Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Omegaverse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Alpha Shane Hollander, minor Bloodplay, Biting, Dirty Talk, the one where shane has to fight his alpha instincts to get fucked, surprise! he's in rut, danger kink lowkey, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, they're playing games with each other, set between the all-stars game and the cliff hit somehow, shane would like to be possessed in his entirety, Possessive Shane Hollander, instincts versus desire, Blood, the want to be consumed

Language:

English

Series:

Part 12 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-17 Words: 8,324 Chapters: 1/1

baby, put some faith in me (i want you to violate me)

Summary

The thing about sex with Ilya Rozanov is that Shane can’t chill out about it.

The predator that lurks under his skin is unable to settle, fighting endlessly against his hands, his touch, the feeling of his fingers curling at the nape of his neck. It's always a fight, even when Shane tries to be good, some sharp-tongued creature stirring in his chest, his instincts fired up and honed on the ice.

Ilya, he thinks, enjoys it.

OR: Shane's rut arrives. So does his bloodthirstiness. And, even worse, his honesty.

Notes

i'm an avid cherrypicker of abo and allude to homebrewed rules more often than not. as always, let's get weird with it, you know?

The thing about sex with Ilya Rozanov is that Shane can’t chill out about it. 

The predator that lurks under his skin is unable to settle, fighting endlessly against his hands, his touch, the feeling of his fingers curling at the nape of his neck. It's always a fight, even when Shane tries to be good, some sharp-tongued creature stirring in his chest, his instincts fired up and honed on the ice. 

Ilya, he thinks, enjoys it. 

There's an expression that appears on his face when they're in the thick of fucking, a cruelly smug smile that curves over his lips, satisfaction that melts through his brow. 

Alpha, he likes to croon, when he has Shane on his back, a hand fitted around his neck, fingers pressing into sweat-slick skin so, so carefully. So good for me. So sweet.

The first time he'd said it, Shane had almost broken his fingers in an attempt to flip them; heated lust and vicious anger and the taste of electric greed buzzing in his mouth. He'd surged against the grip, writhed underneath him, forced down, and made to take it as Rozanov had split him open with firm, rolling thrusts.  

It had been lush agony. It had been bitterly euphoric. 

Now, when they fuck, Shane has a better idea of how to let his instincts ebb and flow, of how to let them muddle his senses, how to let the rage temper into lust, tip ever so agonizingly into the sweet swell of pleasure. 

Alpha, Ilya can croon, and Shane can let it roll around his body. Not too much; no, there's blood between them always, heated and sticky, staining every snatched victory, every vicious pump of Ilya's hips, every graze of canines against his lips. 

Tonight, though, Shane can taste the grit of hunger on the back of his teeth, can lick across the sharp iron of his bitten-through cheek, can feel the rush of blood pooling in his cock as the door swings open and Rozanov saunters through. 

“Ah,” he says, stilling in the entrance as the door softly closes behind him. The sharp smell of rain follows him in; musky petrichor and the scent of swollen, feverish desire that rolls off of Ilya as he lifts a hand to scrape his blocker off. It's an answer, Shane's sure, to his scent—fresh snowmelt and undertones of bitter, limey ginger—that spills freely from his skin. “You are an ambush.” 

Shane inhales, the taste of Rozanov coating his tongue. He flexes his hands, curling them into fists, letting the sharp bite of his nails against his palm settle him even as wrath coils in his navel. He's gonna ruin someone's life tonight, and he doesn't even know which one of them he's talking about. 

Maybe he'll get lucky enough and ruin both of their lives. 

“Take off your shoes,” he says, instead of anything else. He wants to sink his teeth into Ilya, wants to claw at the meat of his back, wants to taste blood and spit and cum until he can't figure out what's what as it fills his mouth. He thinks he's going a little bit insane; he's never felt so free. “I don't want wet dirt tracked in.” 

Ilya arches his brow, an unimpressed look on his face that even Shane can see in the dim lighting. He's mostly bathed in shadow, the low, thick clouds and setting sun graying out the hall even more than usual. The only light in the apartment is the fire flickering in his bedroom upstairs, casting strips of amber light down his stairs, the edge of it just barely kissing the back of Shane's legs.

“And this is your order?” he says, toeing off his game day shoes, the heel clicking against the tile. Paul Evans, his usual, Rose had told him, when she was still trying to teach him about fashion. Some luxury Italian brand that Shane doesn't get. He'll take his comfortable Reeboks, thank you very much. “Your one order of the night?” He clicks his tongue, neatly nudging them up against the wall, just like Shane likes them. “A waste. Shoes, Hollander? Really?” 

Shane fights the urge to lunge at him, furious with want and sick with desire. He hates him. He's pretty sure he loves him. 

“We’ll see,” he says, narrowing his eyes when Ilya smirks. 

“Is not much to see,” Ilya corrects, gently tugging his jacket off. He hangs it on the hook Shane now thinks of as his instinctively, and it only serves to make Shane more irritated, restlessness surging under his skin. He breathes in, slowly, letting his lungs fill with air as he stands and listens to Ilya needle at him. “Night will end as it always does, da? You on your back, crying for more, taking it so sweet.” He licks his lips, his eyes darkening as he coos, “Belly up for your alpha.” 

The snarl bursts from Shane's throat without thought, instinctive and loud; the sound of an enraged alpha set on defending his home. Ilya doesn't even blink, and Shane sinks his teeth into his cheek again, swallowing the sharp mouthful of blood as the vocalization sputters out to a low hum deep within.

