Chapter 1: handing over all the olive trees

Shane knows how much Ilya adores children. He’s seen how Ilya just blossoms around kids. Everyone is always so surprised to see how playful and soft Ilya acts around their teammates’ children, but Shane doesn’t see it that way —to him, it’s like the private Ilya is peeking out of the cracks of his stone-cold persona. Hayden is the most surprised to see it. The first time the Pikes had invited the two of them over for dinner, Ilya had immediately taken to their little gaggle of children. While Shane had caught up with Jackie, Ilya was busy attending a tea party, a plastic crown perched on his blond curls while he attempted a terrible British accent. Hayden was eyeing him suspiciously the whole night, even after the kids had all gone to bed. Shane has always loved children, too. Cradling Hayden’s babies sates something inside him, satisfaction curling in his chest. Caring for his young cousins or nieces is always something he enjoys. When he was younger, he imagined starting a family—a wife and a set of kids to match. The idea of it brought him no joy. But now, older, having accomplished what he has done, the thought of it has become more appealing. In the past, getting pregnant would mean giving up his career—but the thought of retirement has been in the back of his mind for some time, a life of relaxation after counting grams of protein and burning calories and endless loops of practices and games. Shane has accomplished all the goals he has set in his life so far. He’s won the Stanley Cup a staggering three times, he’s a star center, an MVP, and a figure bound for the Hall of Fame. But now he’s made some new goals. A mating, a marriage, and a family. Mating is easy. “This summer,” Ilya has already promised him. Every time they have sex, every morning, after every game. “This summer I will mate you.” Shane preens at the thought, already imagining the mark of Ilya’s teeth on his neck. Marriage is a little more abstract. They’ve discussed it a few times already, a private little ceremony for close friends and family. Ilya’s already discussed the proposal. “I will get down on one knee, at the dock by the lake,” he vows, “and I will say, ‘Shane Hollander, will you help me get Canadian citizenship’—” Shane always gives him a smack at that. But kids? Shane knows that Ilya wants them. But Ilya has always talked about it as if it’s years in the future. After mating, after marriage, and after retirement. Definitely not now, when their careers are still thriving, even if they’re past their prime. Shane wants them now. He pictures them all the time. He thinks of Ilya holding their baby. Imagines a baby with Ilya’s curls and hazel eyes. He can see them, a toddler and then a child, running around the cottage or skating on unsteady legs. He imagines a teenager, awkward but outspoken, with Ilya’s bite and sneaky smiles. An adult with Ilya’s sharp mind and confidence. He imagines giving his parents a grandchild. Giving Hayden and Jackie’s kids a playmate. Giving Ilya a family. And he wants it so badly. * * * He gets the idea when Ilya is making breakfast, poaching eggs and spinach, something that satisfies Shane’s strict diet. Ilya is chatting about one of their teammates. “Stupid new kid,” he complains. “So fucking cocky.” “Remind you of anyone, maybe?” Shane comments. He’s sipping at his water, cocking a brow at Ilya’s answering eyeroll. “Why, what’s he talking about?” “All the women he’s fucking. They send him photos. The other day, I come into locker room, and he’s showing everyone the photos. Their photos!” Ilya shakes his head. “Little fucking prick.” “Hey, you slept around plenty back in the day.” Ilya shakes his head, puffing out his chest. “I was gentleman. I did not share photos with teammates.” “Not even mine?” Shane teases, though his face gets a little hot at the thought. He had never gotten into the habit of sending nudes, but Ilya had managed to coax a few out of him, back when they were still casual. Ilya gives him a look. “Especially not yours,” he says, completely seriously. “Mine only.” “Still, he’s leading a very exciting life. Just like you did. Why can’t he live it up a little?” “Is different,” Ilya mutters. He spoons the poached eggs and cooked spinach onto a plate and slides it in front of Shane.“I was just fucking around.” Shane laughs. Still, the thought occurs to him—“Do you ever miss it?” Ilya glances up from where he’s plating his own eggs and toast. “Miss what?” Shane pokes at his eggs. “I don’t know. Having a lot of sex. Living an exciting life.” “I have lots of sex now. Lots of good sex. No?” Ilya waggles his brows at him. Shane scoffs at him, but his face feels hot again. “Not just that part. Like, living on the edge, not just being settled down with an omega, sleeping in the same bed every night.” Ilya does not hesitate—he’s shaking his head before Shane finishes his sentence. “No,” he says. “I do not miss it.” “Really?” “I have told you this before, Hollander.” Ilya slides into the chair next to him. “Yes, I slept around. Lots of very beautiful women. But I was always thinking of you, every time.” “But—” “No buts. I liked it, yes. But I love this more.” Ilya takes a bite of toast, chews, and swallows. “I have everything I want here. Home, hockey. A beautiful, smart omega who I love. And who loves me.” He beams at Shane, a toothy smile that’s reserved just for him. “Just need citizenship, you know.” Shane snorts and shoves at his shoulder. “Don’t get greedy.” Still, the conversation doesn’t ease Shane’s mind completely. He knows that Ilya loves him and that he’s devoted to their relationship. But Ilya had lied—he didn’t have everything he wanted. Not yet. Ilya wants children. Shane wants them too, and he wants them now. He doesn’t want to wait a few more years, not when he can feel his biological clock ticking, a constant reminder that he’s not young forever, always in the back of his mind. So a plan hatches. And Shane has always been good at planning. * * * It’s almost too easy to come up with a proper plan. His birth control never fails. After nearly a decade of taking it religiously, he’s never once had a breakthrough heat, besides the ones he times for the summertime or between games. He’s on the strongest dose possible, and has been since he was seventeen. His mother had trouble conceiving. She’s told Shane a little about it, how IVF hadn’t worked for a long time. He was born early and fragile, lungs as delicate as butterfly wings. He’s googled it so many times already: Does birth control affect fertility? Again and again, multiple tabs in the browser app on incognito mode. There have been thousands of variations, too: male omegas; ten years; alcohol consumption; lexapro. The results are unclear. No, his birth control should not severely impact his fertility. Being a male omega does not either, but the risk of miscarriage or premature birth is higher. Taking birth control for ten years isn’t ideal, but not terrible, either. Lexapro should not impact his fertility, but overconsumption of alcohol will. Cutting alcohol out of his life isn’t terrible. Most of the guys on the team are used to him only drinking ginger ale or electrolyte water, and they only chirp him a little when he orders a Canada Dry at the bar. Ilya doesn’t seem to notice, either—sometimes he’ll order one for Shane without him even having to ask. When someone buys him a beer, he sneakily leaves it unattended, faking sips or fully pouring it out somewhere without anyone noticing. He can worry about the risks of male omega pregnancies when he’s actually carrying a baby. But the birth control? Everywhere he looks, everything tells him to stop taking it cold turkey. That’s fine. He’ll slowly wean off of it. If one of the heats falls on a game day, it’ll suck a bit, but he can survive without Ilya for a few hours. He should start taking prenatal supplements. But how will he hide the bottle from Ilya without him discovering it in their bathroom cabinet? He buys iron supplements and switches out the pills. He peels off the label from the bottle of prenatal supplements, tearing it up until it is unreadable. But what about the condoms? They stopped using condoms after they became exclusive, but Ilya is religious about using them for when it actually matters. Shane can’t remember the last time they didn’t use a condom during heat sex. Fuck, could he convince Ilya to forgo them during his next heat? Maybe, if he begs enough… He’ll worry about it later. For now, he digs a pill cutter out of the bathroom drawer and takes a half dose of his birth control. He can start on that for now. * * * He doesn’t notice the effects until a week later, but then they start appearing everywhere. He’s always had difficulty with weight—his birth control makes it hard to lose weight, which makes him religious about his diet and exercise. But all of a sudden, he’s lost a few good kilograms, so he’s been eating more as a result. Ilya takes great delight in this, feeding him a second and third helping of dinner and insisting on grilling rather than boiling the chicken. One morning, while Ilya is frying up bacon and eggs, Shane can’t resist a slice of bacon. When he bites into it, his eyes practically roll to the back of his head. When he finishes licking his fingers, he looks up to see Ilya watching him amusedly. “You enjoyed that,” he says. It’s not a question. Shane flushes. “Shut up,” he mutters. There are other things, too. He’s a little irritable for a week, then all of a sudden it disappears. He gets a few bad headaches, but they ease up in a few days. There’s a little cramping and nausea that lingers. He’s much more tired, and one day he sleeps through his alarm until Ilya wakes him up at half-past seven, his brow furrowed with concern. “Shane,” he says. “‘M fine, I’m fine,” Shane waves him off, yawning. When Ilya still looks at him with that crease in his forehead, Shane leans forward and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. “Good morning.” And he’s fucking horny. Everything Ilya does makes Shane want to jump his bones. He feels crazed with want, vibrating in his skin. It’s terrible that they spend nearly all hours of the day together. It’s a terrible distraction: Ilya in the locker room, on the ice, making dinner, in the shower, in their bed. Ilya is seemingly unaware of the effect that he’s having on Shane. He struts around shirtless as usual, his happy trail on full display. He runs his hand through his wet curls after a shower, dressed in Shane’s sweatpants and Shane’s flannel shirt. On the ice, he taunts and chirps. In the mornings, he wakes up soft and bleary-eyed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes like a rabbit. His scent sticks to everything, smoky-sweet and thick, enough to make Shane dizzy with it. Shane feels insane. They fucked nearly every day when Shane was on his birth control. Now, even an hour without Ilya makes Shane want to tear his hair out. He tries to keep it under control for a few weeks, but then, he finally admits to himself that he can’t handle it. He plans it out carefully. Just like his birth control, he’ll carefully start altering his routine. Just increasing, rather than decreasing, in small increments. One morning, Shane wakes up Ilya with his cock in his mouth. Usually, that’s enough to sate both of them through at least half the day. But when they get back from practice, Shane coaxes Ilya into the shower with him. It doesn’t take much convincing for Ilya to fuck him against the wall, though to Shane’s dismay, he pulls out and finishes on his back, gasping for air and pressing openmouthed kisses along Shane’s