Work Text:
Shane always liked movie theaters. And he has no problem telling you why: the rules are the same every time.
You go in, you ask for a movie, they give you a ticket, you go and get a drink and snack if you like, you go down a hallway, you sit. You watch. You leave. It’s the same every single movie theater in every single city for every single movie.
He can get game days, especially at home, down to a similar, regimented science. Same wake-up time, same drive to morning skate, same lunch, same naptime, same prep and drive to the arena, same warmup, same anthem.
He likes his suppressants for the same reason. They can wrangle something wild within his body into something predictable, something he can handle with the same tools each and every time his heat comes up within a regular, chemically-set timeframe.
So anyway. It figures.
“Rozanov is playing like he forgot the rules,” J.J. grumbles. “The fuck.”
It’s true. Rozanov had already visited the penalty box once for a holding call (on Shane) and now he was off for a high sticking (on J.J), and that last one looked like it could be a double, considering the way J.J.’s still wiping the blood from his lip.
“Yeah, I—“
Shane is cut off by the way his stomach flips at the sight in front of him, the unmistakable gaze from Rozanov across the ice, locked directly onto him. The reality is that he can’t see much, but it’s enough to feel the way Rozanov is staring at him. To know that he knows…what Shane knows by now. Shane’s been pushing it down all game, focused on the rules, the rules, the ones that are the same no matter where, no matter the arena, really, no matter the—
But he can feel it.
He can feel the way his body is noticing its emptiness and getting ready to scream. He can feel the way a part of him grows a little stupid and less logical with every passing moment of an alpha’s attention. He can feel the way it’s breaking the rules set for it by suppressants.
And somehow — he doesn’t know how but somehow — Ilya knows.
The replay of the high sticking penalty is shown to the crowd, which screams and boos Rozanov. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t fucking be able to do that.
But even Shane’s body reminds him, as it tips ever-forward into the breakthrough heat that he has unfortunately come to expect every game against Boston: there are different rules for Ilya Rozanov.
Shane reaches forward, grabbing the plastic water bottle and squirting some in his mouth. He swallows with effort and looks up as the official comes to talk to J.J., who does his part by showing the blood that Rozanov smacked out of him.
The call is upgraded to a double minor, the crowd swelling into an uproar as Shane nods and gets back on the ice for the power play. He reminds himself of the truth. He is a hockey player first, omega second. He is the captain of this team and he will not disappoint this city. He can’t control everything, but he can control the fucking puck.
The rest can wait.
He wins the faceoff.
They don’t get a lot of time between the final buzzer and the overtime period. That’s just fine. Shane is already pissed off enough that Boston managed to tie it up in the dying minutes with their goalie pulled; he doesn’t need anymore time to stew in his rage.
So, naturally — enter Rozanov.
“You sure you want extra hockey?” Ilya says as he bends for the faceoff. He breathes loudly through his nose, enough that Shane can’t ignore him as much as he’d like to. “You are ready to leave, I think.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane grumbles. He hopes Ilya is just being an asshole and doesn’t actually smell him. Can other people—does everyone know? Focus. Overtime.
“I will try to be quick,” Ilya smirks.
Shane fights like hell for that puck as it drops. He focuses. He wheels around and ignores…he ignores everything. He ignores the aching emptiness of his body. He ignores the way his ears prick up with the sound of Ilya’s shouts. He ignores the crowd’s complaints when he, and Hayden, and J.J. refuse to take the shots the crowd clearly wants them to take, knowing Rozanov and the rest of Boston are circling like sharks ready to take that puck if they give it up.
They keep the puck as much as they can, stealing possession back quickly when they lose it, and overtime is one hell of a way to keep his attention on hockey, so that certainly helps.
But five minutes is fucking nothing, and the buzzer sounds as Shane feels the first pain of a cramp. Fuck. Who knows how long a shootout would go.
He hears Rozanov shout from his bench. “Let’s end this. Now!”
It takes five rounds, and neither Shane nor Ilya gets their puck through, but Comeau finally pulls it out for Montreal and they spill onto the home ice to hug him and celebrate.
“Thank you,” Shane says as he bonks their helmets together.
Comeau seems happy enough to not mind how weird Shane is being, at least. He just needs to get out of there before they can smell whatever it is that Ilya is acting like he’s already smelling.