An ember catches internally, and Shane starts to burn, heat crackling up his spine as he straightens. 

“I'm going to kill you,” Shane manages, when the sparks of anger have lifted, the haze thinning ever so slightly. He licks his lips, blood on his tongue. “You're insane.” 

“No,” Ilya says, easily. He steps into the room, his eyes intent on Shane's. Fuck, but he looks good in his dark gray suit, lethal with prowling grace. It's no wonder he's consistently called the alpha of the ice. “I just know you.”

The words land as though an anchor dragging through the muck, stirring up sentiment better left buried. 

“Shut up,” Shane snaps. Tension crackles as Ilya advances, the sofa between them. He could vault it easily, slam Ilya against the wall, could drag his body close, could roll around in his scent, could dig his nails in and get them slick with blood, with cum, with spit.

Ilya steps forward again, and all of Shane snaps to attention, fixated on the shift of his weight, the slide of his socked feet across the wood. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, his eyes dark as a sinful smirk begins to spread across his face. “You are in rut.” 

“No,” Shane says, startled. He snarls again when Ilya steps forward, the sound cutting off as soon as he retreats. 

Rozanov flicks a look his way, his mouth still curved into a dagger of rictus glee, bloodthirsty need on his face. 

Shane pauses, thinking over the past few days. He has been more on edge, lately, and he did nearly start a brawl on the ice tonight, riled and greedy and angry for no fucking reason, and he's been craving sushi for some goddamn reason and—

“Shit.” 

Ilya grins at him, looking delighted. “Will make you take it tonight,” he says, keeping his gaze fixed on Shane, even as he starts to peel off his suit jacket. “Do not worry, Hollander. I know you want to be sweet for me.” 

Shane bares his teeth, shaking his head. “You can't fuck me, not when I'm in fucking rut, Rozanov. Be fucking for real.” 

“I am not asking,” Ilya says, decisive enough that Shane pauses, the rage banking for a moment as he meets his gaze, all teasing stripped away. 

For a moment, they're still, staring at each other. 

This is when Shane knows he should shake his head. Knows he should point at the door, knows that if he says no, Ilya will leave, will listen. He knows it's his only chance; knows that if he doesn't, things are about to get dangerous.

He doesn’t. 

Instead, his chin dips, ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a nod, and Ilya's smirk reappears, even more cruel than the last. 

He tosses his jacket across the couch, his scent billowing out as it hits, and Shane jerks back on instinct at the thrown challenge. He's going to be smelling him on his cushions for weeks.

“I am going to make you cry,” Ilya croons. He's somehow even more gorgeous in his white button-down, tucked neatly into his sleek, fitted pants. The only thing that could make him hotter is if he had blood on the collar, droplets of red splattered across the tiny, gleaming buttons. 

Shane swallows at the thought, his mouth dry, and stills as Ilya clocks the bob of his throat. 

“Yes?” he says, before his gaze turns dark. “Tell me.” 

“It's nothing,” Shane rasps, smoldering desire zipping down his spine. He sways on his feet, caught in the ethereal gravity of him. “You should—you should go. Before someone gets hurt.” 

“I do not think you want that,” Ilya murmurs, as he steps closer. The sharp pit of gravelly anger pitches up in Shane's stomach, spiraling across his ribs as his narrowed brown eyes land on Ilya's bright ones. “I think it is—hm. Too much, maybe? For you to handle?” 

“I didn't say that,” Shane snaps, his lip curling. The longer Ilya stands in his living room, the thicker his scent gets, filling the air. Soon, Shane's going to have to start breathing shallowly if he doesn't want to fall into a reactionary mindset, despite how tempting the urge is as Ilya smirks at him. He wants to bruise him, paint his torso with dark purple imprints of his mouth, until Ilya is marked as nothing more than his. “I can handle it.” 

“Oh?” Ilya says, stepping forward. His mouth curls into a satisfied slash of teeth when Shane chokes on a growl, forcing back the noise. Inside his chest, something crumbles to ash, released by the agonizing weight of wanting. “Then, you will not mind turning your back to me and going upstairs.”

Shane stills, the caged predator inside him freezing as Ilya's words sink in. 

“Is a sign of trust, no?” Ilya murmurs, a siren song of seduction in his voice. He looks amused, as if he hasn't suggested something utterly obscene. It's one thing to fuck another alpha—that can be explained away; Shane’s seen the headlines about it before, the poorly thought-out, badly handled, honest mistake. It's entirely different to be chased down by one, to be caught in the madness of a pursuit. “Would show me you have nothing to fear.” 

“And would trigger your chase instincts,” Shane says, staring at him. He's splintering to pieces at the thought, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “You want to chase me?” 

Ilya's whole face transforms into something wicked. “No,” he breathes, his mouth curving into a scythe of desire. “I want to hunt you.”

Crackling greed immolates in the pit of Shane's stomach. His mouth waters; a lock undone, a chain unspooled, by Ilya's soft, coaxing words.  

Let him try, the creature inside of him whispers. Make him bleed for the insult. If he catches you, rend him to pieces; let him put you on your back just in time for you to sink your teeth into his throat.

He closes his eyes, swaying with sick, dangerous want. 

“Stop,” he says when Ilya takes another creeping step forward, and breathes in deeply when the other man freezes immediately, no hint of alpha posturing in his scent, just quiet, assured smugness that ripples out from him, an echo of nutty cloves filling the air. 