shoulder. Even after Ilya finishes him off twice, Shane still feels like he could go for another round after dinner. He forces the feeling down. But by next week, he’s gotten Ilya to fuck him three times before they go to bed. Once in the early morning, Shane, gasping into the pillows with Ilya, lazily drives his cock straight against his prostate. Once, right after they come home from practice, against the door, Shane shoving a fist into his mouth so the neighbors don’t overhear his whines. Then, while Ilya is cooking dinner, Shane drops to his knees and sucks him off—and then Ilya presses him over the kitchen counter until he’s crying into the marble. Three times a day starts becoming routine—not including the occasional handjob or blowjob, snuck in between practices or after meetings. Annoyingly, Ilya uses a condom half the time, but Shane manages to convince him otherwise a few times. Ilya notices the difference in the pattern, calling him insatiable. “My little slut, no?” he hisses into Shane’s ear one night. He’s got him on all fours, one hand pushing Shane’s face into the pillows. “All for me. Only for me.” Shane moans his agreement into the sheets, unable to speak. So Ilya doesn’t mind the changes in his behavior—not his eating, or the sex. That’s good to know. * * * Shane feels good. He’s full of energy, and he’s been eating well. He forgot how much birth control altered his brain. The weight gain, his attitude, and his occasional bouts of anxiety have all been slightly diminished. He breaks out a few times, but nothing crazy. He feels good. Maybe that’s how he misses all of the signs. Ilya is doing laundry one afternoon. He starts with the towels, gathering them from the bathrooms and kitchen. And then he picks up Shane’s hamper. And then he picks up his own. Shane suddenly feels a discomfort, edging on pain, running under his skin. “Wait,” he blurts out, scrambling off the bed from where he’s perched. And while Ilya pauses, bewildered, he digs through Ilya’s soiled clothes and tugs out two sweatshirts and one of his practice jerseys. He shoves them into his face and breathes in deeply. Ilya’s smoky-spicy scent fills his nostrils, and he feels his knees go weak. When he finally lifts his face out of the pile of clothes, Ilya is watching him with wide eyes. “You are okay?” he asks. Shane exhales every bit of air from his lungs. “Yes,” he says, tentatively at first, then stronger. “Yes.” Gathering his bundle of clothes, he retreats to their bed—but not before swiping another sweatshirt out of Ilya’s hamper. He settles on the covers and sets about arranging their several pillows into a perfect arrangement. He can feel Ilya watching him. After a while, he clears his throat. “I wash the sheets today?” he asks, tentatively, unsure. Shane whips his head up from where he’s tucking in the blankets. He growls, low in his throat, baring his teeth. Deep down, his brain knows he shouldn’t be growling—not at his Alpha—and that he is being deeply unreasonable. But he cannot stop it. The idea of the bed stripped—his sheets free of Ilya’s scent —makes his stomach roll. Ilya backs away, his hands raised placatingly. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I will not. Dirty sheets today.” Shane stops growling. Ilya creeps backwards, tugging the hamper full of dirty clothes into the hallway. Shane resumes his task, tucking Ilya’s sweatshirts in between pillows where they belong. He’s so focused on his task that he doesn’t notice Ilya coming and going from the room. Faintly, he can hear the beeps and whirring of the laundry machine, Ilya creeping up and down the hallway. When he comes out of his haze, he’s surrounded by a soft nest. He blinks, staring down at his hands. He hasn’t made a nest outside of his heat in a long time. Ilya tiptoes into the room. His arms are full of more pillows and another blanket. He approaches slowly to set the pile on the edge of the nest, and Shane takes a tentative sniff— Ilya has already scented them happily. He lets out a happy purr, reaching out to incorporate them into his nest. When Shane is done, Ilya reaches out and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Shane frowns, but Ilya withdraws his hand. “No fever,” Ilya says. “You are feeling okay?” “I would be better if you were in here with me,” Shane says, almost whiny with want. Ilya laughs. “Omega,” he says in that rumbling voice of his, the tone that drives Shane crazy. “May I come into your pretty nest?” Shane is nodding before he finishes his sentence. Ilya climbs into the nest next to him, and Shane purrs so loud that it makes Ilya chuckle. “Perfect, pretty Omega,” he rumbles, reaching out to brush a few strands of hair out of Shane’s eyes. “Perfect nest. You make such a pretty nest.” Shane finally feels content. In just a few minutes, he finds himself drifting off to sleep to the sound of his Alpha’s rumbling chest, tucked in his nest. It becomes a little bit of a problem. Shane knows that the sheets aren’t clean, and his two minds are at war with each other. A part of him whines with distress at the thought of washing the scent off their blankets, but another part of him hates the knowledge that he’s been sleeping in sheets that are just a few days too unclean. But of course, Ilya figures out a workaround. He coaxes Shane out of his nest and tucks him into an armchair, dressed in Ilya’s sweater and sweatpants. He strips the bed of sheets and clothes and runs the washer and dryer. And then, under Shane’s watchful eye, he scents every blanket, every pillow, and every piece of clothing, and piles them back onto the bed. “There, pretty Omega,” he croons, nudging Shane back into the bed. “Is better, no? Will you make me another nest?” Shane preens under the attention and doesn’t dare disobey the request. It all comes to a head a few days later. It’s just a normal practice, but as usual, Shane and Ilya are there, bright and early. Shane is already dressed in his gear, his skates tied on, but he’s busy nibbling on a protein bar. Ilya is off somewhere talking to a manager. The locker room is slowly filling with people, changing into their gear, taping their sticks, and lacing up their skates. At some point, Hayden comes up to him with some mindless chatter. He’s saying something about daycare and how one of his daughters—Ruby?—had gotten into a fight with some other kid. Shane nods and keeps eating, his mind half- wandering. “Hey, is that a new flavor?” Hayden asks eventually, peering at the plastic wrapper of Shane’s protein bar. “Let me have a taste, man, I wanna try—” Shane doesn’t even hesitate. He wrenches the bar out of Hayden’s reach and bares his teeth. He doesn’t snarl or growl, but he comes close to it—he’s hungry, despite having two plates of sausage and eggs this morning. The locker room goes quiet. That’s when Ilya walks in, dressed in his gear but still wearing sneakers, his curls loose. He pauses in the doorway, a brow raised. “What? Yes, I know, I am very handsome.” Hayden breaks the silence. “Yeah, sure,” he grumbles. “Your Omega just tried to bite my hand off.” He’s teasing, but Shane feels a pang of guilt. He forces his muscles to relax, but he still keeps his protein bar close to his chest. “Sorry, man,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what came over me.” The rest of the room seems to take this explanation, but Hayden still frowns. Ilya seems to be just as concerned, and he slips over to Shane’s side. When Hayden turns away, Ilya reaches out and strokes a finger down Shane’s unmarred neck. “You are okay?” he asks. Shane shivers and bares his neck. He can’t help it. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yeah. I’m okay.” * * * He still feels unsettled when he’s on the ice. His skin is itching, even as he glides laps around the rink, trying to blink away the dizziness that’s starting to settle over his body. He feels a little sick to his stomach. It’s okay. He’s played through illness before. A week before he had won his first Stanley Cup, he had the flu so bad that he was delirious with fever. He’s played through bruised ribs and fractured bones. He can survive one short practice. He mindlessly goes through the rhythms of practice. His teammates seem to notice something is wrong—a few of them ask him if there’s anything wrong. Ilya checks in with him many, many times, forcing him to drink water, checking his forehead for fever. Each time, Shane brushes him off. He’s fine. He just needs to get through practice, and then he can take a cold shower and then head home. God, he can’t wait to be bundled up in his nest, preferably with Ilya. Preferably with Ilya’s cock up his ass, too. Coach Wiebe calls for a scrimmage at some point. Ilya’s off the ice, observing. Shane is set to face off with one of the rookies. He reacts a half-second too late, and they skate away with the puck, Shane at their heels. Fuck. What’s wrong with him? The scrimmage continues, Shane slowly lagging further and further behind. His stomach is rolling with nausea, and the combined scents of all his teammates are making it so much worse. The feeling of all his gear, his helmet, it’s all so suffocating. There’s something very, very wrong with him. Shane slows down to a halt. And then he drops to his knees on the ice. Fuck, where is Ilya? He needs his mate so badly, needs his scent. He clumsily tugs his gloves off, then reaches to yank the helmet off his head. Sensations hit him all at once. The smell of the ice, the thick, sweaty scent of his fellow teammates. The blindingly white lights. He wants to cry, can feel the tears building in his eyes. Where the fuck is his mate? He blindly claws at his neck because his skin is crawling and itchy. His bare fingers meet smooth, unmarred skin. Fuck, how could he have forgotten? He doesn’t have a mate. Ilya has not bitten him—Ilya hasn’t claimed him yet, hasn’t sunk his teeth into his skin. To everyone else, he looks like a pathetic, lonely, unwanted omega—” “Shane. Shane!” Suddenly, the thick smell of wood smoke hits his nose. Shane sucks in a breath, then another, then another. He knows that scent—knows it very well. “Ilya?” he says, dazedly. “Shane, you need to get off the ice. Now.” “Ilya,” he slurs. “Your mark. I want your—your mark.” “Shane—” “Alpha,” Shane keens. He bares his neck. Faintly, he can hear a collective intake of breath, but all he can focus on is the person in front of him. His perfect Alpha. “Need you. Need your bite.” He doesn’t get a bite. Instead, he gets two strong arms, wrapping around his torso, hauling him to his feet. He’s being dragged, he realizes. “Shane,” Ilya’s voice says. “Shane, listen. You’re going into heat.” It takes a moment for him to understand the words. Heat. Now. It takes another for him to figure out what it means. They’re not at home—they’re at practice, on the ice. Shit, he’s really fucked up, hasn’t he? But still, a small, evil part of him is elated. He’s off his birth control. He’s in heat. Ilya is here. Ilya will bite him, and he’ll fuck him, and Shane will finally, finally have all the things he wants in the world. It’s so, so, perfect.

Chapter 2: the fire out from the wire

Chapter Summary Ilya craves the idea of it like a drug. He imagines it so many times. He can picture it so clearly, a girl with pale eyes and Shane’s dark hair. A boy, skinny with Shane’s red cheeks and shy smile. He can see Shane cradling a baby with round cheeks, swaddled in a soft blanket. Shane, round with a child, glowing with happiness. So Shane wants children—maybe not this year or the next, but after they retire, after a few more seasons and a couple more rings. But Ilya wants them so badly. He wants them now.

