timeline in a blender, this is a vehicle for shane getting knotted in the ass for four thousand words

content notes

some discussion of sexualized hazing in junior hockey

Ilya saw it the first time he sucked Hollander's dick: the pink seam tucked behind it, demurely closed. He didn't touch it, not until Hollander was folding over and coming into his mouth. Shane Hollander's cunt. There was a faint gleam where the edges pressed together, but that was all. Ilya ran the tip of his finger along its length and felt Hollander shudder, before his thighs clamped closed.

"You can't fuck me there," Hollander said, and then sat up, dislodging Ilya's hand.

"I know," Ilya said, bemused. Hollander obviously wasn't going to spend his heats with him. "You have—" He didn't know the English word. "Person for it? Heat?"

Hollander's face shuttered. "No."

"Toy, then."

"No," Hollander said again. "I just. I don't like anything there."

Everyone said: Omegas are fucking crazy for it in heat. Their eyes when they get a knot in their cunt. Like you're fucking god, man.

"Sure, it feels good," Sasha had said, "but so do a lot of things." He'd had his last heat in Paris; apparently beta cock worked just as well, and Sasha had, he'd said with a leer, enjoyed having it both ways.

A vision of Hollander mid-heat floated through Ilya's mind. Rutting against the sheets, fucking a fleshlight, whatever the fuck he did while his cunt bloomed delicately open, empty. Presumably he'd tried fingers, at least. I don't like anything there.

"Okay," Ilya said. It wasn't relevant. "You like it in your ass?"

Hollander went shockingly pink. "You can't just ask me that."

"You do," Ilya said, delighted. The vision changed: Hollander working something thick into his hole, nearly too big, moaning the whole time. "So we do that next time."

"I'm not gonna— what makes you think there's going to be a next time?"

Ilya said, patient, "Because next time I will fuck your ass, the way you like," and watched Hollander squirm. His abs flexed. Could he get hard again so soon? Ilya's dick was giving it a valiant try, so maybe—

But no, early flight in the morning. He had to leave. He rolled out of the bed and pulled on his clothes while Hollander, apparently, thought very hard. He was putting his shoes on when Hollander said, "There's the preseason game. You'll be in Montreal."

That was next month. Ilya found himself grinning as he made for the door. "Good. I will beat you, and then you will show me what you like."

What Hollander liked, apparently, was Ilya's fingers, and his tongue, and some hazy indeterminate time after that, his dick. He was panting into the pillow, mumbled syllables that weren't really words, which was fine since Ilya's grip on English was slipping. All of his focus was on the tight clutch of Hollander's hole. He had taken Ilya all the way to the root; the way his body rippled around Ilya's cock when he clenched was unbelievable.

At the door Hollander had greeted Ilya with, "You can't knot me." Jaw clenched, brows drawn together like he was expecting a fight. At the time Ilya had been affronted.

"You think I am asshole? Not my first time, Hollander. Will keep your pretty asshole safe, relax."

Now, Ilya was beginning to worry. He pulled back so he could grip the base of his dick, firm, before his knot could swell. Hollander whined, like Ilya was taking something away from him. Fucking Christ. "Come on, Rozanov, just—"

"You said," Ilya panted. Someone had to keep it together. The joint of his thumb was slipping in the crease of Hollander's ass as he pushed forward again. "Don't be stupid, you can't take it—"

"Had bigger," Hollander ground out. Ilya swore, lurched another centimeter in. Now his knuckle was digging into the rim of Hollander's hole. "There's— I have a thing—"

Ilya would have said something about thing, normally, but his mouth was suddenly full of spit. Hollander grunted as Ilya pushed with intent; his hole, stretched taut and shiny around Ilya's cock, gave, just a little. Ilya's heart stopped. Started back up at a dangerous rattle. "Hollander," he breathed out, "you perfect little slut," and then Hollander arched up beneath him and fucking came, hot and tight and still shoving himself back onto Ilya's cock, and Ilya went black behind the eyes.

He hadn't— he hadn't. His knot was pulsing in his hand. Ilya rolled over and said, "God," explosive, staring at the ceiling. His soul had been sucked out of his dick, or something, and now his toes were numb. "What the fuck, Hollander."

Hollander was sweaty and pink beside him. "Sorry, I shouldn't have— I wasn't thinking."

"I think you were thinking," Ilya said darkly. "I think you were thinking if you begged nicely enough, I would knot your needy ass."