He keeps his eyes closed as he continues, “If we do this,” he says, inhaling the flare of delight—sparklers and gasoline—that bursts from Rozanov before he tamps it down. “There’s no going back.” 

“I know,” Ilya murmurs. 

Shane lets his lashes flutter open. “I might bite you,” he says, shifting his weight, the muscles in his legs tensing. Ilya's stance shifts too, his mouth still curled into his devastating grin; both of them preparing as the tension climbs higher, a snap of it imminent. “I might hurt you.” 

“And if I promise to do both to you?” Ilya asks, tilting his head. “You are speaking as if they are wrong things, Hollander. As if I do not know how badly you want them.” He licks his lips, rampant greed in the obscene curl of his pink tongue. “Will you cry for me tonight, alpha?” 

The words burn in the air; another gauntlet thrown, and Shane lets the sharp thirst for exquisite agony rise within. 

He blinks, an unspoken agreement in the shift of his lashes, and Ilya's face splits down the middle with an unrelenting, fierce hunger; when his lips curl into a fox-faced grin, Shane can see blood on the edge of his teeth. He wants to taste it. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, as all of his body coils, an eruption impending. He’s so attractive it almost hurts to look at him, his assured superiority fully unsheathed as he somehow lounges despite the readiness. Every line of him is lethal; Shane's so hard it's painful. He can feel himself dripping in his sweats. “Run.” 

Shane does, but not away. 

He flings himself over the couch, slamming into Ilya for a second, dragging his nails across his shirt, catching on the fine pearl buttons, and sending them scattering as he hooks and yanks. 

Ilya swears, the actual words lost under the throaty burst of Russian that rapidly spills out as he tries to get a hand around Shane's wrist, only for Shane to dart back, quick as an eel. 

“Not just the fastest on the ice,” Shane taunts, his blood thrumming. He's grinning, too wide and all wrong, he can tell; teeth bared and sharp. “I thought this was gonna be a chase, Rozanov?” 

Ilya laughs once, bright and beautiful, the sound bouncing off the rafters. “You are a treasure, Hollander,” he says, as he slides the ruined silk button-down off his shoulders, the two of them caught in another standoff. 

Shane bounces on his feet, heat collecting under his skin. His t-shirt abruptly feels claustrophobic, but he knows better than to shift his gaze from Rozanov.

He feels sick with desire, eager for the clash, his eyes dropping to Ilya's thighs, watching as he readies himself for another lunge. 

Shane scampers backwards, wild laughter leaving his throat as Ilya nearly catches him, before he's sprinting across the room. He darts through doorways that lead to nowhere, an endless circle of rooms that spill back out into the living room, before he dodges another grasping hand. He races for the door, tossing insults over his shoulder, and manages to fling himself up the stairs, relishing in the thud of Ilya’s feet behind him. It’s dizzying, their little chase, and despite the pulse of rage that runs through him, the bolt of feverish agony, he's never had so much fun in his rut before. 

Normally, they're just a singular seething day of instinct, where he whines and sweats and claws himself up, desperate for something he can't even name, unable to do more than just fuck his hand until he's nearly raw. His anger will surge for days, run high and rampant, a crushing wave of ferocity in his path. 

The team loves it when he plays pre-rut; he almost always carries them to victory, unrelenting in his need to conquer. It's never a game on the ice, though, not like this. 

He can feel Ilya at his back, the damp pants of his mouth against the edges of his skin as he chases and hunts; the two of them reckless with instinct and hunger. 

Ilya isn't laughing, though, as he stalks after him, broad-shouldered and gorgeous, a faint gleam of sweat appearing on his chest in every glance Shane steals of him. Shane manages to dodge him again, scrambling to strip himself of his shirt in the few seconds apart they have. 

He flings the cotton shirt at Ilya as he emerges from the hall, the two of them spilling into his bedroom, the fire crackling merrily. 

Shane had cracked the windows earlier, the usual scent catchers installed at the edges of the pane, and the smell of cool rain fills his bedroom as he runs in, a delicious compliment to the roil of Ilya's simmering want; tart, sour cherries and marzipan. 

A snarl rises from his throat as Ilya edges further in, an unmistakable encroachment as his temper soars higher, the glee falling to the wayside. 

Alpha, the creature inside warns. Both he and it are in agreement; there’s a predator before them. Bite. Take. Rend.

Like before, Shane lunges, only this time Ilya is ready for him. His hands cinch around his wrists with the same unerring accuracy that he provides on the ice; a slapshot of a goal, victory in every unyielding inch of him as Shane thrashes in his grip, the two of them toppling onto his bed. 

He bucks, grinds his hips up, tries to hook his legs around Ilya's waist and tip them, but Ilya hardly budges, his hands holding Shane to the bed, pinning him down. 

Shane can feel the rumble of his vocal cords, the chorus of disagreement in his chest; he snaps his teeth, a warning unheeded, as Ilya slowly begins to settle all of his weight over him. 

A different kind of rage sparks, desperation filling his veins as he sinks further and further into the bed. His body can’t stop locking up with adrenaline, stuttering through everything it wants in one big wave. 

He hates being caged. He loves being caught. He wants to kiss Ilya. He wants to claw at his skin. He’s being flayed alive by the mere press of him. He’s never felt so fucking exhilarated. 

“If you are good,” Ilya murmurs, just out of reach from his mouth. “I will let you bite me.” 

