Summary:

Shane knows something is wrong before the game even ends—his Heat rising fast and uncontrollable. Ilya gets him home just in time, knots him deep, and refuses to let him face it alone. The roar of the crowd faded as Shane Hollander skated off the ice. The ache in his muscles was nothing compared to the heat building beneath his skin. He had been off tonight— missing shots he could normally make with his eyes closed. His movements felt sluggish, unfocused, his body refusing to respond like it usually did. He could feel Ilya’s gaze on him before he even looked up, that intense blue stare sharp and searching. “You alright, Shane?” Ilya asked, skating up beside him. Shane forced a smile, stiff and brittle. “Yeah. Just… off tonight. Bad luck, I guess.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. The Centaurs still won, but the victory felt hollow. As soon as the buzzer sounded, Shane peeled away and headed for the locker room, desperate to escape Ilya’s attention. The noise, the lights, the closeness of too many bodies—it pressed in on him. He showered quickly. Hot water did nothing to ease the burn coiling tighter inside him. By the time he dressed, his hands were shaking. He kept his head down, avoided eye contact, focused on breathing through the growing discomfort. He was already in the passenger seat when Ilya finally appeared, damp hair pushed back, concern on his face. Ilya slid in beside him, the door shutting with a heavy thud. The familiar scent of his cologne filled the car, grounding and overwhelming. “Shane, what the fuck is going on?” Ilya’s voice was low, edged with steel. Shane swallowed hard. The truth spilled out before he could stop it. “I think… I think my Heat is starting soon.” The words hung between them. “Shit,” Ilya breathed. He turned the key, the engine roaring to life. “We need to get you home.” When the first cramp hit, it wasn’t just pain—it was his body pulling inward, desperate, needy, demanding. His cock twitched uselessly in his pants, half-hard and oversensitive, while slick soaked his underwear. “Ilya—” A hand landed on his thigh, warm and steady. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I’m driving as fast as I can.” The heat surged, relentless. Shane shifted, slick gathering where he couldn’t ignore it. Every bump in the road sent spikes of sensation through him. He whimpered, squirming, trying to find a comfortable position. There was none. The pressure built like a tide threatening to drown him. He broke. His hand slid down, rubbing himself through his pants, desperate for any relief. Friction was a small mercy, a brief distraction from the fire inside him. He arched his back, breath ragged. “Ilya… I need you, please.” Ilya didn’t hesitate. The car sped up, the world outside blurring as Shane’s breathing grew shallow. He could feel the heat radiating off him, thick and real. At home, Ilya killed the engine and helped him out of the car. Shane barely made it inside before collapsing against him, burying his face in Ilya’s neck. “Ilya,” he whimpered. “It hurts so bad.” “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured. “I’ll give you what you need.” He scooped Shane up in his arms, carrying him bridal style. Shane clung to him, trembling. Upstairs, he laid him on the bed. Clothes were stripped away quickly, every touch paired with soft kisses and whispered praise. “So beautiful,” Ilya murmured, over and over. He ran a hand through Shane’s hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands, kissing his forehead, cheeks, neck—each touch setting off new heat. Shane moaned, hips bucking. He was already leaking onto the sheets, need pouring out uncontrollably. He reached for Ilya, fingers clawing at his back. Ilya’s fingers brushed lower. He traced Shane’s hip, sending shivers down him. He dipped a finger into Shane’s slick, and Shane gasped. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Sweetheart, you’re leaking so much. This is all for me, isn’t it?” Shane nodded, unable to speak. He reached for Ilya, pulling him closer. He needed him, craved him. Ilya leaned down, kissing him deeply. He pulled back, eyes blazing with desire that matched Shane’s. “Taste yourself, Hollander.” Shane obeyed, coating his fingers with his own slick, bringing them to his mouth, sucking greedily. The taste was intoxicating, a mix of arousal and desperation. He closed his eyes, savoring it. “So fucking good for me,” Ilya rasped. He moved to the bedroom drawer, returning with nipple clamps and a dildo. Shane’s eyes widened, a mix of fear and excitement. He knew