Chapter Notes

So while writing this, I finally got down to reading The Long Game. Turns out I have a lot of plot holes, such as the fact that Hayden does not play for Ottawa, and that Ilya and Shane get married before Shane joins the Centaurs. Please take the "canon divergence" tag seriously and don't trust me with constructing canon events based on the fics that I read. This chapter is dedicated to whoever bookmarked this with the note that reading it was equivalent to "snorting seven lines of coke". I love you. See the end of the chapter for more notes When Ilya wants something, he starts craving it. It was like that with Shane. A taste of him, a whiff of that perfect scent, and Ilya was addicted. Every time they met, it got worse. Ilya would dream of him at night, fitful and restless, and would spend his days fussing and brooding over how to talk to him. He was more volatile, more unsure, and his free time was spent dwelling on their interactions, wondering if he should have said something differently. It is different from cigarettes. Ilya can live without them, but the need grows slowly until it’s difficult to ignore. Some days, he can push the need aside, and sometimes, he will give in to it. Smoking calms him, the smell of it, the taste. Shane is different. The need for Shane is a compulsion, so urgent and pressing. Ilya could never resist sending a text, calling him, sending him lewd pictures to coax out a reaction. Being with him only made him more insane with want. Naively, he thought that dating Shane would make things different. Maybe knowing that they were exclusive, that Shane was his, would make him less jealous and biting. But it didn’t. If anything, it made Ilya into a monstrous being full of envious hatred for anyone who dared to flirt or touch or even look Shane’s way. Every time that someone’s camaraderie drifted into coquetry, Ilya could feel his Alpha roaring to tear their throat out. The idea of Shane being with someone else sickens him. He still can’t stand being around Rose Landry. No matter how many times Shane has tried to soothe his fears, Ilya has to choke down a snarl every time he sees her. The thought of Shane leaving him for someone else is unfathomable. In reality, Ilya knows that Shane would never leave him. They have given up everything for each other. Shane loves him, just as Ilya loves him—an all-consuming, burning love. But Ilya’s worst nightmare is Shane breaking up with him. Leaving him stranded in this strange country, left drifting in an endless sea. Still. There are ways to ensure that Shane won’t leave him. The first part is easy: making sure that Shane wants for nothing. Ilya fulfills every indulgence that he desires. He buys Shane his favorite candy in the offseason, those strange Kinder bars that taste like wax. He lets Shane pick the movies, cooks his favorite food, washes the dishes, and does the laundry. He falls obediently in line with all of Shane’s habits and strange behaviors. And Ilya loves doing this. The second part is even easier: being the best Shane has ever, and will ever have. Ilya knows every bit of Shane’s body. He knows what makes Shane whine and writhe. He knows exactly how and where Shane likes to be kissed. He knows exactly how to put his mouth on Shane’s body, whether it be on his hole or enveloping his pretty little cock. The third part is a little harder: being what Shane needs. Shane has a lot of needs, but he tucks them away, hidden from view. There’s a lot that Ilya has to dig out of him. He observes, and he asks. Shane needs someone to talk to, to confide in. He needs someone to soothe his fears, to put his anxieties to bed. He needs someone he can lean on, after standing on his own for so long. Ilya takes great pride and delight in these things. He knows that he is the perfect man for Shane, just as Shane fills the empty hole in his chest to overflowing. Ilya loves him so much. But there are still some things he needs to do. Mating, marriage, and babies. They’ve talked about these already, of course. Their mating is scheduled for Shane’s heat in the coming offseason, where they will go to the cottage together and spend an entire week in pure indulgence. Marriage is more abstract. “Not for a bit longer,” Shane had proposed tentatively. Maybe when they’re ready to come out together, publicly. But they have talked about the details already. Shane wants an early summer wedding, quiet and private by a lake. Ilya doesn’t care about the details as much, just as long as the entree is pasta, something full of carbs and butter. But babies? Ilya wants them badly. He knows Shane wants them as well. “Two,” he had proposed, his face red. “I think. I always wanted siblings as a kid. I didn’t want to be alone.” “What about four?” Ilya had asked, only half-joking. Shane had laughed. “Maybe three,” he consents, still pink in the ears. “Let’s see how the first one goes, Rozanov, before we start planning a whole hockey team.” “Boy or girl?” Ilya had pressed, his chest light with the idea of three children, rosy-cheeked with Shane’s freckles scattered all over their face. Shane had shrugged. “A baby girl would be nice. With your curls and eyes.” So, Shane wants children. Two, maybe three. Ilya craves the idea of it like a drug. He imagines it so many times. He can picture it so clearly, a girl with pale eyes and Shane’s dark hair. A boy, skinny with Shane’s red cheeks and shy smile. He can see Shane cradling a baby with round cheeks, swaddled in a soft blanket. Shane, round with a child, glowing with happiness. So Shane wants children—maybe not this year or the next, but after they retire, after a few more seasons and a couple more rings. But Ilya wants them so badly. He wants them now. So he starts to plot, just a little. When their box of condoms expires, Ilya doesn’t bother to throw them away. He’s being a little insane about it. He knows that Shane is on birth control and that his heats are so rare. But some part of his Alpha brain is soothed when he fucks Shane raw. His mind roars with pleasure when the condom breaks on occasion, even more so because it drives Shane crazy when Ilya pulls out to find his cum dripping out of his hole. It’s so easy not wear one, especially when Shane begs for it so prettily. “Please, Alpha,” he cries with shiny eyes. “I’ll be so good for you, please, please, need to feel you, need you inside me—” So Ilya indulges every once in a while. He knows that Shane probably can’t get pregnant now. But it calms down the part of his mind that begs to breed his omega, to fuck Shane full of a pup. Maybe he’s insane. Maybe he’s a terrible person. But he can’t help it. * * * At some point in time, Shane’s careful routines start to crumble. Ilya has lived with him for a while now, so he thought he had them all memorized to a T. Apparently not. They evolve in subtle, tiny ways, almost like Shane is monitoring them. First is how Shane is eating, how he can suddenly devour an entire plate of eggs and ask for more. He eats a slice of bacon. He’s still following his macro-whatever diet, but he indulges. It delights Ilya more than anything, so he sets about feeling this indulgence as much as possible. He cooks elaborate dinners and even convinces Shane to eat a couple of bites of ice cream once. Shane sleeps more, too. Usually, this happens right before his heat, but it lasts more than a couple of weeks. He sleeps through his alarms a few times. Ilya would be concerned, but Shane looks more bright-eyed than usual. It’s also adorable to watch. Most of the time, Ilya wakes up after Shane, but now, for a few weeks, he’s been waking up earlier. In the mornings, when their bedroom fills with a golden glow, Ilya will drowsily watch Shane sleep, his soft exhales and inhales. Watching his chest rise and fall. Ilya will trace circles on his bare back, indulging. But at some point, Ilya starts wondering if he should take Shane to a doctor. He’s not complaining that Shane is sleeping and eating more, but it’s starting to get a bit strange. But all of his newfound habits aren’t hurting him, so maybe it’s not bad? In fact, some of his habits are downright incredible. Their sex life has always been extremely active, but for the past month or two, Shane has been completely insatiable. Ilya notices, of course, so he starts playing a little game, seeing how often he can push. He wanders around the house shirtless, enjoying the way that Shane’s gaze follows him around, his eyes darkening with want. He teases him, letting his kisses and touches linger. And he sits and waits for Shane to give in, to pounce, to sink his teeth into his catch. The nesting is a little strange. Shane has never been one to nest. Only during his heats, and immediately after they’re over, he takes them apart, washing their shared scent off the linens without a blink. Ilya has never minded. He likes Shane’s nests, of course, but they’re Shane’s, not his. But then Shane starts hoarding. Once, Ilya finds him gathering all the extra blankets and pillows from the guest rooms. He walks into the bedroom after a shower to see Shane piling all the linens onto their king-sized bed, settling into the center of it, fluffing the pillows and arranging their high thread count sheets into a round shape. Shane had looked up from his work, cocking his head like a bird. “What?” he had asked, eyes wide. “Do I have something on my face?” “No,” Ilya had said. “I’m going to make coffee.” And then he had walked out of the room, wondering. And from there it only gets worse. All of Ilya’s sweatshirts are gone. His practice jerseys, gone. His compression shirts, his socks, his beanie, all tucked into Shane’s nest. He doesn’t mind—in fact, at night, when he has Shane on his chest, surrounded by their scent, he feels like he’s never been happier. But it starts to become worrying when Shane doesn’t want to do laundry. Shane hates being surrounded by dirty sheets and clothes, so much so that they do laundry almost twice a week. But when Shane almost bites his fingers off for even suggesting that they wash anything on the bed, Ilya starts getting really worried. He googles it. Omegas tend to nest more when they’re nearing their heat, when they’re pregnant, or when they are anxious, the internet tells him. If they are territorial, consider making two nests, alternating the sheets that are cleaned. Ilya can’t suggest that Shane will make two nests. They don’t have enough blankets. Shane’s nest is enormous, spilling over the sides of the mattress. It’s beautiful, of course, but having a second nest would require buying out an entire Bed Bath and Beyond. So Ilya finds a workaround. He posts on Reddit. My (37M) omega (36M) does not want me to wash sheets from his nest, even though he is neat freak. Help??? Someone called “u/tsunodayuki22” responds. Lol. Is he in heat, or is he pregnant? Neither, Ilya had responded, but they hadn’t believed him. Still, they were helpful, suggesting that he proceed with caution, surrounding his omega in his scent, washing the laundry in clear sight, and helping him to rebuild afterward, with sheets he had already scented. Okay. He follows their instructions carefully. First, he finds a set of clothes that aren’t in the nest already and covers them with his scent. He dresses Shane, setting him in a chair where he can see. He strips the bed under Shane’s watchful, suspicious eye. He washes the sheets. Afterward, he sits in front of Shane and thoroughly scents every blanket, every pillowcase, every sweater, and pair of socks, and places them all neatly on the bed. When he’s done, he carries Shane into the center of all of it all and kisses him firmly on the lips. “Better, no?” he asks. “Will you make me another nest?” Shane’s answering purr is more than worth it. But Shane isn’t just hoarding blankets. He’s hoarding food, too. He stocks up on ginger ale and protein bars. He buys little plastic containers of almonds and stacks them up in the cabinet. “It just satisfies an itch,” he says when Ilya asks about it. “It makes me feel better knowing there’s food in the house.” Maybe that answer would satisfy him if Shane hadn’t tried to bite Hayden’s hand off before practice. Shane brushes him off when Ilya tries to inquire about it, lacing up his skates and making his way to the ice. He shakes off the concern for now. He just has to get through practice, and then afterward, he will insist that Shane go to the doctor. He knows that Shane hates anything medical-related, but he doesn’t care. He’s let this go on for too long. He just needs to get through practice. * * * “So,” Coach Wiebe says. “What’s up with Shane?” Ilya takes a moment to consider the question. He watches Shane on the ice, skating laps around in dazed circles. During some practices, he doesn’t skate as much—he observes his team, running drills and correcting mistakes. He's not dressed in his practice clothes, but he does have his skates on. “I don’t know,” he answers eventually. The admission is laden with guilt. How could he not know what’s wrong with his own future mate? “Is he sick?” Ilya hunches over the barrier. “I don’t know. I do not think so. He does not have a fever, and he’s been eating well. He has just been strange for a few weeks.” “Strange?” Ilya shrugs. It is a little strange discussing this with his coach. “He is a