“Let me?” Shane chokes out, strangled with savagery. Heat unspools in his gut, and he rocks his hips up, chasing the zing of pleasure as his cock drags against Ilya’s hard dick. “I’m going to make you fucking bleed, Rozanov.” 

Ilya laughs, condescension in his tone. It does something to Shane, caught on the edge of hunger and resentment, a flush spilling across his cheeks at the familiar, rough sound. “Do I need to cuff you, kotyonak?” he asks, as Shane squirms underneath him, ensnared between the waves of pleasure with every brush against his dick and the anger that surges beneath his skin. “I will have no, ah, problem with strapping you to bed. Would be nice, no? Let you rage against the metal, let you feel the sharp, cool touch.” He squeezes Shane’s wrists, and Shane doesn’t even try to hide how his low snarl turns into a moan. “Would be so beautiful to see, Hollander.” 

Shane can hardly think through the white caps of lust shattering against his body, lost to a heady combination of trust and fury. He knows he’s safe here with Ilya, despite how badly he fights it. 

Ilya can do anything, and he would welcome it, as he twists underneath him. 

His dick throbs, his gums ache; he doesn’t have the words for what he wants, but he knows Ilya will understand when he yanks at his hold, sweat pooling in the dips of his collarbone, the panes of his stomach. 

Ilya grins, darting in to nip at his nose, before he rears back, quicker than Shane can catch him with his teeth. “No cuffs tonight,” he says. “Will just be you and me. Do not need help to handle you.” He smirks and rolls his hips, all of Shane’s attention snapping to his cock. “No, you are easy.” 

“‘M not easy,” Shane groans, bucking his hips. The rage is fading, as it always does, once the lust settles in fully, though Shane knows that it will not be the end of his anger; Ilya, also, intends to provoke it, he can tell just from the curl of his mouth. “You’re just—fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Mm, no, is I who fucks you,” Ilya croons, his grip on Shane’s wrists loosening. He bends down, licking across his collarbone before sinking lower to mouth at Shane's chest, teeth scraping over skin, his tongue hot against his nipples.

“Will make you feel so good, tonight,” he continues, and Shane can feel the smirk against his skin as he drops more kisses across his skin. “Have trained you into it, no? I have made permanent space in your body, I think.” 

Shane groans at the thought but can't argue. No one else—which, really, was just two other men, outside of his dalliance with Rose—fucked him as Rozanov does; no one clamps a hand to his pleasure, digs knuckles into the dips of his spine, riles him up just to see him snap. He's clay molded for pleasure in Ilya's hands, nerves stretched tight under skin, frantic greed made flesh. Everything is instinctive, unwound; a razor wire to walk when Shane clings to his humanity with everything he has. 

And yet, still, he's known from the start, even with those rough, brusque encounters in the beginning; Ilya is so fucking good to him.

Ilya lifts his head and slides up his body, his blue eyes dark with desire. “You will ruin me, Hollander,” he breathes out, before capturing Shane's mouth in a slick kiss.

Shane bites at his tongue, catches the edge with his canines, and whines at the taste of iron as it spills into his mouth, greedy for more of him. 

Here, in the moments before everything begins to break down, before the full heat of lust and the anger of instinct rise again, when it's just the taste of Ilya in his mouth and the weight of his body, Shane likes to pretend it's real. 

This, as he slides fully into his rut—a first for the two of them—feels deeply, horrifically real. It feels like a choice has been made, that Ilya understood that when Shane said there's no going back, he meant ever. That he's giving into the tide of whatever it is that has them so entangled, that he’s offering his neck, that he's not looking for a shore to tie them to, but for a riptide to take them away. 

Ilya pulls back, and all of Shane’s unwieldy thoughts smooth away, hunger rising to replace them. He blinks, his vision blurry as he shifts underneath Ilya, searching for friction.

“You are crying,” Ilya says, and leans down to lick a smear of his blood off Shane's lip as he finally comes into view. “Is very pretty of you.” 

Shane meets Ilya's eyes, watches a smirk bloom across his face, and lets go of all common sense, a trap neatly laid. 

He drops his head back as his eyes close, lifting his chin, exposing the curve of his throat, the gland where someone will one day sink their teeth into, and listens as Ilya's breath catches in his lungs, all of him stilling. 

“Alpha,” Shane whispers, cracking his eyes open. He has no idea what he looks like, but Ilya looks almost dazed at the sight of him. Smug delight curls through his body even as his cock throbs; he wants to come apart, fucked into brainlessness by this stupidly gorgeous man. He wants to be ruined against these sheets, wants the smell of them to twine so well that he can never escape. “Please.” 

Ilya’s grip loosens on his wrists, his hands sliding up Shane's arms, as he lowers himself down, his gaze fixed on the hollow of his throat.

Now, Shane thinks—the creature inside of him yowling with agreement—and moves, locking his legs around Ilya's waist and twisting, slamming his body back against the mattress. His hands land on Ilya’s chest, forcing him back when he tries to push up, and Shane preens at the half-annoyed, half-impressed look he sends his way. 

“Is a dirty trick,” Ilya murmurs, as Shane's fingers drag across his skin, leaving shallow scratches behind. “I thought you wanted to get fucked, Hollander?” He gestures at both of them. “Is hard to do when pants are on.” 

Shane licks his lips, shuddering at the echo of Ilya that he can taste. Words are harder than he expects, perched atop Ilya's waist, the heft of his cock underneath him. 

