Chapter Text
The lights are bright and luminescent, the desk is white, the paper slid in front of him by the receptionist has a pinkish hue.
“Just sign here,” she says, pointing to a line at the bottom of the document. “And here.” Her finger brushes against the page and flips it, revealing another below it. Ilya has read both already, and more, when he first made his appointment online, and signed some stuff then, too. He guesses this one is just for extra precautions.
Precautions for what? Ilya’s not an animal. He won’t hurt anyone.
The gel in the pen he’s holding is dark blue. It takes a second to start working, and Ilya has to go over his signature a few times. This infuriates him, causes his nostrils to flare. It’s an overreaction, of course.
But his blocker’s effects are starting to fade.
And the heat, that disgustingly famished sensation in the core of his stomach, in his chest and neck, in the air he fucking breathes — it’s becoming more noticeable by the minute.
He made the decision too late in the week, too late in the day. It’s nearing 8 PM, and clinics close their doors at 10, which makes him catastrophically late for a rut appointment, so he chose the lowest effort service, the one which would inconvenience the omega the least — a pheromone shower with a view.
It’s just that he’s never had to do this before, to request professional help for his rut.
But his cycle’s been getting worse recently, more unpredictable. He’s tried sleeping around a bit more, changing partners to see if maybe his hormones are out of whack, but that didn’t help. Nor did his doctor, who simply said these things fluctuate naturally.
Well, this natural fluctuation is why he’s applying for the help of a rut clinic at 8 PM on a Friday instead of doing literally anything else. Because his last rut was just two months ago, yet here he is, breathing heavy.
Heavy.
And hot and on the hunt for a sweet little thing to press against and bite and tear at its neck until it’s begging for a break and maybe Ilya will be kind and listen or maybe he’ll be selfish and knot the precious thing beneath him while it whimpers qu–
“Upstairs and down the left hallway, treatment room 8,” the receptionist says. She’s not smiling nor scowling, doesn’t wish him a good time or ask him to keep it quiet. This is not some sleazy brothel, which is what Ilya kind of envisioned initially.
It is sterile, with light blue walls and square white tiles and sometimes there will be a nurse-like person walking around, pushing a tray.
He decides to take the stairs, eager for something to distract him from that heat, that lava in his veins. He breaks into a sweat, or maybe he’s been sweating since earlier, and the moisture makes his skin feel cold, like he’s got a fever, like his body’s fighting an infection or a virus.
A huff, a pant, a few more steps climbed.
But it’s not true, his body isn’t fighting a virus, his body is the virus, and every second he spends off meds and outside of an omega, the virus tries to kill him.
Or that’s what it feels like for Ilya.
That’s what it feels like for a dominant alpha.
There’s no true remedy, no cure. Dominant alphas can’t get satisfaction from anything else, no matter how hard they try. Ilya shudders at a memory once-buried, now deciding to revive itself on these frustrating steps. It’s his first boyfriend, another alpha. He’s about 19, yelling at Ilya in their shared apartment. The walls are thin and people can hear them argue. Ilya swears he took the meds. His boyfriend doesn’t believe him — compares their ruts, why doesn’t Ilya’s knot ever go down, why can’t I satisfy you, don’t you love me.
A shiver runs down Ilya’s spine, but at least the stairs are done.
He takes a left and slowly walks down the hallway. One step in front of the other, say hello like a normal person, offer them a handshake if you’re allowed. His vision’s a bit dark around the edges. The blocker’s almost gone from his system. He hopes the omega’s just like he requested. Request is an overstatement. This isn’t a brothel. He told them he’d need someone better-built, not too scrawny. Because he’s a dominant alpha.
It’s not like he’ll get to fuck them.
But at least the images he conjures in his mind need to be accurate.
It says 8 on the door to the right. His sneakers squeak against the tiled floor when he stops in front of it. He taps the card on a reader, it beeps quietly. The door is made of something cold to the touch. Steel? Ilya’s throat swallows thickly. To trap his sweet omega in here? So it can’t escape? So it has to take–
Again with the ‘it’. As if they’re not even human. Ilya bites down on his cheek, punishing himself. It doesn’t do much. The door slides open heavily. Ilya vaguely realizes it’s to keep him in, and no one else. So others can escape. Maybe it’s Ilya who isn’t human, after all. Maybe that’s why the growl in his throat recognizes everyone else as different.