Hollander's flush went all the way down to his chest. "I don't normally," he said. "With the dildo, I mean."

Which meant he had, at least once. Ilya looked down contemplatively at his knot, not yet starting to soften. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hollander look, too. "You said bigger," he said, hefting it up. The width of the knot spanned the palm of his hand. "Did you mean it?"

Hollander swallowed, audibly. "I don't know," he said. "I— maybe?"

"You don't know?"

"Well, normally I'm not looking—" Hollander started, and then caught Ilya smiling. "Oh, fuck off."

"I'll make you a deal," Ilya said. Rolled until he was on top of Hollander, pinning him down. Hollander didn't throw him off; his breathing had gone shallow. "Since you want it so much, even though it's not as big as your enormous dildo—"

"Fuck off, fuck you—"

"—I will give it to you, okay?" Ilya ground down against Hollander's pelvis, a slow languid roll, felt his knot slide against Hollander's closed-off cunt. He worked a hand under Hollander's ass and groped inward until his fingers met the slick inviting pucker of his hole. Just the suggestion of a push, but even that made Hollander shudder. "But only when I know you can take it."

Hollander was getting hard again; Ilya could feel his dick jerk where it was trapped under Ilya's abs. "How will you know," he said. He sounded like he had at the Prospect Cup, the good game grinding out of his mouth.

"Not today," Ilya said. Victory was melting sweetly on his tongue. "But soon, maybe. Show me you can take my hand, first. Then you can have my knot."

The next time they fucked was in Boston. Ilya had texted Hollander the hotel and room, lying on top of the sheets lazily stroking himself with one hand. Hollander showed up half an hour later, hair damp, hot flush over his face, and, as Ilya found out shortly, a plug crammed up his ass. When Ilya laid his palm against the flat base of it and pushed Hollander's knees fucking buckled; Ilya had to fist a hand into Hollander's collar and set him upright again.

"You walked here like this?" The Metros' hotel was fifteen minutes away on foot—ten minutes if he'd bothered with the T, but Ilya suspected he hadn't. The thought of Hollander taking careful mincing steps with his hands shoved in his pocket—God. He heaved Hollander onto the bed and Hollander glowered at him, kicking off his pants.

"I have like an hour," he said. "It made sense to prep." He was looking at the loose curl of Ilya's hand with the same focus he followed a puck. "Are you gonna—?"

Hollander was insane. Ilya's dick had not been this hard this often since he was fourteen approaching his first rut. "This is a lot of work for me," he said, biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't smile. "Are you going to make it worth it?"

In response Hollander folded his legs up and started working the plug out of his hole. His forearms braced against the back of his thighs, knees crunched around his ears. He was slick enough that his fingers were slipping as he tried to grab on the base and pull.

Ilya could have helped, but he was too busy staring at the way Hollander was stretching open around the plug. It was big. Hollander's hole bloomed open for it, then he lost his grip and his body sucked it back in. One of Hollander's feet kicked into empty air. "Fuck."

In this position Ilya could see everything between Hollander's legs. The line of his cunt was pink and glossy. Ilya reached out and touched it without meaning to. Not the smooth slipperiness of lube but something thinner, clinging to his fingers. Ilya's throat spasmed.

"You're wet." Male omegas only opened up during heat. Vestigial, useless. The impossibility was what made it so popular in porn.

"Oh, well, I'm due," Hollander said distractedly. "The suppressants are good, I just get a little—" He shrugged. He was having more success with the plug now, past the widest part of it. Shane Hollander had stood in his hotel shower and fingered himself open for this so he could be ready for Ilya's fist, and his cunt was leaving his taint glistening all the way down to his asshole because he was due. Ilya thought maybe he was losing at sex, losing his entire fucking mind, and he didn't even care.

The plug thumped onto the bedspread. Hollander spread his cheeks, offered himself up. "Give it to me," he said. "I can take it."

He was right. He could take it. First Ilya's slicked and shining hand, and then—

So that was what they did now. Not every time—that would be absurd. Hollander also liked sucking Ilya's dick, or getting eaten out until he cried, and sometimes Ilya contemplated his dick as he pulled off his underwear and knew he wasn't, despite the naproxen and acetaminophen he'd mixed beforehand. For Hollander he could manage hard, maybe, given half an hour and Hollander's determined mouth, but the knot, that was trickier. Finicky fucking thing. No broken fingers, no MCL sprains, like ninety kilograms of omega panting for it underneath him wasn't enough.