—
“You okay?” Hayden asks, and Shane feels blessed that it’s Hayden who asks, and that he waits until after the game when they’re already showering. He can handle a little more questioning since they won the two points, even if it dribbled to a shootout in the end.
“Yeah, um,” Shane says. He swallows. “Yeah, but, could you maybe do media?”
Hayden holds up his hands. “Happy to, you know that. But you’re the one the PR people will listen to more than me.”
Shane nods. “Yeah. Sure, yes.”
Hayden waits for a second before picking it back up to ask. “You sure you’re okay?”
Shane makes a face. “Like what?” Do I smell? Do you know?
Hayden shrugs, shakes his head under the water. “I dunno, man. You look a little pale. We won, you know.”
Shane takes a deep breath in and out. Okay. Right. “Think my fish was bad for dinner,” he lies. He’s gratified when Hayden groans empathetically and doesn’t ask more questions.
He supposes that he could say it’s a breakthrough heat, lie and say there’s no clear pattern or reason for it, but being an omega in the room is not something he likes to just freely talk about. Not at this point in his career, anyway. It shouldn’t matter, which is exactly what he’s been saying to everyone since even before the draft. It usually doesn’t fucking matter.
He finishes his shower and heads to the girl from PR handling media requests, doing his part by looking apologetic. “Can I owe you for media another time? Not feeling great,” he says.
She raises an eyebrow. “Like what kind of…?”
“Not an injury,” he says quickly. “Just need to, um. Get electrolytes.” That was only half a lie, at least. He knew there was electrolyte drinks in his fridge, though, available for when—
“Well, then, you’re free by me,” she smiles. “Get outta here. You do owe me, though.”
He’ll handle whatever media weirdness on the day when it comes. He smiles and nods, bows out and continues drying his hair. He makes the rounds, doing the bare minimum to clear his absence with coaches and leaving quickly towards the parking garage.
He’s actually pretty fucking proud of himself that he waits until he’s safely alone in his car to fish out his phone from his pocket and see what he knew would be waiting for him.
First, of course. Mom: power play looked super tonight! And you were so close to that shootout winner. Great for Comeau. Love you!
He texts back a quick: love you too. Goodnight!
And then he takes a deep breath. Because.
Lily: Should not play like that. Dangerous.
He huffs. Shane: I hope you’re talking about yourself.
The reply comes back right away.
Lily: I am not the one who plays in heat
Shane feels the momentary panic rise up within him. Shit. So he does know. Or he’s guessing. But he’s guessing right. He wars with himself, back and forth. He could tell Ilya to shove it. He could tell him he doesn’t know shit. He could do a lot of things.
But for whatever reason, he goes with the truth.
Shane: It was pre-heat
Lily: What about now?
Shane sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, biting softly and then letting it go. Because here it was: the actual truth.
For whatever fucking reason, he was once again going into a heat when Ilya was around and texting him like he’s available, which probably means he was, in fact, available and offering. And Shane knows how to get through heats, thank you very much. Omegas are not fucking needy like that; it’s why they’re allowed in that league now, okay? He knows how to handle his own biology.
And still, that biology…he has learned some new rules about it.
Shane: Do you want to come over?
Lily: 😈
Shane sighs heavily as he jams his key in the ignition.
Okay, so. Here are the rules, as far as Shane has come to understand them:
His body obeys his suppressants all of the time. Except for when it doesn’t, which seems to exclusively be around Boston games. Or the All-Star game when Ilya was there. Or the NHL awards when Ilya is nominated and is seated in the next table over. And when his body does not obey the suppressants, it tips into a breakthrough heat, marked by a swift descent into biological need that is also swiftly ended, much more swiftly than a regular heat.
It is sped up by a knot, which —
“Get in,” Shane grumbles, watching as Rozanov take his time strolling closer to the door. He gives him another second before he rolls his eyes. “I’ll leave you out here.”
“No…” Rozanov whines, but he’s smiling as he jogs the last few steps. “Don’t leave me in your murder alley.”
“Then get inside,” Shane complains. Ilya’s closer now, though, and he’s smiling as he lets Shane tug on his hoodie and pull him inside. The door closes, the noise sounding like safety, finally, and he can feel it ripple through his whole body. He tilts his head towards the stairs, and leads the way.