little possessive.” “A little?” Wiebe asks. “I heard he nearly bit someone today.” Ilya nods listlessly. Shane is skating a little slower than usual. He can’t see his expression from the side of the rink, but Ilya can tell that something is a little off with the way he’s balanced. “I am taking him to the doctor tomorrow.” “You are? Does he know about this?” Everyone knows how much Shane hates doctors. He will throw a fit every time he gets injured, a scrape or bruise, refusing to let the team check up on him. “If he hates me for taking him, I do not care. I am worried.” Wiebe sighs. “Okay,” he says, then he turns his attention toward the rink. “Alright, everyone! Line up!” Ilya mindlessly goes through the rhythms of practice. He corrects some of the rookies, forces everyone to run drills, barking orders across the ice until they listen. All the while, he keeps a watchful eye on Shane, who, strangely enough, isn’t performing much of his assistant captain duties. He’s oddly quiet, only speaking to the others every once in a while. The team is starting to notice—a couple of them chirp at him, trying to coax a reaction, but they don’t get much. Eventually, Wiebe calls for a scrimmage. He divides the team, calling half of them off the ice. He keeps Shane in, ordering him to face off with one of the skinny rookies. Ilya knows that Shane could win in a face-off against him any day. His instincts are sharper. He has more experience in his left arm than all of the rookies put together. Shane should have beaten him out with a second to spare, taking control of the puck without a blink. Instead, Shane is chasing the rookie across the rink, half a beat too slow. Ilya frowns and straightens up. “Wiebe,” he calls. “Something is wrong.” Wiebe shakes him off. “He’s just in a funk, no?” he says back. “He just needs to work through this.” “No, something is wrong.” He watches Shane across the rink. He’s not speeding up—he’s slowing down. “Get him off the ice. Now.” Wiebe opens his mouth to say something, but Ilya isn’t listening to him anymore. Shane has stumbled, falling to his knees. As Ilya watches, he yanks off his gloves and helmet. The scent is strong enough to hit him in the face, halfway across the rink. Heat. Immediately, Ilya is jumping over the barrier. He shoves a few of his teammates out of the way, hurriedly charging over to where Shane has fallen to his knees. Wiebe’s whistle screeches, sharp enough to send his ears ringing. He’s cursing his stupidity. Of course—all of these strange symptoms for the past week have just been amplified pre-heat. How could he not notice earlier? His instincts are screaming at him. Shane’s scent is calling out to him, an unmated omega, his omega, begging for his bite. The space is too open—there are too many people around, too many other alphas. Shane is there, open, vulnerable. He needs to get him somewhere safe. But it’s too late. Shane is already so deep, now. Ilya drops to his knees, too, wrapping his arms around his body to steady them both. “Shane. Shane!” Shane is breathing heavily and much, much too fast. “Ilya?” “Shane, you need to get off the ice. Now.” “Ilya,” he slurs. “Your mark. I want your—your mark.” “Shane—” Shane shakes his head. “Alpha,” he whines, baring his neck. Fuck. Fuck. Ilya looks up, frantic, to find his teammates staring. They’re giving them a wide radius, thankfully, but they can all hear, they can all see Shane, begging. Shane is clearly unaware of the effect he’s having, because he nuzzles into Ilya’s neck, unashamed. “Need you,” he pants, “need your bite.” Ilya swears. He needs to get them both out of there. He wraps his arms around Shane’s torso and hauls him to his feet. With all his strength, he starts guiding him to the edge of the rink, where hopefully the team doctors are waiting. “Shane,” he says, as firm as he can muster. “Shane, listen. You’re going into heat.” Shane’s pupils are blown wide. The statement doesn’t seem to bother him at all—in fact, a small smile is spreading across his face. “Alpha,” he slurs, then his knees give out. “Fuck!” Ilya manages to steady him, and then loops an arm under Shane’s knees and lifts him off his feet. He carries him to the side of the rink—already, thankfully, a doctor and a few physios are waiting for them. He recognizes the team doctor, but he doesn’t recall her name. “Help,” he gasps. “It must be —breakthrough heat, or—fuck, we did not—” “That’s fine, Rozanov,” she says, firmly. She gestures behind him, and a cot is brought up to his side, and he starts to set Shane down, relieved. Shane whines, but Ilya keeps his hand on the side of his neck, a firm, soothing presence. “I need to get him home,” Ilya pants. “Can—can someone bring the car, or—or something?” “You can’t take him home like this,” the doctor says over Shane’s cries. “You won’t be able to drive without being distracted.” Ilya wants to protest, but glancing down at Shane, he knows she’s right. Shane will surely be crying out for him the entire drive, and he won’t be able to pay proper attention to the road. “Okay,” he says, trying to breathe. “What can you do?” “We’ll give him something to stave off the heat for a while. It’s temporary and won’t have too many side effects; it’ll just make him sleep for a while, take away the pain. You’re his emergency contact, right? Can you sign off on the treatment?” Ilya nods. If it’ll help Shane with the pain, he’ll do anything. She turns, barking orders. They wheel Shane down to one of the medical rooms, Ilya hurriedly following as Shane’s cries fill the hallways. Each sound he makes sends a stab of pain through Ilya’s heart. They prep an IV, and then someone fills a syringe and injects it into Shane’s shoulder. Soon enough, Shane is asleep on an observation cot, strapped to a monitor. Ilya has signed the consent form. He’s just watching Shane breathe, trying to calm his nerves. Every instinct is telling him to wrap Shane up in his clothes and haul him back home. The team doctor comes in with another stack of paper. “He just had a checkup a little under a month ago,” she says, in a tone that’s just a tad too cheerful for the situation. “So most of his medical records should be up to date. But could you look over it, just to confirm?” “Yes,” Ilya said, already reaching out. It’s a little endearing, seeing how Shane has filled out the forms. He’s meticulous with it, noting every change in habit. How much he sleeps and exercises, how much he drinks. It gives Ilya a little flare of pride to see his own name and number under emergency contact. He can’t wait for the day when he changes that to mate, or spouse. Ilya flips through the pages, double-checking every piece of information. His weight has gone down a little, apparently. Shane has noted that he hasn’t consumed alcohol in several months—Ilya had barely noticed, but Shane doesn’t drink much to begin with. And then he sees it. After escitalopram, 10mg/day, Shane has crossed out one of his medications. Norgestrel, 0.075mg/day. As a note, he has written fully off for ten weeks due to nausea. Norgestrel. That’s his birth control. Shane went off his birth control. Because of…nausea, apparently. Blood rushes in his ears. Ilya can’t see anything but the paper in front of him. Shane is off his birth control. He’s about to go into heat. This is his chance. Fuck, how many times has he imagined it? Shane, pregnant, round with Ilya’s pup. Cradling a happy baby in his arms. Fuck. This is everything he’s dreamed of, right? It’s just a year or two earlier than anticipated. The doctor comes in just then, as Ilya is having this revelation. “All done with those?” He reluctantly hands the forms over. He wants to keep reading them, the concrete proof that Ilya could give Shane a baby, right then and now. He sits, restless, holding Shane’s hand, while she flips through them. She peers at the paper over her glasses, raising a brow. “Well, that explains why he’s in heat.” Ilya looks up from where he’s stroking Shane’s hand. The doctor takes this as confusion and rushes to elaborate. “If he’s gone off his birth control,” she says. “It would explain the early heat. A breakthrough heat would be more concerning, likely an indication that he needs to switch his medication. He usually plans them for the off-season, no?” “Or the bye weeks,” Ilya says automatically. “But…” He struggles to put it into words. “Nausea,” he says eventually. She looks at him, tipping her head a degree to the side. “Did you plan this…nausea, or was it expected?” “Did not expect it this early,” he says, which is true. It seems she can see right through him. She nods, not judgmentally. “It is difficult to predict. Different bodies react in different ways, of course. Has he been having side effects of coming off his medication?” Ilya lists them out slowly. It all starts to make sense: his increased appetite and his possessiveness, his sexual drive, and more recently, his nesting and aggression. She nods and writes it all down. “All normal signs of weaning off birth control, and nearing his heat. You are unmated, yes?” Ilya nods. “Was planning for the summer, to mate,” he says bluntly. She hums. “If you are planning to conceive this heat, he might not have a heat in the summer,” she says. “Something to consider.” Something in Ilya’s chest lightens. “The chances are that high?” She shakes her head. “I will be honest, Mr. Rozanov. Mr. Hollander’s family has a history of infertility, and he has been on birth control for a long time to regulate his heats. But if you are mating during this heat, the chances are slightly higher. He is a healthy omega with a healthy alpha partner. It’s uncertain without proper testing.” She smiles at him. “This is something to discuss when Mr. Hollander when he wakes up—whether he wants to conceive this heat, and whether he wants to mate.” “But he is already in heat. He cannot consent.” “We’ve given him something to delay his heat for a few hours,” she says. “He’ll have a period of lucidity, where we will discuss his options—in private, without you present. Just a precaution. But he will be able to properly consent. She smiles again. “You should be able to take him home when he wakes up. Make sure he’s getting plenty of fluids. But you have spent a heat together in the past, so I have no doubt that you know how to care for your omega.” “Of course,” Ilya says. “Are you expecting to go into a rut anytime soon? That would also increase the chances of conceiving.” Ilya shakes his head. That was planned for the summer, too. He has suppresants, to time them for the breaks. God, he wishes he were off them now. The doctor nods. She starts going into more logistics, gathering consent forms and discharge papers. So Ilya starts signing papers and calling Yuna and David to update them on the situation. He texts Hayden because he knows it’s the right thing to do, to tell him and Jackie that Shane is doing alright. And then when he walks back into the room, Shane is sitting up, somewhat alert but slightly dazed. Ilya feels a rush of relief, even though he knows that Shane is okay. Immediately, he goes to Shane’s side, and Shane reaches out for him. Ilya tucks him into his side, wrapping his arms around him. “You spoke to the doctor?” he says. Shane nods. He looks up at Ilya from under his lashes. “She said that I collapsed.” “Yes. I was very worried.” He brushes Shane’s bangs away from his eyes. His hair needs a trim, maybe, but Ilya adores Shane's long hair. Shane blinks. “My heat,” he says. “This messes up all of my plans.” And his face crumples a little, his eyes suddenly glassy. “No, no,” Ilya says immediately, shushing him softly. “It’s just a little early.” “The season,” Shane wails. Ilya shakes his head. “One heat will not mess up season,” he says soothingly. He hates himself. If Ilya’s plans go his way, then Shane will be pregnant with his pup before this heat is over, and then the season will surely be disrupted. So he lies. “Just a few days without practice, and you will play again. If all goes well, we win Stanley Cup and go to the cottage, and then I fuck you until you forget your name.” Shane sniffles. “Ilya,” he says. “Will you mate me?” Ilya nods, leaning down to press a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Yes. Just as planned.” “Not in the summer!” Shane protests. “Now, Ilya!” Ilya laughs. Shane is so eager, flushed with irritation. It is endearing and adorable. “You are sure, pодной?” he asks. “We always planned for the summer.” “I don’t care what time of year it is. I want you as my mate.” Shane leans forward, his eyes wide. “Don’t you want me? Don’t you want to see your bite on my neck?” Ilya almost laughs in disbelief. Shane knows exactly how to rile him up, and right before his heat, he is demanding and needy, so unlike his lucid self. “I do, Shane,” he whispers. “I do. But you are sure?” Shane nods, some part of him soothed by Ilya’s reassurance. “I am sure,” he says. “Ilya. Please take me home.” Ilya is too weak to resist anymore. He rushes Shane out of the building and into their car, tucking him into the passenger seat with Ilya’s coat tucked around his shoulders. Shane falls asleep again on the fifteen-minute drive home, so Ilya is careful not to wake him up while he turns off the engine. He carries Shane to their bed, stripping him down to his boxers and