“Do you care about your pants?” he manages to ask, starting up a slow roll of his hips, even as he tries to wiggle his sweats down, before he gets frustrated and yanks at the seams, sending himself sliding across Ilya's lap. His hands land on his hips, steadying him, and Shane can feel every touch ripple up his spine. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, waiting until Shane's lifted his gaze to his, his mouth twitching. “I care very much.” 

Shane groans, and Ilya shakes his head. “You can rip them,” he murmurs, stroking across Shane's newly bared hip bones. “Come, alpha. Show me what you can do.” 

Need surges, and Shane lifts himself enough that he can get a hand around the waistband of Ilya's slacks, before he leans back and pulls, the snapping of threads pulsing through the air. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out as they both stare at the ruined fabric of his pants, the way Shane has torn it from itself, though not very far. “Fuck, you are so strong, Hollander.” 

Shane nods, panting, dizzy with everything he's feeling. The worst part of his rut is the beginning, when he flickers through every emotion known to man, before settling into the heady pull of greedy, insatiable lust.  

He wants to be fucked; he wants to fuck; he wants Ilya's hand on his neck, his knuckles in his ribs, his mouth fixed to the bloodied heart of him. He wants to fight him; he wants to be put in his place. 

Ilya drags his gaze up, his mouth set into a sinful smirk. “Is my turn now, I think,” he says, and topples Shane out of his lap, sending him sprawling across his bed, before he can even register the change. It feels like he’s swimming through muck, all of his responses delayed as his body works through the mess of static that is his rut. 

His hands pull his sweats off as Shane tries to sit back up, his limbs flying every which way, before Ilya's arm lands on his chest, forcing him back against the mattress. 

“You do not know what you want,” he says, as he steps out of his ruined pants, both of them bare. Shane's cock twitches, precum smearing across his stomach, and Ilya grins. “You will be good boy, Hollander,” he murmurs. “And take what I give.” 

Shane thrashes at the threat in his voice, but Ilya's unmoved, his hands flat against him, holding him down. The sheer press, the simple, easy hold; it turns Shane’s world upside down, sends him spinning down the abyss of greed, pierced through with bursts of wrath. 

Ilya, for all his earlier teasing, doesn’t falter or give him a moment's pause. He clambers atop him, settling over his thighs, one hand still firm against Shane’s chest as he reaches for the lube Shane had left out on the covers deliberately. 

Underneath him, Shane can’t help his instinctive jolt, the way he rolls his hips in an attempt to get any friction on his dick, stuttering through the white-hot pleasure that rolls down his nerves. 

His brain is fuzzy, his teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip, blood leaking around the edges of them. Normally, Shane would be more careful, would think more about the way his scent can drag Ilya down to his level, could unspool the same sick longing in his stomach as well, but he can't bring himself to care, not when Ilya is looming over him, his face set into shades of dark devotion.

“You are rutdrunk,” Ilya says, looking pleased. He shifts backwards, letting Shane free one of his legs to stretch to the side, before he reaches down, and Shane wails at the drag of his fingers over his cock, the deliberate, firm stroke. It feels shockingly good, all of his nerves dialed up to an eleven, split down the center with lush want, with ardent need; he is an orange peeled with steady, familiar hands, undone with ease. 

He can't remember when life felt like before Ilya's touch. He doesn't even want to try. 

Ilya tuts, as Shane gasps underneath, wet and panting, sucking down lungful after lungful of Ilya's rich scent. 

“You are so needy,” Ilya murmurs as Shane's dick drools across his knuckles, precum smearing across his skin. His calloused hands pump his cock with precision, tightening over the head and squeezing around the base as Shane fights the urge to knot his hands, the feeling unreal. He's unmoored in his lust, easily handled by Ilya. “Is amazing you were not just here, no? Is a miracle you could run so well, Hollander.” He leans down and catches the skin between his lower ribs with his teeth, a tease of a bite, before he lets go. “Such a good alpha, kotyonak.”

Shane snarls, a knot of anger rising thick and fast in his chest, only for it to stutter to a stop when Ilya's hand drops from his dick, stroking over his balls to ghost against his hole. 

Ilya tsks and leans forward, not to kiss him, but to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, blood and spit smeared across them. 

Shane stills as Ilya's teeth carefully press against the shallow cuts, a dull ache pulsing through his tender flesh.

He wants to open his mouth wider, wants to have Ilya tear and bite and chew, if only for him to exist within him, to be more than a passing fancy. 

He feels undone with desire, ruthless with greed; he wants things he cannot name—things he shouldn't name. 

Ilya's tongue sweeps across his lip again as he slowly pulls back, his eyes low-lidded as he meets Shane’s gaze. 

“You are delicious,” he rasps. “Is amazing how good you are at all things, Hollander. So good at hockey, so good at running, so good down to the bones and still, you taste like sin.” 

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, all of his emotions coalescing in his chest. This is the real reason that they've never fucked in either of their ruts before: the honesty that’s pulled to the surface, the desire to tell the truth that rises in the middle of all the filth. 

Ruts are dangerous, unwieldy things on all ends; an unwinding of the very self, down to the soul.

Shane, for the life of him, can't figure out why this could ever be a bad thing, as he stares up at the sheer naked desire unbound on Ilya's face. 

He wants him. 

He loves him. 

“Ilya,” Shane says again, but his words are lost as one of Ilya's fingers gently pushes in, cutting off all his thoughts. “Holy shit.”