“How many heats do you get?” Ilya asks, as if that’s a polite question.
“None of your business.”
“Seems like a lot, seems like—“
“Seems like you fucking lost tonight,” Shane grumbles.
Ilya scoffs, but it still gets him to stop, even if just for a moment. “Shootouts aren’t real,” he says. “A point’s a point.”
Shane lets him have it. A knot’s a knot, too.
They get up the stairs and Shane’s pleased when Ilya follows him inside without any other bullshit. He’s pleased, too, when Ilya doesn’t waste time with pressing Shane against the wall.
Ilya’s eyelids flutter shut, close enough that Shane can almost feel his eyelashes. He breathes in deep through his nose and hums loudly. “Hollander,” he murmurs, “You smell so good.”
Shane takes his own breath, tipping his head forward to Ilya’s shoulder, feeling the way Ilya fits his face into his neck. “Can you—“
“Yes.”
Shane can’t help it; he laughs. “You didn’t even hear what I said.”
“I don’t care. Yes.” Ilya pulls back enough that Shane can see his face, see the way he’s smiling and laughing with him. “What is it? Hm?” He reaches out to run a hand through Shane’s hair, tucking the short strands behind his ear. “What can I do?”
Shane lets his head follow the pressure of Ilya’s palm, moving like a cat who wants to be pet. Moving like anything but the hockey player from a couple hours ago. Moving like the rest of himself, the parts of himself that follow a different rule book. He can feel those parts now, acutely. The emptiness. The wet and messy. The want.
“Need a knot,” Shane says. “Okay?”
Ilya’s lips twitch and his eyes sparkle. He nods as he moves his hand to the side of Shane’s face, tipping it up to him. “Okay,” he says.
It takes only a little bit more for Ilya to lean forward and bring their lips together, for him to tip them all the way into the rest of the heat.
Shane sighs into his mouth, fisting his hands into Ilya’s sweatshirt, pushing his body towards the direction of his bedroom. It’s no use to hesitate anymore, no use to hide the truth. He needs a knot, Ilya can provide it, and he’s smiling into Shane’s mouth now that he knows he’s gonna get inside an omega, so different from the stupid way he was playing all night.
Shane huffs with that thought, pushing Ilya so he falls backward onto bed.
“What was that?” Ilya laughs. He mimics the noise. Huff. “That; what was that?”
“You played like an asshole all night,” Shane says, taking off his shirt and folding it on the dresser.
“I was being nice at the game!” Ilya argues, but he’s taking off his hoodie so he can’t be too bothered by it.
Shane rolls his eyes. “You nearly took out J.J.’s teeth.”
He shrugs. “But I did not.” He watches with interest as Shane unbuttons and unzips his pants, taking them off and folding them, too. Ilya follows, taking off his shirt and letting it rest on the bed.
“You were being weird with me all game, too. The holding? That was…egregious.”
“What? Egr—?” Ilya makes a face. “What?”
“Egregious,” he repeats before explaining. “It was obvious. Ridiculous.”
Ilya blinks wildly. “You were going into heat.”
“Oh, so you were being unprofessional then.”
Ilya lays all the way back on the bed and groans up at the ceiling. “Why are you fighting me?” He rolls over slightly to look at Shane, head still on the bed. “Is it because you need to suck my dick?”
Shane feels his face get hot. “Shut up.”
Ilya props himself up on his elbow, seeming more interested. “Ah.” He undoes his fly and shoves his pants down, gesturing to his dick, big and getting hard and so unfortunately familiar to Shane. “Come. Calm down.”
Shane narrows his eyes, taking it as the challenge that it is. Calm down. He’d like to see Ilya calm down with this. Shane may be the omega going into heat but Ilya’s the alpha who wants this. He gets his shorts off and folded before climbing onto the bed between Ilya’s legs.
He gets closer, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to see whatever expression of smug victory that’s sure to be on Ilya’s face. He bows his head and presses his lips to the tip of Ilya’s dick, letting his tongue come out to lick at his skin.
He breathes in, and maybe that’s a mistake but he…he needs to breathe. He needs to breathe and it’s not his fault, the way his body is reacting to the raw pheromones rolling off of Ilya there, the scent glands nestled in his upper thighs like beacons, guiding Shane’s omega instincts in through the storm that always seemed to accompany Ilya’s presence.
