asleep in my arms.” His mouth moves back to Ilya’s ear. “And I will swallow you down my throat every morning if you tell me to. And I will like it every single time. I will be sad on the mornings when you don’t let me.”

Ilya’s brain is quietly melting. He didn’t know Shane was even capable of a dirty talk like this. What the fuck.

“Stop it,” he growls. He remains impossibly still, but fuck, it’s almost painful.

“But I want you,” Shane announces and kisses Ilya’s cheek sweetly this time, as if he didn’t just say the filthiest thing. “And you want me. And we’re still talking, but we could be fucking right now.”

“Hollander.”

Shane’s second hand slides underneath Ilya’s t-shirt and now he’s basically hanging on Ilya’s shoulders, applying pressure in more ways than one.

“I'll be so good for you,” he whispers, moving his attention back to Ilya’s neck, while his thumbs graze against the nipples again. “So good. Just for you.”

“Hollander,” Ilya snaps, clinging to anger, because this is the only line of defense he has left.

It probably would be more effective if he, at any point, made any actual effort to actually get Shane off his body. But he’s addicted to the kind of pleasure that’s pumping through his veins right now. He just doesn't want to admit it just yet.

Surprisingly, Hollander listens this time. With a quiet, displeased growl he straightens his back and takes a step away, then rounds the couch to stop in front of Ilya this time. 

Ilya knows it’s coming before he sees it: Shane drops to his knees easily and his expression remains soft and open, with a dash of amusement. He shifts closer and props his chin on Ilya’s knee.

There’s an outline of Ilya’s big and unmistakably hard cock on the material of his sweatpants. It’s right at Shane’s eyesight, so he’s staring at it, all innocent again. He licks his lips like a puppy, then looks up at Ilya.

“That can't be comfortable,” he points out.

Ilya glares.

“Is not your business.”

“I want it to be my business,” Shane declares, shifting even closer without breaking eye contact. His hand lands on Ilya’s thigh and starts moving up slowly. “I want to make you feel good.”

“You wanted to break bond four days ago, also” Ilya accuses. 

“I didn't want to. I thought we should, but I was wrong, and you made it all perfect for me,” Shane points out, nuzzling further between Ilya’s legs. For once, the fact that Rozanov always sprawls like an asshole, with his legs open wide, is useful. “And now I want to suck your cock as a reward,” Shane adds, pressing a kiss to the material on the inside of Ilya’s thigh. “But you won't let me.”

“No.”

“Ilya.”

He's the most beautiful thing, settled comfortably between Ilya's legs, all but begging to get a cock into his mouth. Ilya's fingers twitch with need to thread through the black hair. His dick is twitching too and his skin is burning in every spot touched by this cunning, persistent little wolf. 

But Ilya can hold out just a tiny bit longer. 

“You need more experience in not getting things, Hollander. You are–”

“Spoiled, yes,” Shane finishes for him with a fond smile. “You mentioned.” He puts both hands on Ilya’s legs and runs them up and down, almost impatient. “You know what I also am?”

There's a very dangerous glint in his eyes.

“What?” Ilya asks, remembering to sound displeased and look entirely unimpressed.

Shane pushes himself up so that he's kneeling properly instead of sitting on the balls of his feet. 

“I’m also very wet for you right now,” he whispers and this time he sounds breathless. 

Ilya's whole body jerks on its own, control slipping. He bares his teeth at Shane, as if threatening to bite.

Shane is not scared at all. He ducks his head and rucks up Ilya's t-shirt to nuzzle into the naked skin.

“I want you so much it's ridiculous,” he murmurs and licks a long stripe across Ilya's hard muscles. 

Shane likes routines and rules, and things that are easily predictable. Desire is not. Neither is love. He is, therefore, still shocked sometimes at how right they both feel, spilling all over his mind.

Ilya exhales loudly above, watching with blown pupils. When Shane makes eye contact, in between worshiping Ilya's abs, Ilya's dick twitches violently and he can feel as the precum drips out. He grits his teeth, refusing to groan.

Shane smiles and goes back to trailing kisses all the way down to Ilya's crotch. He pushes the elastic of Ilya's sweatpants down, focused and licks a stripe along the hard, throbbing length. Then he looks up, searching for eye contact.

Mine – his eyes say. – Forever.

Ilya almost looks away, unequipped to properly handle something so… lovely. 

They've done this before. Many times. It still doesn't get old. Ilya doesn't register he's growling from pleasure and once he does, it's kind of too late to stop it. And it's not exactly Ilya's fault that sucking dick is Shane's second best talent, right after hockey.

“Enough,” he grunts eventually.

Shane has gotten lost in the task at some point, especially since Ilya remained stubbornly quiet and offered no distraction. And the smell alone is enough to get Shane dizzy, so when paired with the taste he's gone. 

Now, Ilya's order startles him out of it. He pulls off and gazes up with a surprised, slightly worried face.

“But…”

“Up,” Ilya interrupts him impatiently. “Come here.”

Shane climbs into his lap with a surprising amount of grace for a guy his size. And finally, finally, finally Ilya's arms wrap around him.

Shane beams, drunk on… everything.

“Hi,” he says for no reason.

“Is not forgiveness,” Ilya warns him, trying to sound stern. “I am still mad.”

“Okay,” Shane agrees easily, because Ilya deserves to have something easy at least for a little while. Until they both get bored with easy, that is. “And can I ride your dick while you're mad?”

Fuck.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“Bozhe moy, Hollander,” Ilya groans quietly, falling into Russian, because this boy is now thanking him for cock. 

Maybe it was a bad idea. He's not sure they will ever make it to a single practice. Why would they? Everything but this seems like a complete waste of time.

Shane is already dripping wet and he sinks down onto Ilya without much struggle, but he still groans quietly at the overwhelming feeling of being so full.

“You feel good,” he gasps with his eyes half closed, soaking in the feeling of it all.

Once they start kissing, it's impossible to stop. It's a desperate, needy and short fuck, because they've worked each other up terribly before it even started. They come one after another, panting into each other's mouths, because words get lost in the pleasure of it all.

Shane is so spent, he can't keep his head up after. His sweaty forehead rests against Ilya's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. His legs are still shaking and burning with the effort.

Ilya nuzzles into his neck gently and places a closed-mouth kiss on the bonding bite. It's surprisingly soft. Almost shy.

Shane hugs him tighter. 

“It's staying,” he promises. “It's yours. I'm sorry it got so horrible for a moment.”

“Yes.” Ilya's voice sounds shaky.

They just sit there, sweaty and gross, but unwilling to break the hug. 

After regaining some strength, Shane moves his head to lick at Ilya's mark in return. The alpha lost his shirt at some point.

“We have it all now,” he jokes, but maybe, if he was brave and said it out loud, it would sound okay too.

Ilya makes a sound of disagreement.

“Almost. We have no cup yet.”

Shane laughs into his hot skin.

“I'll win it for you,” he promises smugly. 

Ilya nods.

“Da.”

He believes it.

Shane is beautiful when he comes apart on Ilya's knot, but to be honest, he's even more beautiful when he reads a book in his glasses and Ilya's shirt, and when makes tea in Ilya's kitchen, and when he wakes up with his freckled face pressed into Ilya's chest.

And Ilya is strong and tough – he had to be all his life – but he has a soft spot now and it's shaped like the best hockey player in the league. (Second best, if you ask him in public.)

Chapter End Notes

To be fair, I have 26 fanfics here, across 5 different fandoms, and the boys are suffering like this at some point basically in every single one. “Nice and easy” is not in my vocabulary and you cannot blame me, because English is not my first language.

You know the drill: technically finished, might still get expanded.

xoxo