It only made Hollander more desperate when he got it, though. Ilya had never had anyone like him. Sasha had been more interested in stamina than size, and Ilya never picked up omega women. Safer to go with betas, who stroked over the base of Ilya's dick giggling and breathless at their daring, or alpha women if he wanted a challenge. Harder to impress someone who knew exactly what you could do with a dick, but Ilya was very good.

The male omegas in porn were not getting fucked in the ass, and it was porn, anyway. He asked Sveta once, most of the way through an excellent bottle of vodka. "Have I ever?" Sveta considered, listing into Ilya's shoulder. "Well, Michael. It was good, he came buckets, but he was easy, he did that anyway"—probably why Michael had lasted three months longer than Ilya's initial estimate—"and it's a lot of work, Ilyusha. Not really worth it."

Was it worth it with Hollander? A ludicrous question. He could be stuffed full of Ilya's cock, and still when Ilya traced a fingertip around his rim: yes, please, more. Ilya's finger sliding in alongside his cock, and Hollander's body arching, opening up like it was made for it. It wasn't work. The rhythm of it sat in Ilya's body, as easy as breathing, or hockey.

Hollander was riding him today. Ilya felt the first warning throb at the base of his dick, pulled his fingers free. Wet, sucking sounds, Hollander trying to tighten around him. "Hollander—"

"Yeah," Hollander rasped, dropping his head, and sank down hard onto Ilya's cock. Hips working in little circles, fitting himself onto the knot as it grew. His cock hung between them, red and leaking, but Hollander wasn't even touching it. He had his eyes closed and his lip between his teeth, and he was taking it, all of it, the full weight of Ilya's knot cradled inside his hungry hole and alight with triumph like some kind of saint. "Fuck. Yes."

There was sweat trickling down the side of Shane's throat. Ilya was seized by the desire to lick it; he did, tasted salt and the thrum of Shane's pulse. Shane's hole was clenching around him, milking the knot in a steady rhythm, and Ilya thought, delirious, Stay. Why couldn't they have this, always: Shane's faint hitching gasps as Ilya leaned down and bit at his nipples, the intake of breath when Ilya's fingers wrapped around him. Shane's cock was hot and pulsing in Ilya's hand and it felt, for a moment, like the orgasm Shane drew out of his knot was the same one he was wringing from Shane, like there was no difference between them, just one body pierced through with pleasure, held by it, whole.

Ilya recovered first. Shane had gone boneless, his nose buried in Ilya's neck, and he made little protests when Ilya coaxed him off his knot. "I am getting a towel," he said sternly, wriggling out from under him. "Will be back, don't worry."

Every muscle in Ilya's body felt wrung out, loose. He cursorily wiped himself off in the bathroom and got another towel for Shane. In the mirror: a naked body, flushed and pleased. Ilya paused to look, and it struck him very suddenly that he was happy.

He went back to Shane, who was exactly where Ilya had left him. He let Ilya wipe up the lube between his cheeks, shifting minutely when Ilya stroked over sore flesh and mumbling complaints into the cushions. "Couldn't get fucking enough of it," Ilya said, "but now you complain, huh? After you get everything you need?"

"You are so fucking full of it," Shane said, and then, immediately: "Oh my God, don't, shut up."

Laughter was bubbling up in Ilya, a fizzy golden mouthful. He gave into the impulse to bite at Shane's hipbone, left a clear crescent of a mark, soothed it with his tongue. Shane stirred, raised his hips and spread his legs—Ilya went, nosing along the crease of his ass, more teeth on the tender inside of his thighs. There was the raised ridge of Shane's cunt, the slippery rich tang of it—

Ilya stopped. Shane's cunt flexed under his tongue, wetter than before. He pulled back, stroked over the seam with a thumb, and then the tip of it slipped in, silky smooth, like it was nothing. Ilya hadn't even pushed. He stared at his thumb buried in Shane's cunt up to the knuckle, the slick join of their bodies, said low and shocked, "Shane." There was no room in his lungs for anything else.

Shane said, high, panicked: "No."

Back, back. Ilya was off the couch, heart thumping, hands up. His thumb was still wet. "Hollander."

Hollander scrambled up. "Sorry, it's not—" His chest was heaving, quick stuttered breaths. There was still come smeared over his stomach. "I can't, I just—" He grabbed for a shirt, dropped it, picked it back up again. Ilya watched the roll of his shoulders as he tugged it on, and then a pair of sweats. "I have to— um, it's not—"

"Hollander," Ilya said again. The taste of iron was hot in his mouth. "Don't—"

"I have to go," Hollander said, "it's just— I'm sorry," he said, and left. He hadn't even put underwear on.