So he gives in. He lets the scent of a pleased, lusty alpha roll over him.
He wouldn’t tell Ilya this, but he does love his scent: campfire smoke, that particular kind of woodsy, dry, natural smoke, not like the chemical-filled cigarette smoke that he hates. Ilya’s scent is clear and free, the ease of putting just one more log on to a dying fire, ignoring the chill late at night to lean into the heat of a flame. It reminds him of summertime, of the cottage, of—
Shane groans to himself as he opens his mouth to take Ilya deeper, his head getting cloudy with it. He devotes himself to the feeling, sucking and licking as he goes, his senses overcome with alpha, alpha, alpha. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
He doesn’t know how long he sucks Ilya’s dick, but it’s long enough that when Ilya makes a noise above him and gently guides his head off and up to kiss his mouth, Shane feels more like putty than ever.
“Okay?” Ilya whispers between small kisses, drawing him into his body. Shane nods, chasing his mouth and letting Ilya hold him tightly. “Okay, here.” He continues kissing him, deep and patient, Shane’s head swimming with his campfire smoke.
He knows, somewhere within him and outside of himself, that this isn’t normal. That normal would be a relaxing night with an alpha who cared for Shane, during which he’d have enough time to create a nest, that this nameless, faceless alpha surely would not be an antagonizing force on the ice, that they would cheer for every goal Shane scored instead of narrow their eyes and think of ways to score one against him as soon as possible. But here he was. In heat with an alpha that did exactly the opposite. As always.
At least it’s the same rules every time with him.
Shane remembers himself in time to gather enough strength to push up, to straddle Ilya’s waist and reach between them for Ilya’s dick again.
Ilya grins before leaning forward, nipping Shane’s lip and sitting back. “You ready for me?”
Shane swallows, letting bravery bubble up to his throat. “Why don’t you see?”
“Mm,” Ilya hums, leaning forward again to kiss his lips, his cheek, the shell of his ear then his neck, pressing their bodies to flip Shane to his back on the bed and continuing his kisses down. Shane can’t find it within himself to feel shy, spreading his legs to let Ilya fit his shoulders under his knees, his head dipping down to lick at his nub, the way omega men’s smaller dicks get a little harder and bigger, before continuing down.
Shane gasps as Ilya moans, as Ilya’s hands dig into his ass and brings his cunt closer, until yes, wet, good, perfect, yes are the only words Shane can think. He gets his hands in his own hair, trying not to lift his hips, trying not to ride Ilya’s face, trying hard to just accept the perfect ministrations that he’s giving him.
His tongue licks and licks and licks, his moans vibrating around Shane’s very core until he wants to thrash with it. He sucks on his dick and releases it, lapping up the slick that Shane knows he’s got to be pulsing out.
Ilya emerges in another moment, lifting his head and panting. “What you want, Hollander,” he gasps out, his English getting rough, bringing Shane back to those early hookups when the language sounded so heavy on his tongue.
Shane blinks open with heavy eyelids, seeing the glisten of slick from his lips down his chin. What does he want? He wanted something? He can’t remember wanting anything that wasn’t Ilya’s mouth. Did he want something? He stares at his mouth like it’ll give him an answer, but all Shane feels is another pulse of his cunt.
Ilya looks down, locked on where Shane is sure he’s making a mess of his sheets. He clicks his tongue, bringing his fingers to his opening, watching with great interest as Shane sighs and lets his knees fall open, welcoming him as he fits his fingertips inside.
“Yes?” Ilya checks. His fingers press forward until they’re dragging against Shane’s walls, pressing softly as he crooks them. It’s so good. It’s so good and still, it’s not as good as it could be.
Shane feels it all now. He feels the way his skin is radiating heat, sweat beading at his temples at the same time that his body breaks into goosebumps and shivers. He knows he must smell crazy right now, all desire and nothing else. He knows whatever little smell that Ilya sensed during the game would be blooming into something more obvious by now, that there would be no mistaking it. The kind of scent that’s made for an alpha to eat up, to want to bite and not let go.
He could.
No.
He wrenches his brain from behind his instincts to get words out. “Your dick,” he gasps. “Now. Now, now.”