He clenches down around the intrusion, his hands curling into his sheets as he fights to keep himself still. This will be the worst of it, he thinks, where he has to be good, actually and completely, or he won't get Ilya's cock inside of him. 

He closes his eyes, spreading his legs wider, sinking his teeth back into his lip, only for it to muffle a shout as Ilya's other hand settles back on his dick. 

He digs his teeth in harder as Ilya slips another finger inside of him, rocking back against them as they slowly open him up. 

The drag of his fingers against his walls, the nudge as he brushes against his prostate and then avoids it as Shane hisses through his teeth; he’s falling to pieces, letting the pleasure wash through his body. He doesn't think he's anything more than an exposed nerve, overwrought with everything. 

“Please,” Shane manages, through the crests and lulls, through the heat that simmers under his skin. Blood is in his mouth again, dancing across his tongue. He can't even think about how wild he must look, feral neediness and bloodied teeth and white-knuckled, splayed out across his sheets. “Fuck me, please, Ilya—I need it. I need you, I want—I wanna feel you, wanna—” He whines as Ilya slips a third finger in and undulates his hips. “More.” 

“I have given you more,” Ilya says, condescension thick in his voice. “But is not enough?” He tsks, and Shane cracks his eyes open to catch the blurry curve of his smirk. “There are not words, Hollander, for what I want to do to you. For how I want to—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Greedy little slut.” 

Shane keens, even as the words teeter into stirring his wrath back up; it's a slow burn, the crackle of a newly lit fire sparking. Shane knows innately, somehow, that Ilya has timed this just right, that he has started the flames again so that Shane will be vicious once his cock is sliding in, filling him. 

He has never met another alpha that whets their teeth on blood so fiercely, has never known another alpha that earnestly looks and taunts and searches for the exact tipping point. Ilya Rozanov, people say, is the only alpha whose rut tempers them, rather than sparking; the man is built for rage. 

Of course, Shane knows the truth; Ilya is rarely angry. 

He just likes the taste of it.

And Shane, riled and wrathful, at the start of his rut, has never been more dangerous. 

Ilya, he realizes, through the haze of lust, the shards of anger, the wildness of his touch—Ilya wants him to bite.

Warmth skitters down his spine at the thought, at the idea of sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulders, at the concept of leaving a scar. 

His cock jumps in Ilya's hand, and he laughs, squeezing cruelly around the base. “Eager, no?” he murmurs, tightening his grip. He presses forward again, and Shane gasps at the feeling as his fingers crook up, arching into the decadent agony that spills across his skin, winds up his throat. “I think you are ready, kotyonak.”

“Yeah,” Shane pants. Blood rushes in his ears, races through his veins. He feels electrified, struck dumb with the sheer amount of desire coiling inside. “Yeah, I'm—fuck—I'm ready.” 

Ilya doesn't waste any time, drawing back to slick his cock with wet lube, the sound almost echoing in Shane's ears as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and grinds down.

Glitchy, drugging pleasure slides through his body, as Ilya notches the head of his dick against his entrance and pushes in. 

Shane opens for him, his jaw dropping, rough pants leaking from his throat as he curls his hands into his sheets at the stretch. 

“Fussy little thing,” Ilya croons as he bottoms out. “Big, strong alpha on the ice, but here you are nothing more than mine.”

Shane's fingers unlatch from the sheets, digging into Ilya's shoulders as he tries to drag him down just to show him how strong he is. “Fuck you,” he rasps, his mouth itching to sink into skin. He meets Ilya's eyes as steadily as he can, despite the rapid fucking. 

Ilya laughs, wild greed soaked through. “You are no more than kitten,” he murmurs, and Shane groans, scratching welts across his back, clenching down on his cock. Frantic pleasure soaks through everything, lapping at his nerves, pulling him down into the reeds of lust and heat, where the only thing that matters is the blunt pressure of Ilya's dick against his prostate. 

He feels like he's going to fly apart from the sensation as he rolls his hips, trying to get more of Ilya in him.

“‘m not a kitten,” he manages, in between thrusts. He catches his tongue between his teeth, blood welling up again as he tugs at Ilya again, dragging him closer this time. 

He presses sloppy kisses against his jaw, over his mouth, blood and spit smearing against his skin. “Maybe,” he rasps, pulling back to admire the smudges against his skin. “Maybe you're mine.” 

Ilya's grip tightens on his hips, a beautiful ache as his fingers grip hard enough to leave bruises, before one leaves the curve of his waist, sliding up to settle around his throat, a glint in his eyes as Shane immediately thrashes at the sensation, instinct warring with desire. 

“I have—fuck, Hollander—I have been waiting,” Ilya confesses, sweat on his temples, in his hairline as he stares down at Shane, his thumb stroking over the hollow of his throat. Shane wants to gnaw his fingers bloody; he wants them to collar him more. He wants them to sink into his ribs, to pluck at the sinew of his heart; he wants to carry the unmistakable imprint of Ilya everywhere. “To ask question.” 

He pauses in his thrusts, and Shane abruptly realizes he's expecting an answer, the fucking bastard. 

“Fucking—fuck me,” he snarls, glaring at Ilya, his jaw flexing as he shoves down the urge to snap his teeth and bite. “What is it?”

Ilya arches an eyebrow, even as he resumes his steady pace, Shane melting back against the mattress. His eyes are rolling back in his head, the burning heat of Ilya splitting him open, wanton lust coiling through him. 