Well, what had Ilya expected? He had been stupid. Playing house, imagining Hollander well-fucked and well-kept. Hollander did not want to be kept, as he had made abundantly clear. Ilya was never going to have him.

Ilya fucked an omega, soft tits, wet cunt, left bruises on her hips and told his lawyer, yes, he'd used a condom, no, there was no chance it was his. He fucked a beta from behind, asked if she'd ever tried anything in her ass—she said no, but like she could be convinced—came over the dimples at the base of her spine and let her milk his knot with both hands. He downloaded Grindr, scrubbed through every profile in a fifty-mile radius for freckles, and deleted it again. He bought an enormously expensive ring and asked Sveta to marry him.

She did not laugh at him. "What's gotten into you?" she said instead, which was worse. "You don't want that."

"Oh, so you know what I want?" He thought it came out reasonably clear. He could admit he was drunk, though not profoundly. The restaurant was very warm.

"We haven't even fucked in two years," she said. "Just because you're having some sort of— tantrum—"

"Tantrum," Ilya said.

"You broke up," Sveta said. "You and your—" She tilted her hand, the gesture woefully inadequate. "Whoever you've been fucking. Okay, so what? You'll find another."

The ring was still in Ilya's hand; he snapped the box shut and put it in his pocket. "Another what," he said flatly. What was Hollander, anyway. It had only been sex. They'd fucked. Now they weren't.

Sveta looked at him more carefully. She was on her second glass of wine. "Oh, Ilyusha," she said after a moment. "You stupid bastard, you've gone and fallen in love."

Rose Landry: American, beautiful. Ilya skimmed her Wikipedia page, teeth bared in a snarl. She was a beta. If Hollander was getting fucked, it was not on her dick.

But the dick hadn't kept Hollander from leaving, either.

Ilya considered his mistakes. He was adaptable; he could learn. Run back the tape. That was what had gotten him out of Russia.

The sex was good. That had never been the problem. Hollander's cunt was off-limits, but that wasn't new. So they could fuck. Ilya would make it good for him. And if Hollander wanted to spend heats with Rose Landry, or get married, have fat adorable babies—

Ilya's teeth clicked. Hollander could have it. All Ilya wanted was a little piece of him, however much he was allowed.

"Can we talk?"

Hollander looked good, smelled good. Ilya thought about leaning in to lick the underside of his jaw. Me and Rose, we weren't compatible, he'd said last night, and then looked long at Ilya's mouth.

"Okay," Ilya said, and sat on his hands. Hollander wanted to talk. They would talk.

"Look. I know I kind of freaked out last time—"

"You said you don't like. I don't touch you there, no problem, yes?"

"No, listen. I wanna tell you." Hollander looked so serious, intent. Ilya wanted to kiss that look off his face, and to have it all the time. To be a person Hollander told things to.

"Okay," he said again. "Tell me, then."

Hollander shifted on the bedspread. His fingers were fidgeting over his knee. "When I got to Kingston— Everybody had to, right. It wasn't just me. And nobody said, it wasn't like—" Hollander paused. Started over. "I was already on suppressants, but, um. I don't know if they could tell anyway. It was pretty near my heat."

Ilya had grown up playing hockey, breathing hockey. He knew what boys did to each other when the adults looked away, what had made Sasha into Sasha. "They hurt you," he said.

"No! No, I said— nobody made me. There was. Um. There was a dildo for each of the rookies. You were supposed get it all the way in. Like deepthroat it, I guess, that's what the other guys did. But they gave me a different one. It. It had a knot."

It wasn't anger, Ilya decided, the taste in his mouth. It was a very clear, cold kind of murder.

"Not an inflatable one, the solid kind? You couldn't get it past the teeth. So obviously I was supposed to—" Shane stopped again. "Like ten percent of the OHL is omega. It's more common than being a redhead."

"Shane," Ilya said. "What did you do."

Shane looked at him steadily. "I told you I could take it," he said.

Shane had invited Ilya to his cottage. "I don't have to get off the suppressants," he'd said, "but if you want, I could? So we can spend heat together," bright-eyed, hopeful. "I've never done it with someone else."