Ilya doesn’t tease him when he gets to this point. That’s one of the rules, he supposes, and something that Shane is always grateful for. Ilya listens to him, and fishes in the drawer for a knotting condom, just where he knows by now it’ll be, and gets it on. Shane breathes through the emptiness that his fingers left, breathes through the emptiness that’s been building and building since the puck drop, when Ilya took a deep breath and smiled in a way that made Shane feel like a pinned animal.
He breathes through it, because he knows it’s about to be so much better.
“Okay,” Ilya breathes, hitching his legs around his waist. “Okay, ome—“
“No,” Shane complains. He can’t hear it. Not from this alpha. He doesn’t want to remember how much he gives up to his designation when he gets like this.
Ilya nods. He seems to remember this rule, too. “Hollander,” he corrects himself. “Okay, Hollander.” He presses inside slowly but without any surprise, familiar and exactly what Shane had needed.
As always. Ilya has exactly what Shane needed all night. And he lets himself just accept it because — well.
“You’re so wet,” Ilya pants, dragging out just to push back in, again and again. “Listen to you. You hear?”
“Shut up,” Shane groans.
“Okay,” Ilya says, “Then listen.” And Shane does hear; he hears the way his body is easing open for Ilya, making his cock wet and warm with his slick. Their skin slaps together in the quiet of the room, as Ilya groans. “So good. So beautiful in heat.”
Shane shudders under the praise, wanting to disagree, wanting to protest that this isn’t him, this is just his base instincts, those aren’t beautiful — but, fuck, it feels good to have Ilya filling him up, feels so good to have his fingers rub his cock as he goes, feels so fucking good to be kissed.
“You taste like you smell,” Ilya whispers against his kiss. “Like candy. So fucking good, Hollander.”
“Oh, God.”
“When you get in heat, it’s like—“ he breaks off, groaning as he thrusts in, making Shane gasp. “Like everywhere. So good, so fucking good. Can’t…get enough.”
“You…” Shane pants out. “No one else could smell it. No one else said anything.”
Ilya’s eyes are dark and close as they look right into Shane’s. “Yes,” he says. “They don’t know what I know. How you are. I know…I know what you smell like. I know.”
Shane feels his abdomen tighten up with Ilya’s movements, as he nails that spot within himself that’s been begging for Ilya’s attention since he got close for the first time that night. “There,” he gasps out, “There, please—“
“I got you,” Ilya grumbles, shifting slightly so he can tighten his grip and keep going.
“Yes,” Shane gasps. “Yes, yes—“
“Say my name,” Ilya commands, and Shane’s eyes fly open, landing on the way Ilya is looking at him, intent and wild. His curls bounce around his face, locked onto Shane like nothing else exists, like all he needs is what he just asked for. Which isn’t wild, isn’t even close. Ilya’s been saying Shane’s name all night, all he needs is to answer with Rozanov and then— “I’ll give you knot, I’ll—“
“Ilya,” is what comes out. “Ilya.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide and then they slam shut, his face lifting to the ceiling. “Oh my god.”
Shane feels the swelling of his knot, the telltale pressure and pulse of his cock as he locks within him. “Oh,” he gasps, shoving his hand down to rub at his dick the way he wants, the way he needs to do to shudder through his own orgasm. He shakes through it, legs wide and letting Ilya brace his arms around Shane to hold himself up.
They breathe, letting Ilya’s knot settle, letting Shane’s body accept it with happy little shivers as they come back to themselves.
And this, here, when Shane can rest in the satisfaction, not yet reaching the post-knot clarity of whatever he has to process afterwards…this makes it all worth it.
Ilya lowers himself down, nestling his knot deeper and fuller, bowing his head so it rests between Shane’s neck and chest. “Shane,” he sighs.
Okay.
Okay, yes, so that’s different. Shane tries to reach for the gratitude anyway, the gratitude that Ilya is just accepting the way that Shane said his first name first rather than pushing back or questioning.
Besides, it’s not like any of this makes sense. If any of this made sense, Shane’s suppressants would be working as normal and he wouldn’t fucking be here in the first place, shoving a knot inside of him to gain peace in time for tomorrow’s practice. So maybe this can be a place where things don’t make sense.
Maybe this — this, here, for whatever reason with Ilya Rozanov — could be the place without rules. Do those exist? Shane doesn’t know of any, not in the way he lives his life but…he supposes this is one of those things, if they exist.