He wants to cum. He doesn't care what Ilya's about to ask unless it's going to make him cum. 

“Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, something careful in his voice, and despite pointedly not caring, a part of Shane perks up at the tension in his voice. “Will you let me knot you?” 

Shane thinks he blacks out for a moment. 

Heat sears through him, crackling at his nerves. Saliva pools in his open mouth as he arches into Ilya’s thrusts. All he can feel is the grip of Ilya’s hand around his waist, the bite of his nails at his collarbone as he keeps Shane steady to fuck him harder. It's a fucking miracle he doesn't knot the air right there. 

“I want,” he gasps, the words sharp in his raw throat. “I—yes.” 

Somehow, Ilya thrusts even harder, the loud slap of his hips lewd over the gentle patter of rain and the crackle of the fire. 

They've done this before; exceedingly carefully the first time, and then somehow less carefully every time after, but this is the first time it feels reckless. 

To knot another alpha in a rut is dazzlingly stupid. 

Shane's pretty sure it's going to destroy any sense he has. He's pretty sure Ilya knows that—he's pretty sure Ilya wants that. 

This is the dumbest thing they could do; Shane's never wanted anything more. 

Ilya's brow furrows, and he leans in, a familiar slack-jawed expression of greed on his face as his hips begin to pump faster. 

Shane can feel the drag of his cock against his walls, the slight catch of his knot as he begins to expand. 

His favorite part is always when it barely tips into too much, when Ilya has to hold his hips down and make him take it, when he's been forced to open up, panting and whining and crying for more.

He's greedy for the stinging stretch, for the aching shock of his knot. 

“Alpha,” Ilya coos, leaning in dangerously close. “So sweet on your back.” Shane snarls, anger corkscrewing up tight in his chest, splintering into the heavy want. His jaw aches with the force of holding himself back as Ilya rocks into him, his teeth glinting in the firelight. He lifts his hand from Shane's hip, settling it across the swell of his stomach, before he drags an edge of a nail down his skin, the sting sweet. “So good for me, kotyonak. Would keep you belly up and full of my cum for days.” 

Another pulse of anger rushes through him, before, abruptly, he realizes: Ilya's not wearing a condom. 

He's going to smell like him for days. 

“You're—you're bare,” he slurs, an orgasm building in his stomach, warmth pooling in his veins. He feels unbelievably cockdrunk all of a sudden, hunger building in the dark pit of him, where all of his useless, needy wants live. “You're gonna—holyshit—fill me up til I'm, god, dripping.” 

Ilya's face shatters into desperation at his words, all dignity lost to the sweep of greed. He surges forward wildly, his mouth landing sloppily on his jaw, his lips, the corner of his mouth. 

Shane's blurry eyes flit open when he pulls back ever so slightly, his gaze dropping to the curve of his shoulder. 

Bite, the instinctive, feral part of him whispers. Mark. He is marking you from the inside out; make him bleed for the gift of your body.

“Ilya,” he rasps, unable to look away from that stretch of golden skin. He clenches down, makes Ilya work for it; he can't be the only one losing his mind to the pulse of this hunger tonight. He wants them both to snap. “Alpha.”  

Ilya snarls in response, the first true loss of his composure all night.

“I know what you want,” he rumbles, as his knot starts to fully swell, the pressure mind-numbingly good with each thrust. “I can smell it on you, Hollander—the desperation, the greed. An alpha with bloodied teeth, no?” 

Shane nods, frantic. The world is collapsing around him, everything dampening until there is nothing but the slide of his skin against Ilya's, the wet, pulpy thump of his heart, the rasp of his breath as he narrows in on the unbroken skin of Ilya's shoulder. 

“Do it,” Ilya orders breathlessly as he rocks out. Shane knows that it's going to hurt as he pushes back in before they're knotted together for good; he can't wait for the pain, for that ripple up his spine. “Be a good alpha, and bite.” 

His hips slam forward with his command as he slots into place with a grunt, unable to be dislodged. The ache of his rim sends sweltering greed up Shane's spine as he pants through it, nonsensically whining for more, even as his mouth flies open and saliva pools under his tongue. 

Ilya's whole body twitches as Shane's mouth descends, before he sinks his teeth into the muscle of Ilya's shoulder, so close to the gland he wants to permanently mar. He groans in ecstasy, the vibrations rumbling through his chest as Shane lathes his tongue across his skin. 

Ilya's hand slides down to fist his cock, and Shane's gone, lost to the swell of agonizing pleasure as he tries to get Ilya deeper inside, dragging him closer in every way he can. 

The orgasm rushes through him as his teeth barely break through the skin, the faint taste of iron and sweat and Ilya filling his mouth. He tastes like life and greed, the blood swollen with a potent, feverish desire.

As if to prolong Shane's pleasure, Ilya tightens his grip around his knot as it swells to completion, stroking across the taut skin. With every firm, possessive touch, more cum spills out between their bodies, splattering across them both. 

For a moment, Shane is nothing but nerves; a livewire of feedback, echoes of pulsing pleasure that tangle up inside of him until he doesn’t ever think he’ll be unwound. 

Ilya throbs inside of him, tiny, jerking pumps of his hips as he rides out his orgasm. Shane's eyes fall shut as he rocks with the motions, peeling his teeth out of Ilya's shoulder only to press back in with his tongue and lips. 