tucking him into the carefully crafted nest. While Shane sleeps off the rest of whatever the drugs the doctor had given to stave off his heat, Ilya heads to the kitchen and takes stock of the food. He gathers protein bars and oranges, though he doubts that Shane will be in the mood for much eating. He gathers washcloths and a few extra blankets and fills several bottles of water. He knows how to take care of Shane, and his alpha is soothed by the idea that he is providing for his future mate. Eventually, though, Shane wakes up. His scent wafts through the rooms of their house, strong and full of distress. Immediately, Ilya drops what he’s doing and rushes to their bedroom. He finds Shane sitting in the middle of his nest, tears in his eyes. “Alpha,” he wails, reaching out. Immediately, Ilya is at his side again, petting a hand through his hair. “Shh, Любовь моя. I am sorry. I am here now.” “Fuck, Ilya,” Shane is pawing at his clothes with clumsy fingers. “I need you.” Ilya hushes him again, helping to pull his shirt off and unbutton his pants. “I know, I know.” Shane is so, so, needy. His desperation is blinding, so much so that when Ilya pulls away to tug off his boxers and socks, tears spill out of his eyes. Ilya has never seen him like this. Even in his past heats, he’s been coherent enough to self-soothe a little. So Ilya is quick to lay him down on his nest. When he presses Shane’s legs up, he finds that he is leaking slick, more than he’s ever seen in his life. He can’t help but lean down and lathe his tongue over that perfect hole, digging his fingers into the meat of Shane’s thick calves. “Ah!” Shane gasps. Just the taste of him makes Ilya groan, dipping his tongue into Shane’s heat with renewed vigor. God, he can’t get enough of it. Shane’s scent and taste overwhelm his senses, his cries for more in his ears. Ilya could suffocate here. Still, it’s not enough for Shane. He starts bucking his hips up into Ilya’s mouth, writhing and moaning his distress. He keens and reaches to tangle his hand in Ilya’s curls, but he fumbles, unsure if he wants to pull him away or press him deeper. And finally, when his free hand sneaks down to palm desperately at his cock, Ilya bats it away and pulls back at last. “No touching,” he orders. Shane throws his head back and whines. “Please, please, please—” “No, Shane. What is the rule?” “I—” Ilya touches Shane’s ass, his hand skating over his slick hole, his thick thighs. He grips Shane’s cock in his hand. “This is mine,” he says. “All mine. Right?” Shane is nodding, his face flushed. “Yours,” he says feverishly. Ilya climbs over him, caging him in with his arms, “Tell me the rule.” Shane swallows, the click of his throat just barely audible over their heavy breathing. “No touching what’s yours,” he whispers at last. “Good boy.” Ilya takes his chin in his hand. “Who do you belong to?” “You, Alpha.” Ilya kisses him. He kisses back hungrily, but even as Ilya nips at his bottom lip, Shane is whining in the back of his throat. Ilya forces himself to pull back. “Poor Omega,” he croons. “You must be in so much pain, waiting for me. Been so patient. What do you want, pодной?” Shane looks up at him, panting. “Please,” he gasps. “Yes, baby?” “Your pups,” Shane cries. “I want your pups, please, Alpha, please, please.” Ilya thinks his heart stops in that very moment. He can feel the air around him pause, how his breath stalls in his throat. All he can think about is Shane’s words, echoing in his mind, empty of all other thoughts. He knows that Shane is delirious, driven by pure instinct. His brain is telling him to nest, to keep his Alpha close, to hoard food and comfort, to sleep past his alarm. Most of all, it’s telling him he needs a baby. But for a moment, drunk off Shane’s scent, the taste of him on his tongue, Ilya lets himself believe. He lets himself think that Shane really does want this. That he wants pups just as much as he does. “Fuck, Shane,” he breathes. “Is that what you want? Want a baby?” Shane nods again. “Want your baby.” Fuck. “Fuck,” Ilya says. He tucks his face into Shane’s neck, breathing in his scent deeply. He kisses up his gland, teasing it with his teeth. “Want my pup? Want my baby in your belly?” “Yes, yes, yes—” The last of Ilya’s self-restraint is gone. He reaches to press Shane’s legs up, forcing him to hold himself open. Shane’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach, but Ilya continues to ignore it, focusing instead on his dripping hole. Ruthlessly, he shoves two fingers inside down to the knuckle, but Shane only keens and throws his head back, panting. “Ilya,” he gasps. Ilya ignores his pleading. He takes a few seconds, scissoring him open, but there’s no point in waiting—Shane is already so fucking wet, it takes nothing to work him open. He pulls his fingers out after just a minute, leaving Shane whining about how empty he feels. And just because he can’t help himself, he shoves his slick-covered fingers in his mouth and sucks them clean. Fuck, he can’t get enough of it. But there’s only so long he can wait until the temptation is too strong. He reaches for his cock and slicks it up, and then, to Shane’s whimpered begging for more, finally presses himself in. Shane lets out a garbled moan, and Ilya’s answering groan is just as mangled and loud. God, he’s so fucking hot and tight. His walls clench around Ilya’s cock, and Ilya nearly collapses into Shane’s chest at the sensation. Somehow, he manages to keep himself up on his forearms and slowly begins rocking into Shane. “Oh,” Shane sighs. His expression slowly loosens as he lets himself melt into the sensation, his eyelids fluttering closed. Ilya loves watching him fall apart, adores each change in his expression. “Oh, oh, please—” Ilya speeds up his thrusts and is rewarded by Shane’s answering cry. “Fuck, ah—ah, Ilya, oh god.” “Feel good, baby?” Ilya pants, his hips moving faster. “Does it feel good? Did you miss it, miss having me inside you?” “Ye—hah—yes, yes, I missed it—” “Such a fucking slut for me. Going into heat, right in front of all our teammates.” Shane moans, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Ngh—” “Was on purpose, любимый?” Ilya asks. “So everyone could see? I bet you wanted me to take you right there, make everyone watch. No?” “Oh, Alpha, please, please—” “Wanted everyone to see me claim you.” Ilya traces a finger up and down Shane’s unmarked neck, feeling his mouth water at the sight of it. Shane whines. “Wanted everyone to know who you belong to.” “Yes—yes,” Shane mewls, rocking down onto Ilya’s cock. Fuck, he’s not going to last long. He can feel his orgasm building, the tightness he gets before a knot. He speeds up his thrusts even more. “Who do you belong to?” he demands. Shane doesn’t even hesitate, not even as he’s drowning in his heat. “You, Alpha,” he pants, his eyes glazed over. Ilya presses his fingers into Shane’s gland, drinking in the scent that blooms around him. “What do you want, baby? Tell me,” he pants. “Tell me, I give you it, give you anything.” “Want your mark,” Shane gasps. “Want your mark on my neck, want your pups—please, Alpha, I’ll do anything, bite me, bite me, please—” “Want it? Want my pups?” “Please!” Ilya shifts his hand down to rest just over Shane’s abdomen, feeling his toned abs. He can’t wait to watch them soften, watch his stomach round, covered with a layer of fat. He can’t wait to see Shane pregnant, chest heavy with milk. He can’t wait to see Shane holding his baby, a fat toddler, a chubby-cheeked child—he can’t wait to see Shane’s neck, bloody, marked with his own teeth. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. He gives one last thrust into Shane’s tight heat, feels his knot expand. Shane wails, his orgasm crashing down, clenching down on Ilya’s knot, his cock splattering white over their chests. And then Ilya sinks his teeth into Shane’s neck. Fuck. Ecstasy floods his veins. It’s better than drugs, than vodka. Shane’s scent is everywhere, filling his lungs, his brain. He can feel Shane everywhere, can feel nothing else. It’s overwhelming, enough to drown in it all. If he died right now, Ilya thinks, delirious, it would not be so bad. He comes to a few minutes later, his teeth still deep in Shane’s neck, Shane breathing lightly under his body. Even when the high fades, he feels like he is surrounded by pure joy. It takes him a while to realize it is not just his joy, it’s Shane’s, in his veins, pumping through his bloodstream. He can feel him everywhere. He reluctantly releases his teeth from Shane’s neck, licking the blood off his lips and teeth. Shane’s eyes are closed, but his pretty lips are spread in a tiny, giddy smile. “Shane?” Shane’s eyes flutter open. “Alpha,” he sighs. Ilya, if possible, feels more joy flood his veins. “Hello, Любовь моя,” he says. “How are you feeling?” Shane’s smile grows. “Perfect.” Ilya sighs, driving his hips a little deeper. Fuck, he feels amazing. He has never felt happier, knowing that Shane is his, marked permanently with his bite, for everyone to see. Soon, he hopes, they’ll have a little pup in their arms. A family for his own, a baby that is theirs. Ilya reaches out to brush the hair from Shane’s eyes. “I can’t believe you are mine,” he whispers. “I’ve always been yours.” “Good.” Ilya kisses his lips gently. “Mine. My mate.” “Yours.” Shane’s eyes focus on his, still a little dazed. “Always yours.” Ilya smiles. He touches Shane’s cheeks, tracing his freckles with a fingernail. Shane’s eyelids flutter closed, and he lets out a deep sigh. “Mm.” “You should sleep,” Ilya says. Shane yawns. “Ilya,” he slurs, wrapping his limbs around his torso. In a second, his breathing slows, and the feverish flush seems to fade from his cheeks a little. Ilya smiles down at him, then settles down to sleep, too. They need their rest, after all. But after several minutes of trying and failing to doze off, Ilya blinks his eyes open. Something’s wrong with him. His blood is pumping, icy cold through his veins. It feels like his heart is racing. He has this insane desire to roll Shane up in blankets, tucking him into the nest forever. He also has this insane desire to knot Shane again, even as they’re still tied together. He wants to bite him again. It takes him a moment to realize why. “Shane,” he whispers, then louder: “Shane.” “Mm?” “Shane, I think I’m going into a rut.” Shane’s eyes open lazily, then clarity seeps into them. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. “Is that so?” he murmurs. Ilya is so fucked. He loves it so much.

Chapter End Notes

Final chapter should be posted soon enough :D I noticed a typo somewhere in the last chapter, but I can't seem to find it again. But I KNOW it's there. If someone finds it, I will give you a cookie.

Chapter 3: your blood, your bones

Chapter Summary It’s so silent for a long, long time. In the distance, Anya’s claws click on the hardwood floors. Shane just watches Ilya’s face, praying for some form of emotion. But Ilya just stares, and stares. At last, he speaks. “Shane,” he whispers. “You—you’re—”

Chapter Notes

I'm so sorry for dying and falling off the face of the earth. I went through a crazy breakup, and then I got a job offer, so I've been completely reeling. But! I've got this chapter for you, and it's 7k+ words. I've also got rid of a really boring boyfriend! It's been good news all around. Thanks for your patience with me and all your lovely comments! They really kept me going while I was pushing through this. See the end of the chapter for more notes Shane wakes up after his heat, dazed but so, so happy. As he slowly gains consciousness, he becomes aware of Ilya’s presence. He can feel his weight cradling his body—Ilya is as hot as a furnace, particularly during his rut—and the sound of his soft snoring, deep in sleep. It’s deeply comforting. But Shane can also feel the buzz of life in the back of his head, where Ilya’s wandering thoughts are warm and full of love. He can feel a faint ache, but as Shane reaches up to feel his neck, he’s not thinking of the pain at all. He runs his fingers over the raised scar, still tender, and a big smile spreads over his face. He burrows himself deeper into the blankets. Even after his heat, he has a deep desire to be closer to Ilya—he presses every inch of his body into his, sticking his nose into his neck. Ilya’s scent surrounds him, and he basks in it, that spicy, smoky smell. But now there’s a different layer to it, something honeyed and sweet. Shane soaks it all in. His heat is just a fizzle in the back of his neck, but he still has that instinctual desire to be close to Ilya—his mate. He presses closer, as much of their skin touching as physically possible. His efforts slowly cause Ilya to stir, mumbling something under his breath. Shane shifts to watch him slowly gain consciousness—with their chaotic schedules, it’s so rare for him to just bask in Ilya’s presence, taking his time. He rests his chin on Ilya’s chest. Ilya takes a while to wake up. He mutters something incoherent, shifting so his nose is tucked into Shane’s hair. He breathes in deeply, then huffs all the air out. A rumbling noise emanates from his chest, something deeply satisfied, coaxing a matching purr from the back of Shane’s throat. And then he slowly blinks open. “Доброе утро,” Shane says. A smile