Shane leans down, brushing his lips along Ilya’s forehead, feeling the way curls tickle his nose. He still smells like summertime and campfire smoke. He hopes he still smells like candy.
Ilya reaches up, brushes his fingers over Shane’s nipple. “You, uh—?” He trails off, raising an eyebrow.
Shane shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Ilya smiles, more kindness than his usual teasing. “But won’t you…in a few hours…?”
“I’m good,” Shane repeats. “I just need a knot. So.” When Ilya lifts his head, cocks his head to the side, Shane continues. “It’s a breakthrough heat. I’m okay after this.”
“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, but Shane can see he’s still confused. If Shane lets himself consider what it would be like to keep him here for a full heat, he doesn’t think he could get his mind off that track, so he won’t. He will not. It’s another minute before Ilya shifts and his knot begins to slip free, softening. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re good,” Shane whispers. He breathes through it as Ilya pulls out, tying off the condom and walking it to the trash. He curls his legs back into himself, the movement helping with the emptiness that’s less achy now, but still present.
Ilya looks over his shoulder to watch him. “You need—?”
Shane shakes his head. “You can take your shower.”
Ilya hesitates for just a moment but he goes. This, too, a routine. They fuck, Ilya showers, Shane gets ahold of himself. And that’s exactly what he does now. He sits up, feeling the refreshing, chilly air of the apartment on his skin, grateful that he’ll likely be able to sleep with his blankets as normal rather than tossing and turning with the burning need of his body.
He did it. Whatever problem his body seems to have at random intervals of Ilya Rozanov’s presence in his life? Shane has found a solution for tonight.
He sinks into his pillows with a smile. Settled. Fixed.
Ilya comes out of the shower with a towel slung around his waist and smirks like an asshole as he takes it off, clearly wanting attention.
“Your pants are on the floor,” Shane tells him.
“I could leave them here,” he says, ignoring Shane’s eye roll. “Help for next heat when I’m not here.”
“I don’t—“ Shane stops himself. He fucking stops himself. A close one. Because even if that’s one of the rules, it’s not like Ilya should know. I don’t get breakthrough heats without you, holy fuck, he does not need Ilya making more of that than it is.
Shane also doesn’t need himself making more of that than it is.
Ilya is still watching him, even as he pulls his hoodie on. When Shane says nothing, he sighs. “Whatever, Hollander.” So his last name is back. Okay. Ilya finds his socks on the floor and tugs them on, and Shane is calm enough in bed that he doesn’t even argue when Ilya comes around to his side and says, “Don’t play in heat.”
He just hums, accepting the kiss to his mouth. He tries not to play in heat anyway. And also, also, it was pre-heat. But Shane can feel the dissipation with every passing second, the way his body’s tension and rule over him is dissolving into something that he can control once more.
“Bye, Rozanov,” he says. “You know the way out?”
“Oh, yes,” Ilya drawls. “I will make sure to give interview outside, too.”
“Hilarious.” Shane rolls his eyes as Ilya laughs to himself and leaves the room, shuffling out into the apartment’s kitchen.
He listens to Ilya in his kitchen, confused for a second at the sound of his fridge opening and closing, and confused again when Ilya reappears to throw the bottle of his electrolyte drink onto the bed next to him.
“For you,” Ilya says, pointing to it. “Goodnight.” He’s out of the room before Shane can fully react, staring at the cold bottle of bright blue, knowing he was going to get the exact one as soon as Ilya left. But now, he hears the soft noises of Ilya shoving his shoes back on and opening his front door and leaving, and Shane doesn’t even have to get up.
Shane swallows down the questions he has about that, reaching for the bottle and opening it up. The liquid is cold and perfect on his tongue, promising him the strength that he lost in heat. He stretches out his legs as he drinks up, letting his head grow clearer with every second.
Until he gets a whiff of that campfire smoke again.
He blinks, confused, until his foot tangles with the culprit.
Shane reaches down the bed, his hand grasping onto the smoky fabric of Ilya’s forgotten t-shirt. The scent blooms around him, making him sink back into the pillows and try to breathe without another wave of heat setting in.
“Shit,” he whispers into his empty apartment.
Scent markers being left behind?
Not part of the rules. Not even close.