He feels utterly sublime, every need taken care of. 

He's never had a rut so satisfying.

He cracks his eyes open and licks at the sluggishly bleeding wound before pulling away. 

“I want you,” he rasps, utterly honest as he falls back against the mattress to stare at Ilya. 

His gaze wanders over Ilya's sweaty face, the crooked bridge of his nose, the smears of blood and spit that speckle his chin and cheeks. He looks otherworldly in the dim light, the amber flames flickering over his skin. 

“You have me,” Ilya murmurs, sounding agonized. His hips are still moving, his knot tugging on his rim, stuttering flashes of pleasure zipping up Shane's spine. “Kotyonak. Shane. You have me.” 

Shane's eyes flicker from the mess on his shoulder to the mating gland that sits under his skin. “Not all,” he says, and drags his eyes back to Ilya's gaze. “Not yet.” 

Ilya's face crumples into something Shane can't read as he mutters words in Russian too quickly for Shane to catch. 

“Not—not yet,” Ilya echoes, before he shifts forward and blankets Shane, all of his weight settling over him. 

Shane sighs, relief rolling through him, some empty, hollow place filled. His arms curl around Ilya, holding him tight. He’s going to hate this, he knows, when he surfaces from his rut, but for now, it’s perfect. 

Slowly, Shane drags his gaze from Ilya's face to the bloodied bite on his shoulder. 

“It's going to scar,” he says, unable to feel any guilt about it. Instead, pride stirs in his gut, a sharp, wrathful glee that he has marked Ilya as best he can; that he has left a permanent mark. 

It serves him right for tearing Shane to pieces, for the care in how he ruins him. Shane is always reshaped by Ilya's firm hands, respun into someone new with each touch. 

It's like gravity recenters, the pull of Ilya cutting through everything else, until it's just the two of them, eyes locked through the gloom. 

Ilya wiggles in closer somehow, his body warm and heavy; Shane's own personal weighted blanket. 

“Is nice, a scar,” Ilya murmurs. “Permanent reminder.” 

Shane can't contain his reaction, clenching down and milking his knot, digging his fingers into Ilya's back as he groans. He wants Ilya to crawl inside of him; he wants to live inside of Ilya. He doesn't think he'll be able to bear it if they're parted. 

For a moment, they're tangled back up in lust, pleasure so thick it saturates him down to his marrow. His knotted cock throbs between them as Ilya presses further in, the sensation tugging a whine out from Shane's mouth as he rocks into the motion. 

Shane’s stomach hurts from all his greed. He never wants to leave their bed.

“How are you going to explain it away?” he finally finds the wherewithal to ask, as one of his hands slips down to touch the edges of the bite. Heat crackles across his skin, burning into his fingerprints as Shane stares at the imprint of his teeth. He feels sated, completely content in a way he never has been before as he lightly traces the curve of his mark. “If someone sees.” 

Ilya shrugs, but Shane can see the curl of his lips from the corner of his eyes. “Is not their business,” he says. “That is my explanation.” 

Shane turns to look at him, blinking. “And they'll just leave it alone?” 

“Ah, no,” Ilya says, grinning at him. His eyes glint with amusement, his smile wide and boyish with glee. I love you, Shane thinks, and lets the rawness of his thoughts settle into one of the foundational truths that shape his world. “But I will not tell them anything suspicious.” 

“Ilya,” Shane says, narrowing his eyes. He pauses, inhaling a lungful of their entwined scents and lets it settle him before he continues, trying to not to snap, “What the fuck do you mean by suspicious?” 

Ilya shrugs, seemingly unconcerned at the pull on his skin. “Is not their business,” he repeats. “You are so concerned, Hollander. What, do you not trust me?” 

“I do,” Shane says immediately, the words spilling from his mouth almost before Ilya finishes his joke. His gaze darts across Ilya's face, trying to make sure he can see the honesty in his voice. “Of course I do.” 

The teasing slides away from Ilya as he meets Shane’s eyes. They're quiet for a long, solemn moment, just staring at each other. 

I love you, Shane thinks again. It's a truth stained by the blood drawn, by the welcome of his body, by the laughter and the joy and the anger; unspoken and yet, he selfishly hopes, heard.

“I know,” Ilya finally murmurs. “I know.”

Shane swallows and refuses to look away. “Stay, tonight?” he asks, hope and fear writhing in his chest. He doesn't think he can carry the weight alone, and even more importantly, he doesn't want to. 

There’s more than just skin he's eager to sink his teeth into.

“Yes,” Ilya breathes out, his forehead dropping until he's resting against Shane’s, his eyes sliding shut. Shane stares at the tiny tremble of his eyelashes and aches, everything he can't say tangling in his throat. 

“Okay,” Shane says, and holds him tighter, listening to his heartbeat and the sound of rain on the windowpane. 

I love you, he thinks for a third time, a coin of devotion under his tongue, adoration tied to his ankles. He's drowning in it, and he never wants to surface. The fire crackles, and all Shane can smell is Ilya and desire. He hopes they both come away scarred, hopes both of them are irrevocably changed. 

Outside, the wind howls; a storm rises on the horizon, dark clouds rolling in. 

Let me keep this forever, Shane thinks, and presses his mouth over the bitemark. His heart twinges as Ilya settles in over him even more firmly, sinking into the stinging touch. Let me keep you.

Ilya's hands cling, and Shane closes his eyes, sinking deep within. 

They'll figure it out later. For now, this is enough.