slowly spreads across Ilya’s face. “Good morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. He closes his eyes and digs his nose a little deeper into Shane’s hair. Shane lifts his head. Ilya is gazing at him, a quizzical look on his face. He’s frowning a little. “What is it?” Shane asks. He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb over Ilya’s cheekbones, just because he can. Ilya’s face shifts into a smile. He pets his hand through Shane’s hair, just looking at him. It’s clear from the look in his eyes that he has something he wants to say, so Shane waits patiently while he gathers his thoughts. Eventually, Ilya takes his chin, lifting it. “Shane,” he murmurs. “Would you…would you mark me?” Shane’s breath catches. It is rare for an alpha to be marked. Most of the time, omegas are the only ones to get a bite, leftover from times when alphas would take multiple omegas. Traditionalists think that marked alphas are weak, for who would submit to an omega, show that they let someone lesser stake their claim so publicly? Shane doesn’t think any of that, obviously, but he would never assume that Ilya would want to be marked by him. It’s a bit too revealing, too raw, and since they are both in the public eye so often, Shane would have never thought that Ilya would want it. But here he is, asking for it. Shane lifts his head off Ilya’s chest. “You want me to bite you?” he asks. Ilya’s expression is open, perhaps a little nervous, judging by the faint line in his brow. But he nods. “If it is something you would want.” “But”—Shane swallows—“People might judge you.” “I did not ask that,” Ilya says pointedly. “I asked if you want.” Shane thinks about it. He thinks about seeing his teeth on Ilya’s neck, a scar there for everyone to see. He thinks about Ilya showing it off to everyone, visible to their friends, their teammates, the entire world. He has to suppress a shiver at the thought. Ilya does not do things by halves—he will show his mark to everyone with eyes, letting everyone know that Shane has claimed him. “Yes,” he says honestly. “I do want.” Ilya smiles. He leans down to press a kiss to Shane’s neck, right above his new scar, before trailing up toward his face. He leaves soft butterfly kisses over his cheekbones, and then catches Shane’s lips in a deep kiss. Shane kisses back, feeling a little thrill down his spine. He knows that Ilya loves him, but it’s a bit exhilarating that Ilya would be proud to wear his mark. The kiss quickly becomes more heated, and Shane can’t suppress a moan as Ilya grinds down, the friction torturous. Shane has to pull back after a few long seconds, panting. Ilya’s eyes are dark and unblinking, trailing all over his body. “Ride me,” he says. Shane huffs out a laugh. “Gonna make me do all the work?” he asks, even as he starts shifting into position. “I did all the work for past four days,” Ilya says seriously, flipping onto his back. “I am all worn out. You have to take care of me like hot nurse.” Shane scoffs as he crawls over Ilya’s body, setting his weight on his lap. “It’s such a burden to have to help me through my heat, then?” Ilya lets his hands settle over Shane’s hips. He smiles up at Shane. “No,” he says softly. “It is an honor.” Shane laughs. He reaches down to finger himself, but he’s still fucked open from just a few hours before. Ilya is looking at him with hungry eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He can’t suppress his moan, when he sinks down on Ilya’s cock. He’s tender from his heat, sensitivity verging on dull pain, but it’s so good. Ilya seems to think so as well, as he lets out a shuddering breath under Shane’s weight. “Fuck, Hollander,” he groans. “Still so fucking tight.” Shane can barely whimper in response. He presses his forehead to Ilya’s, feeling overwhelmed in so many ways. “F-fuck,” he gasps. Ilya’s hands tighten on his waist, his thumb rubbing over his hipbones. “So perfect,” he says, his voice low as if in worship. “My lovely omega. My mate.” “Yours, yours, fuck, Ilya.” Shane braces himself on Ilya’s shoulders, shaking slightly. He’s taken Ilya so many times, but this feels frighteningly intimate, knowing that he’s going to mark Ilya as his. “Go on,” Ilya coaxes. Shane obeys slowly, lifting his hips up and slowly sinking down. They let out identical moans, Ilya’s breath hot on Shane’s neck. The sensation of being filled is so satisfying, feeling Ilya hot and thick inside him. Shane’s eyes flutter shut. “‘M not gonna last long,” he makes out, as he lifts himself again, slowly picking up the pace. “Sensitive.” Ilya hums in acknowledgment. He turns and lathes his tongue over Shane’s new mating bite. “Fuck!” Shane rocks his hips back down. His desire feels frantic, thick with want. “Definitely—definitely not gonna last long.” Ilya laughs, pressing a gentle kiss over the mark. “Is okay,” he says, his voice low. The muscles in his arms ripple as he grips Shane’s hips, helping him rock up and down. “I will not last long, either. You feel so fucking good.” Shane shudders. Ilya’s hips start rocking up, too, meeting his movements. It makes Ilya’s cock press right up against his prostate, and it’s so good that Shane thinks he sees stars. “Fuck,” he says again, and then forces Ilya’s chin up to kiss him. Ilya follows willingly, slipping his tongue into his mouth. God, kissing Ilya never gets old. Shane can feel his mind getting hazy as Ilya teasingly nips at his top lip, still rocking steadily up into him. “You look so beautiful like this,” Ilya groans. “Bouncing on my cock, taking it so well. You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Yeah,” Shane pants. “For you, Alpha.” Ilya’s hand comes up to grip the back of Shane’s neck. His thumb presses right over the indents of his teeth, still red and new. His touch is gentle but firm, sending a lightning strike of pleasure up Shane’s spine. “You’re gonna make such a good Mama,” he breathes. Shane keens. “Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” Ilya’s hand grips tighter, just the slightest bit, but it’s so perfect. “You’ll give me so many pups, won’t you? Prettiest fucking omega, can’t imagine what you’ll look like round with my baby. God, you’re so fucking pretty.” Shane rocks down faster. “Ilya,” he gasps. “Please.” Ilya’s thumb presses against his bottom lip. “Yes?” “Please. Give me your pups.” Ilya groans. “Fuck. Shane.” Shane can help it. He rocks down faster, chasing the building feeling behind his gut. “Alpha, Alpha,” he whines. “Gimme—please, please, want it so bad, want your pups.” “C’mon, baby,” Ilya encourages. “Come for me, that’s it. Does it feel good, fucking yourself on my cock?” Shane nods frantically. “You look so fucking good like this. On my lap.” Ilya tugs him down for another kiss, hot and desperate. “Fuck, Shane.” Shane keens, gasping into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya is bucking upwards, matching each one of his movements. It feels so good, his thick cock right up against his prostate, his hot hands roaming over his body, his tongue slipping into his mouth. “‘M close.” “Yeah? Go on—come for me, bite me—” His orgasm takes him a little by surprise, a shock up his spine. Shane gasps for air as he sprays white between their chests, still rocking down on Ilya’s cock. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, fuck—” He can tell that Ilya’s getting close, his thrusts speeding up, how he’s mouthing along Shane’s neck desperately. “Bite,” he orders. “Bite.” Shane sinks his teeth into Ilya’s neck. The noise that Ilya makes is like he’s seeing heaven. He shakes as he cums, his knot expanding. His hands grip Shane so tight he thinks they might bruise later, Ilya’s fingerprints lined up along his hips. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, Shane—” Ilya’s presence is all-encompassing, surrounding Shane in a soft bubble. All he knows is the taste of Ilya on his tongue, the sound of his name on Ilya’s lips, the feeling of his knot inside of him. Shane feels euphoric. He feels floaty and dazed, not quite conscious. His heart pumps his blood, filled not with oxygen but Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. He breathes in Ilya’s scent, tastes the tang of his blood, feeling the heat of his cum so deep inside him. As he slowly comes back down to earth, he can feel Ilya’s hand trace down his spine. He settles down on Ilya’s chest, trying to catch his breath. But when he tries to get comfortable, something tickles at the back of his mind. There’s something distinctly missing from the usual quiet of their apartment. Something fluffy and distinctly dog-shaped, something that’s not currently whining at the bedroom door begging to be let in. A shock goes through him, and Shane pushes himself up abruptly. “Ilya!” he hisses. Ilya starts up, his eyes flying open. “Wh–what’s wrong?” “Ilya,” Shane says urgently. “Where’s Anya?” Ilya laughs. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says, petting a hand down Shane’s side. “With your parents. I got them to pick her up from daycare.” Shane lets out a breath. “Good. Thank you.” “Of course not. How could I forget our baby?” Shane blinks. Ilya just looks up at him, a sleepy, half-smile on his face. “What?” he asks. Shane can’t tell him. How nice it is to hear Ilya say baby like that, like something that’s theirs, something shared, something half of each of them. “Nothing,” he hears himself saying. “I’m okay.” Ilya nods, his eyes blinking closed. Shane forces himself to settle down again. He doesn’t know why he wants it so much. He has Ilya’s mark on his neck, his bite on Ilya’s. He is utterly owned, Ilya’s for the rest of their lives. Why can’t he just be happy for a moment? Then Ilya’s hand settles on his stomach. Protective, owning, as if he knows, as if he can tell just what Shane has been dreaming of. And just for a moment, Shane lets himself imagine. He basks in it, the fantasy that Ilya wants him pregnant, wants children with him, would be proud to see him with his pups. He’s been so impatient, so selfish, and he’s felt so much guilt—for now, he just wants. He closes his eyes and thinks of it—life sprouting, a part of him, a part of Ilya. Everything will work out, he tells himself. * * * A few weeks go by. Shane’s behaviors become a little less pronounced, and slowly, he starts easing back into his usual routine. He starts returning to his normal self, the less crazed, the less desperate version. He feels great, actually. Going off his birth control has helped him more than it has harmed him. Going through a heat always leaves him a little less anxious, a little less needy. He and Ilya return to the ice, back to the pattern of practices and games. Shane cannot help but feel disappointed. He’s not nauseated. He’s not more fatigued. He feels alert, awake. His moods are normal. He’s not tender nor cramping, nor has he had any headaches. He hasn’t noticed a single sign. It’s fine, he tells himself, even as his brain screams that he is a terrible excuse for an omega. A heat, a rut, and a mating, and he couldn’t manage to get pregnant? The thought terrifies him. Infertility is a possibility that is too troubling to even comprehend. So he grits his teeth and throws himself back into hockey. He’ll have another heat in the summer, and Ilya will go into rut. Maybe then, when he’s less stressed, things will work out. And until then, Shane will keep trying. What else could he do? He could probably convince Ilya not to use any protection, but it’s the postseason. They never have as much sex when the Stanley Cup is on the line, when it’s so close within their grasp. They’ve agreed to it in past seasons, keeping things tame, only the occasional handjob or blowjob when they found the time. Shane hates his practical past self. He can figure this out. Post-mating honeymoon phase, they’re bound to have sex at least a little. * * * The playoffs are always exciting, and the Centaurs have become an unstoppable machine. They’re in the top spot for the Atlantic Division, completely sweeping Buffalo in the first round. Toronto is a more formidable machine, but they manage to scrape by in the sixth game. Washington is tough. It’s several long, arduous games, leaving the team worn to the bone. It goes to seven games, each one nail-biting. But in the final game ends in overtime, with the Cens claiming a one-goal lead. After each round, Shane convinces Ilya to indulge. It’s almost too easy, how much Ilya wants it. He was right—post-mating, Ilya is almost as insatiable as him, on him as soon as the door closes behind them. And then it’s the finals. * * * The morning of the game five of the Stanley Cup, Shane is puking his guts out into the toilet. It’s fine, he tells himself, as he flushes the sick down. His next heat should be coming in a few weeks, and he usually feels a bit nauseated before them. Maybe it’s just coming up sooner than anticipated. Still, he usually doesn’t throw up—just feels a bit dizzy and sick to the stomach. Anya is in the bathroom. She’s poking her wet nose at his knees, whining. He pets her in a halfhearted attempt to soothe her, but it’s clearly not working. She just looks up at him with watery eyes, blowing air in his face. Back when he was much younger, in middle school, his anxiety would make him puke before a big test or game. But he hasn’t