"Maybe," Ilya had said. He couldn't say yes. He was going to get it wrong. He wouldn't be able to stop himself. Shane would be heat-slick, beautiful, split open, and Ilya would push—

His father died. He flew to Moscow and paced around the house. He was not superstitious; he did not believe in ghosts. Nonetheless: his father's office, the uneasy emptiness that had his shoulders prickling. At any moment there would be a shout. He stalked past the chip in the bannister where the glass had shattered when his mother threw that tumbler at his father. She had missed; probably she'd meant to.

Shane had called him twice. Ilya nearly didn't call back. Shane didn't belong here: his unselfconscious smile, the shocking openness in his eyes. This house would have killed him.

He did, anyway. There was something throbbing in him like a bruise. When he saw Shane's face on the tiny screen it went soft and hungry.

Shane took off his clothes, when Ilya asked. Shane showed him where he was hard and leaking, and then lifted up his cock, tilted his hips back. It was only badly-lit pixels. Ilya's heart was going to pound out of his throat.

"It's not your heat yet," Ilya said.

"No," Shane said. He spread his thighs wider, tripped two fingers down to his groin. "It's a little wet, though." His fingertips nudged at the line of his cunt, slid down. The phone didn't capture a noise, but Ilya thought he must have made one. Ilya made one.

"How wet?"

Shane drew his fingers up again. His voice was unsteady. "It's better when I'm more turned on."

"Oh, you're not turned on now?"

Shane laughed, breathless. "If you were here," he said. He wasn't trying to open himself up, just stroking over the pink seam. "I think I get, um. Wetter with you."

This was the kind of thing Shane said, straight out, no deflection. Ilya had no defenses for it. He bit his tongue fighting not to come, hand gripping his cock. "How many fingers do you want in your ass?"

Ilya could see Shane's pelvic muscles clench. "Three?"

"Okay," Ilya said. His teeth ached where they were rooted in his gums. "Three fingers, that's easy for you. But you like a challenge."

"Ilya," Shane said.

On the nightstand, past Shane's elbow, was the lube he liked. Easy reach. "If you need help," Ilya said. There was saliva pooling under his tongue. "You can use your mouth."

The tips of Shane's fingers were glinting now. His hand stayed between his legs. "I can do it."

Ilya was in Moscow; Shane was away, untouchable, home. He still felt like the only thing Ilya had ever had.

"I know you can," Ilya said. Shane's body would open for him. "I think you'll get wet enough."

Everyone said: Omega cunt during heat, fucking unbelievable. So slick you just slide right in. Easy as anything, you know? You can't help but give it to them. 

Sasha said: Well, you should keep an eye out for chafing.

Shane's slide into heat was slow, liquid. The cottage was enormous. They fucked in the bedroom, the kitchen, against the wide bank of windows with sunlight rolling over their shoulders. Ilya got on his knees on Shane's area rug, sucked him until Shane came and then kept going. Every time, Shane said: Don't stop, please, I need it.

They'd fucked in the morning, a gentle rocking thing, and hadn't bothered putting on clothes after. Shane's stubble had rubbed Ilya's jaw tender. They ate standing up, protein-carb-fiber, and then Ilya touched Shane's hip where he'd left a bruising bite and Shane shuddered all down his spine, a full-bodied yes.

Ilya took Shane to bed. Shane's hole was a little swollen, warm when Ilya touched it. They'd run out of condoms two days ago.

"Are you gonna knot me this time?" Shane asked dreamily. Ilya slipped a finger into him, felt him clench. He could probably manage it, yes. He could fill Shane up the way he wanted, hold him open.

They were lying on their sides, nestled together back to front. Ilya pressed into him achingly slow. Kissed the nape of Shane's neck, where sweat had gathered, the shoulder with its surgery scar. His fingers dug into Shane's bent thigh, opening Shane up, more, more. Shane was taking him, fingers curling into the sheets, panting as he worked for it. Never easy. Shane wanted it anyway.

Ilya worked his hand down Shane's thigh, where his cunt was dripping wet. Circled the slick folds, the core of him spread wide. When he rubbed his fingers together, the wetness stretched between them, clear and clinging.

He felt his way back to the place where they were joined, Shane stretched around Ilya's knot. Pressed one wet finger over the taut rim of Shane's hole. Shane went shocked and still around him, a held and waiting breath.

"You think you can do it?"

Shane tipped his head back. The long line of his throat moved wetly. "Yeah," he said, hoarse, honest. "Give it to me. I can take it."

really debated firing chekhov's pussy here but my id had a vision & it was laser-focused on shane's asshole, so