done that in many years. Is he sick? Shane feels his forehead, but he can’t tell if he’s feverish. He doesn’t feel as bad as he felt when he woke up. He’s not as dizzy, either. Maybe just a bit of food poisoning, then, right? He checks his watch. It’s five-thirty, hours before he has to wake up, and even longer until they have to be on the ice. He’s fucking exhausted—his body is begging him to be back in bed—but his mind is buzzing, and he feels strangely jittery. He brushes his teeth, deliberating whether he should try to go back to sleep or if he should stay up for longer. Eventually, common sense wins out over his pre-game nerves, and he shuffles back into the bedroom. Anya follows at his heels, her nails clicking on the hardwood. Ilya is dead to the world, his face shoved into the pillows. Shane sometimes wonders how he’s able to breathe. His nest has stuck around since his last heat. Shane can’t bear to take it apart, and even weekly laundry has become a war between his instincts and his desire for cleanliness. He can’t strip the bed of sheets without dressing himself in Ilya’s clothes, and the nest feels wrong until Ilya scents every blanket and article of clothing. Still, some part of him is deeply soothed every time he is in his nest. He’s started spending his free time just lying in it, reading a book, or answering emails. Ilya adores it, napping in it every chance he can. Anya also adores it, nosing her way between them in the middle of the night, even though she knows she’s not supposed to sleep in the bed. Shane can’t resist her. It’s easy to dive back into bed, burrowing himself in the blankets. Honestly, he’s kind of sick of the season. He’s tired of traveling from city to city, keeping an eagle eye on his calories and protein. He wants to be at the cottage with Ilya, eating burgers and pasta, or making another nest. A secret part of him is so eager for his heat—having Ilya close to him all the time, fucking him and cuddling him. And, hopefully, Ilya will get him pregnant. He shivers at the thought, letting his fingers trail over his abdomen, then up to the scar on his neck. God, he can’t fucking wait to get pregnant. Perhaps a few years ago, the idea would seem terrifying, but he’s ready. He’s been ready for a long time. He can’t wait to start a family with Ilya, to raise a child, to watch them grow up. He should tell Ilya that he went off his birth control. Ilya probably wouldn’t be mad—just a little annoyed that he kept it a secret for so long. The guilt of it is gnawing at Shane from the inside out, but he can’t seem to regret it. He snuggles into Ilya’s side, and Anya is quick to follow, wriggling her way into the middle of the bed without any guilt in her big, dark eyes. Immediately, Ilya stirs a little—usually he’s such a heavy sleeper, but recently he’s been easier to wake up. “Любимый?” he slurs. “Sorry,” Shane whispers. Ilya mumbles something incoherent and flops over, right onto Shane’s chest. “Not morning yet.” “No, not yet. Go back to sleep.” “Okay.” Ilya nuzzles into his neck, taking in a deep breath. “Smell so fucking good.” Shane almost laughs. He just puked up his dinner, but apparently his scent isn’t putrid. “Sleep, Ilya.” Ilya does, dead to the world in a second. Shane exhales, petting a hand through his curls. It soothes him, having Ilya tucked into his chest, right by his mating mark. Listening to his soft exhales lulls Shane to sleep soon enough, safe and warm. * * * Winning the Stanley Cup for the fourth time feels just as good as the first. Hearing the roar of his home crowd as Shane lifts it into the air is like touching heaven. It feels different, somehow, knowing that these are the fans that he grew up beside, that they raised him from this dirt. Ottawa has always been his home. It’s made even better by the fact that Ilya is the one to pass him the cup. He’s beaming from ear to ear, glowing with sweat and pride. As Shane hoists it into the air, Ilya kisses him firmly on the mouth, and Shane can feel him smiling into it. Their teammates surround them, a halo of black and red. Their cheers are deafening. His parents are there, of course. They join him on the ice, along with all of the other wives and children, family and friends. His father is crying as he wraps the two of them into a tight hug, all while his mother cradles his face in her hands. She presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, whispering something in his ear. The rest of the night feels endless. First, Ilya and Shane are shoved into press conferences and interviews, barely a second after they’ve stepped off the ice. It’s made worse by the fact that it’s a home game, that fans are screaming their names, reaching out for a touch of their golden boys. Reporters shout questions, all while Shane stammers out something incoherent. Still, he can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. Eventually, they make it to the locker room, where their teammates and staff are waiting with bottles of champagne. They’re sprayed from head to toe, and Shane can’t even be bothered about the sticky residue it leaves, mixing with the salt of his sweat. Ilya certainly doesn’t mind at all, pressing wet, messy kisses all over his face. Bood quickly declares where the celebration is taking place, and the locker room roars with approval. Shane laughs at them all as he slips into the showers, eager to get the stickiness of his body and to change into something other than his gear. Ilya is called off for another interview. They follow the team to the local bar, a favorite of their team’s. Everyone is there, downing beers and dancing, half of them already drunk enough to be stumbling around half-blind. Shane usually isn’t much of a drinker, especially not when there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head, citing statistics about conceiving while consuming alcohol. But even for him, it would be very, very strange not to have a drink at a celebration for the Stanley Cup, so he orders a beer. Bood is already sufficiently drunk by the time Ilya starts on his second drink, Shane still taking tentative sips of his first beer. He lifts his half-full mug into the air, standing on the bar. “Here’s,” he bellows, slurring only a little, “to our fucking Captain!” The bar bursts into cheers, from the team to the staff to the wives and bartenders. Ilya, despite his insistence that Russians never blush, is a little pink in the cheeks. He too stands, the ice in his glass sloshing dangerously. “To Bood,” he shouts, “for that beautiful fucking pass in the second period!” The pounds and roars of approval seem to shake the ground. Shane is beaming from ear to ear. Ilya continues, standing on the table now. “To Wiebe,” he announces. “For believing in us when we were a shitty fucking team. To Hayesy”—he turns to Wyatt, grin so wide it shows off every one of his teeth—“for being an iron wall.” He points out every person in the room, shouting their names to cheers and laughter. Shane just watches him, his face flushed from alcohol and exertion, his curls shining in the bar’s dim light. He’s so beautiful. Shane fills with pride, a bubble of happiness. “And,” Ilya says. “To the best mate and hockey player.” He’s beaming, his eyes dancing with light. “My Shane.” “To Hollander!” Bood bellows. Ilya hops off the table, reaching out. Shane catches him, and Ilya kisses him deeply, his hands around his face. Shane feels so loved. He’s so happy—surrounded by the people he cares about, the accomplishments he’s done, everything he has overcome. He has Ilya in his arms, his mark on his neck. It’s so perfect. “Gross!” Someone yells at them. Ilya flips them off. He pulls away, but plants another kiss on Shane’s forehead, then each of his cheeks. “My Shane,” he says. Shane grins up at him. “So,” he says. “Best hockey player, huh?” “Yes,” Ilya says. “Maybe. Tied with me.” “Is that so?” Ilya nods. “But I win luckiest man alive.” He kisses Shane once more. “I have beautiful mate, and I just won Stanley Cup. What more could I want?” * * * It’s a couple of weeks later. They’re at the cottage now. The awards ceremony has just passed, and Shane and Ilya have packed things up from their apartment, happy to settle down for the summer. Anya is ecstatic to have them both home all the time, circling their legs and sitting in the middle of the kitchen, getting in everyone’s way. Media duties have petered out, and Shane has been looking forward to relaxing. But so far, it hasn’t been particularly relaxing. Since they had won the Stanley Cup, his nausea has only gotten worse. It’s been weeks— theoretically, it should have been gone by now, right? He feels fine otherwise—a little fatigued and crabby—but he’s put off his symptoms as losing sleep from the nausea. Ilya is getting more and more concerned. He was, at first, unwilling to go to the cottage at all. This was very unlike him, but he was nervous about the distance to the closest hospital, in case anything went wrong. They had argued about it, but Shane had won in the end—he had scheduled a doctor’s appointment for the next week, and they went to the cottage. Ilya had made him promise that he’d go to the emergency room if it had gotten much worse. So far, it hasn’t been too bad. Shane has been tired and clingy, but Ilya has been doting on him constantly. “We just won the Cup together,” he insists. “You are tired. So rest.” So Shane shuffles around the cottage, taking naps and nibbling on things that don’t upset his stomach too much. Ilya cooks mostly, pasta, chicken, and other things. One afternoon, he tries to make salmon, but the smell is so bad that Shane has to go sit in the backyard for a while, his head between his knees. Ilya comes out after a minute, sitting next to him. Anya follows him, her favorite dad, a loyal hound. Shane is still hunched over. He takes a tentative sniff, but the smell of fish is completely gone —Ilya just smells like his normal smoky scent, with a hint of their detergent. He must have changed clothes. Ilya’s hand pets through his hair. “Shane,” he says. “If you are not better by tomorrow, I am driving you to emergency room first thing in the morning.” Shane shuts his eyes tightly. “Okay.” Ilya lets out a breath. “Good,” he says. His thumb strokes back and forth, right behind Shane’s ear. “I am going to get groceries and stop by your parents’ place. Do you need anything?” “Could you get me ginger ale?” Shane croaks out. Ilya laughs. “That was already on the list.” “And chocolate. Maybe.” Ilya nods. “Dark chocolate. The kind with salted caramel.” Shane yawns. “I’m going to take a nap, maybe.” “Alright, моя любовь.” Ilya kisses his forehead. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He gets up and leaves. Shane sits there for another minute, breathing in and out. Anya noses at his hand. “I’m okay,” he tells her. “I’m just being a baby. I just need to buck up and do it, right?” She doesn’t answer, for obvious reasons, but she does lick his hand, angling her head to look inside. She probably just wants food, but Shane takes it as a sign. He straightens up, forcing himself to stand and make his way inside. He gives Anya a treat, because he loves her, and even if he’s on a diet doesn’t mean she has to be. And then he heads upstairs, his legs only a little weak in the knees. He had bought the tests back in Ottawa, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to take one. He had stuffed them into the back of the bathroom cabinet, behind the extra rolls of toilet paper. In an ideal world, Ilya would be here while he took it, and he would hold Shane as they waited. But this was not an ideal world. Shane’s done this to himself, so he should suffer the consequences. What does he want? He wants a baby. But is he ready for all the things that come along with it? Can he deal with telling Ilya the truth, the fact that he’s broken his mate’s trust? Is he ready to not play hockey for months, maybe missing an entire season? He’s getting older. Hockey is still enjoyable, that’s for sure, but he’s slower and a little more tired, day by day. Ilya has been talking about retirement a little, now that they’ve won a Stanley Cup together. That wouldn’t be so bad. He knows he needs to tell Ilya the truth. He can’t deal with the guilt any longer. He takes the test, leaving it on the counter and sinking down to the floor. He stares at the clock hanging on the wall, watches the seconds tick away. It’s fucking terrifying. He’s hit with exactly what he has gotten himself into—he has lied to his mate, his Alpha, and now he might be pregnant. It’s an agonizing fifteen minutes. In that short time, Shane has practically worked himself into a frenzy—Ilya wouldn’t abandon him, would he? He will be mad when Shane tells him that he’s been lying. But will he be mad when he discovers that Shane is pregnant? Or will he be happy? The clock shows it’s been fifteen minutes. Shane takes a breath, then another. Ilya will not abandon him. He might be mad, but Shane can handle that. They will figure this out, whatever it is. The test shows two perfect, unbroken lines. Shane cries, alone in the bathroom, clutching it in his hands. But through his guilt and his fear, he can’t help but feel happy. * * * “Shane, where are you?” Ilya’s voice is faint through the walls. Shane, still sitting on the floor, reaches up to open the door. Anya greets him first, shoving her nose into the crack. She licks at his face, at the tears, but quickly pads back out the door. She comes back with Ilya in tow, then bounds away. Ilya’s face is all pinched with worry. “Shane,” he says. “Shane, why are you on the floor? Have you been sick this whole time—?” Shane hands him the test. Ilya falls silent. He reaches to take the test with a shaking hand and stares down at it. Shane can hardly bear to look at him. It’s so silent for a long, long time. In the distance, Anya’s claws click on the hardwood floors. Shane just watches Ilya’s face, praying for some form of emotion. But Ilya just stares, and stares. At last, he speaks. “Shane,” he whispers. “You—you’re—” “I’m pregnant,” Shane says. It feels so strange to say it out loud, but it’s true and real. “Fuck, Ilya, I—” Ilya sweeps him into his arms, lifting him to his feet. Shane squeaks. Ilya is hugging him so tightly, Shane’s arms trapped at his sides. Quickly, Shane realizes that Ilya is laughing. “Shane,” he says. “Fuck, Shane.” “You’re happy?” Shane manages to say. Ilya nods. He sets Shane down, but he settles his hands on his hips, his thumb rubbing back and forth over Shane’s stomach. “You—are you? I don’t know, it feels—it feels like it was meant to happen. No?” Shane finds himself nodding. “I know we said that we would wait a little longer,” he says. “But I don’t know, I was just so—I just—” Ilya’s nodding too. He kisses Shane, and Shane can’t help it; he dives into it. It’s salty—it takes him a moment to realize that Ilya is crying, and maybe he is too. “You really want this?” Shane asks. Ilya nods. “More than anything,” he says hoarsely. “Do you—” “Yes,” Shane says immediately. He doesn’t even have to think about it. He has thought about it so much these past few months, mulled it over in his head a thousand times. He’s so sure about it, as sure as he is about Ilya. “So—” “We are keeping the baby?” Shane nods. And then he laughs, and then maybe a tear or two leaks out, too. Ilya wraps his arms around him, and it all just feels so right. “Shane,” Ilya murmurs, worshipful. He kisses him, once, then twice. “Shane, my Shane.” Shane kisses him back. “Are you happy?” Ilya nods. He settles his hand over Shane’s stomach, just like he’s been doing for the past couple of months. Shane wonders whether, unconsciously, he knew. Shane settles his hands over Ilya’s. “It must have been my heat.” Ilya lets out a laugh, disbelieving. “Two months ago. We didn’t notice.” For a moment, Shane has a brief flicker of horror. “I was still playing,” he realizes. “Do you think—maybe—” “I am sure it is fine,” Ilya says automatically. “You were careful, not many hits, not many fights. You will be fine, and we will check with the doctor, and everything will be alright.” Shane nods. He swallows. He knows, now, that he can’t live with his secrets any longer. Even now, they’re eating him from the inside out. “Ilya,” he says. “I have something to tell you.” Ilya nods, but it’s clear that he’s only half paying attention. He has Shane’s shirt rucked up, and he’s tracing circles on it with the tip of his finger. His face is full of awe, his eyes wide. “Ilya. It’s important.” Ilya looks up then. “Yes, моя любовь?” “I stopped taking my birth control,” Shane admits. The room is dead silent for a moment. Ilya seems to have stopped breathing, staring at him with those hazel eyes. After several long, agonizing moments, he speaks, his voice hoarse. “You…” “I stopped taking it,” Shane says. His gaze drops to his hands because looking Ilya in the eyes is too much for him, not when he’s sharing his darkest secret, one that he’s kept close to his chest for so long. “Almost six months ago.” Ilya sits up slightly. He’s silent for a while longer, and then— “I know.” Shane’s head jerks up. “You went into heat during practice,” Ilya says slowly. “Doctor gave me the forms. You had already updated them, because you do not lie to doctors. You told them that you went off it.” Shane swallows. “Yeah.” “She told me that chances of conceiving were higher, if we mated during that heat.” His breath catches in his throat. Ilya is not looking away from him—his voice is steady, honest. “I told her we were planning to mate in the summer. And she said to not plan for another heat.” And then, if that wasn’t enough to make Shane’s entire world reel, Ilya continues. “Our condoms expired. I didn’t replace them.” Shane can’t believe his ears. Ilya knew he wasn’t on birth control. More than that, he knew that mating would increase the chance of a pup. And he still took Shane home and fucked him raw, and bit his claim. And he didn’t buy more condoms. “I hid your suppressants,” Shane says. He can hardly believe what he’s saying. He’s barely admitted it to himself yet. Ilya had found them anyway, tucked into the back of a bathroom cabinet instead of on his bedside like usual. But hiding them had soothed some part of Shane’s brain, one that demanded that he try everything, the one that needed to become pregnant. Skipping just a few days was just enough for Ilya to go into rut, timed perfectly with Shane’s heat and their mating. Everything was aligned, just as Shane had planned. He knows he should feel more guilty. He does feel guilty for hiding and lying to his mate for months. But he can’t feel guilty for getting pregnant. Ilya just stares at him. His eyes are wide with wonder. “Shane,” he says. “If you wanted a baby so badly, you should have just talked to me.” Shane bursts out laughing, but his eyes are still wet. He’s usually good about keeping the tears locked away, but the sheer relief of Ilya’s joy and getting the truth off of his chest—and maybe also the hormones—are making them spill over his cheeks. “Fuck you,” he manages to say. “You should’ve talked to me about it.” “Okay, okay.” Ilya kisses his cheeks, catching the tears before they drip to his shirt. “Anything for you. Carrying my pup.” “We can’t keep these kinds of secrets anymore,” Shane says, trying to remain firm. “Yes, anything.” “Ilya. I’m serious.” Ilya nods. He pulls back, cupping Shane’s face in his hands, brushing away the last of the tears. “I am also serious. Anything. I will tell you.” Shane nods. Another rush of guilt fills him, overtaking his lungs, his chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he blurts out, “that I went off my birth control. I just—I don’t know what came over me, it was just too much. I woke up one morning, and I couldn’t live with myself if I took another pill. I wanted a baby so fucking badly. Still want one.” And then, because he’s fucking pregnant, he bursts into tears. Immediately, Ilya is there, wrapping his arms around Shane and holding him so, so tightly. “Shh, no, Shane,” he soothes. “I am sorry, too. I did not tell you about what the doctor told me. And I didn’t buy more condoms.” “Fuck the stupid condoms,” Shane sobs. “Stop fucking talking about them.” Ilya chokes out a laugh, and Shane realizes that he’s crying, too. He lifts his head to see tears dripping down his perfect golden skin. “Okay,” Ilya says, hoarsely. “I will.” “I just wanted a baby. Your baby.” Ilya nods. “I wanted one too. So fucking badly. You have no idea.” “I kept imagining it. A pup, with your hair or your eyes. I thought about it all the time—I dreamed about it, too. I knew it was stupid, going off in the middle of the season, but everything I read told me it could take months to conceive, and I wanted it so badly—” “I imagined too. Baby Shane Hollander, with perfect freckles and perfect black hair.” Ilya presses a long kiss to the crown of Shane’s head. “Imagined you round with my pup. So perfect.” Shane is crying again. “You’re going to be such a good dad,” he sobs. Ilya pauses, and Shane can feel his hands shake a little. He sits up, reaching to take them in his hands. “Don’t think about that,” he begs. “You’re not like your father, or your brother. You love so deeply, and you take such good care of me. I’ve seen you with Hayden’s or our teammates’ kids. You are going to be a good father.” Ilya nods, slowly. He squeezes Shane’s hands. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I love you.” Shane melts, just like every time Ilya says that. “God, I love you,” he sobs. He untangles his hands from Ilya’s grasp to wrap his arms around Ilya’s shoulders. “I love you so much.” Ilya’s arms wrap around Shane, and he holds him tight to his chest. “My perfect Shane,” he breathes. “I could not be happier. You will be the best father.” Shane takes a deep breath, and then another, and then another. And then—“Fuck,” he says suddenly. “Fuck—Ilya, I had a beer at the party—” Immediately, Ilya places a soothing hand on his back. “Shh, no,” he says. “Everything is fine. Baby will be fine. You barely drank anything.” “But—” Ilya puts his hand on the back of Shane’s neck, and Shane shuts up. “Here,” Ilya says. “You will go sit on bed, and I will bring you cup of tea. And then you will sit and drink your tea, and I will Google. Okay?” Shane swallows. It’s a difficult thing to manage, but Ilya is releasing his smoky scent in soothing waves, and it’s so difficult to let his anxieties take over. “Okay,” he breathes. Ilya nods. He reaches around Shane and hoists him into the air. Shane takes a shaky breath and buries his face into Ilya’s neck. He takes big inhales as Ilya makes his way to their bedroom. When Ilya settles him into the middle of the nest and begins to pull away, he has to suppress a whine in his throat. Ilya seems to sense his distress. He reaches out to smooth back Shane’s hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Back very soon,” he says. Shane nods. He tries to relax, but there’s something distinctly wrong with the nest. He starts fussing with it, rearranging their pillows and blankets. He’s been doing this whenever he’s nervous, restructuring and fiddling until it’s up to satisfaction. Ilya comes back soon enough to find Shane in the middle of fluffing blankets. He’s cradling a mug of green tea in his hands, blowing on it gently. “Hot,” he warns, as he passes it to Shane. Shane takes it with careful hands and tries to settle back into the pillows. Ilya shuffles in next to him, careful to avoid jostling anything. He pulls out his phone, and Shane forces himself not to look as he googles. He sips at his tea tentatively. Eventually, Ilya turns off his phone and sets it on the bedside table. “Completely fine,” he promises. “You did nothing wrong.” Shane breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay.” Ilya smiles. He snuggles in closer and lays a hand on Shane’s belly, sneaking his hand under his shirt. Shane’s firm muscles have softened a little, a roundness that wasn’t there before— or maybe he’s just imagining it. “Wow,” he whispers. Shane settles a hand over his. He can’t believe he missed all the signs up until now, the sickness and bits of fatigue. He’d pinned the changes in his body to age—he’s no longer in his early twenties, young and spry. For a moment, a brief bout of anxiety rises in his chest. Ilya adores his body, but will he still feel the same way when Shane’s body morphs through his pregnancy? Will he still love the stretch marks, the roundness, and swelling? But as he looks down at his mate, Shane can only see the awe on Ilya’s face. His fingers trace his stomach with a careful reverence, his lips parted slightly. Every bit of anxiety ebbs away. How could he be worried about that? He has this sudden desire to have Ilya closer, to have every inch of skin he has touching Ilya’s. Fuck. He sets his mug down, still half-full. “Ilya,” he says. “Come here. Please.” Ilya doesn’t look up. He’s moved on to pressing kisses to Shane’s belly, his thumb rubbing along his happy trail. “Alpha,” Shane tries again. He looks up then, and Shane almost laughs. His pupils are blown so wide, his irises just a thin rim. “Yes?” Shane tugs at his shirt a little. “C’mon.” Ilya obeys, trailing kisses up his stomach, then his chest, then over his mating bite. “My mate,” he murmurs. He kisses Shane deeply, hot and needy. “My perfect mate, carrying my pups.” “Fuck me,” Shane begs. Ilya laughs. “Anything,” he says, his smile written all over his face. “Anything at all for you.” Ilya fucks him gently. They both cry a little, maybe, even when Ilya’s cock is pressed right up against Shane’s prostate, even when Ilya is busy pressing kisses all over Shane’s face. Afterward, they curl up together in the nest. Shane frets a little, and Ilya soothes him easily. They talk about how their baby will look, how Yuna and David will react, what their teammates and friends will say. Ilya settles his hand on Shane’s stomach, possessive and protective. Shane can’t stop kissing him, desperately needing him as close as possible. “I love you,” Ilya says, again and again. And Shane knows that everything will be alright.

Chapter End Notes

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End Notes

If you're interested, chat with me on Tumblr where I will no doubt be reblogging gifs of F1 drivers and Heated Rivalry. My normal pseud is justagaybean, where I write a lot of Lestappen and will hopefully be posting a baseball AU soonish. I will hopefully write more Heated Rivalry and post it to this series! Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!