He was expecting for the scent of an omega to hit him first, but instead Ilya realizes there’s nothing sexy about this room, either. A sort of dentist chair in the middle, a steel table next to it with things stacked on top, and in front of it all, a glass separator which spans the entire width of the room. And beyond it, a man dressed in a light blue uniform, not unlike the ones nurses wear.
He’s handsome in a boyish way, with dark hair and a fringe on the longer side, just enough to fall sweetly over one of his eyebrows when he turns towards him. He’s got his hands behind his back, and he’s waiting for Ilya to properly walk in.
There’s a knot in Ilya’s throat. The steel door slides closed behind him, and he takes a few tentative steps towards the chair. He tries not to stare at the omega behind the glass, not yet anyway, because the treatment hasn’t started.
“Good evening, mister Rozanov,” the man says. His voice is deeper than Ilya expected, not quite syrup but more like caramel in hot chocolate, attractive, sweet.
Ilya nods at him, puts on that awkward half-smile he’s perfected through the years. Approachable, normal, just like everybody else. Nothing weird to see here, nothing unbecoming going on. An alpha with normal urges, normal needs, normal thoughts.
Not hands around the sweetly-voiced omega’s throat, claws digging into the skin of his hips, cock drilling deep into him, deeper than it should, pushing itself up his stomach until it’s locked in place, breeding him, or not– not breeding, but eating, devouring, becoming one, or both, or all of it.
“Good evening, mister…," Ilya trails off. They didn’t give him the omega’s name. Obviously. He’s just kidding around.
And the omega smirks a little, knowingly. “How about ‘Shane’? You can be informal with me if you want to, sir.”
Ilya nods and steps a bit closer to the glass. He notices a sort of ventilator carved into the middle of it, but it seems to be closed. He imagines it’ll be turned on soon, and Ilya will see the omega’s slick run down his thighs by then, sticky and delicious.
“It's my first time here, Shane. Will you help me?”
As if he hasn’t read the clear instructions in the papers he signed already. As if he’s the first one to ever request this type of shit, greedy and grimey and like it really is a brothel.
But the omega smiles back softly, his cheeks bunching up just enough to make Ilya want to bite at them until they’re red.
“Of course. On the sides of the chair behind you, there is a set of restraints.”
Ilya turns. Two cuff-like links are connected to the arms of the chair. “You think that is enough?”
It’s a genuine question.
“Yes,” Shane says. “Besides, we have a glass separator. Please get comfortable, Mr. Rozanov. You can’t hurt me.”
But I wish I could.
As he sits in the chair, Ilya is instructed on how to elevate himself on it, how to raise the back, lower it, how to chain himself down to it.
When the cuffs click around his wrists, a growl in the back of his throat warns him of the control he’s lost. And he hates it, despises it completely, loves being in control, loves taking and giving and having the power to decide when and how to do it.
But he’s at a clinic, which is kind of like a hospital, which makes Shane a healthcare provider of sorts. So Ilya can’t mount him, can’t fuck him so deep he cries. Can’t make him piss himself from pleasure. Can’t–
“The restraints should still allow you to help yourself reach completion,” Shane says.
Ilya smirks. It’s so clinical it’s almost a weird parody of sex. A bead of sweat rides down his left temple. He has to bend down a little to wipe it off. Sex with Shane. He’s hard. His rut’s already started.
“Through the treatment, I may refer to you more personally to help create a mentally healthy environment for your rut.”
Shane is working on the buttons of his collar. Three, two, one.
“Is that okay, Mr. Rozanov?”
His hands move down to grab at the hem of his shirt.
“Yes.”
The clinic listened well. They sent a well-built omega. Smaller than him, though. Easy to overpower. His mouth waters at the thought. Useless, tight body, ruined, used, overstimulated. He swallows the imagery. His left hand moves to palm his clothed cock. He needs to take his sweats off soon, or else he won’t be able to wear them on the way home.
This isn’t too bad, if a bit embarrassing. But it’s healthcare, it’s professional, Ilya can reign it in, he can be normal.
When Shane takes his uniform pants off, he makes sure to turn around and bend over just enough to show Ilya how plump his ass is through his underwear. Perky, too, bet it bounces when you hit it. Bet it bruises nice too, all pink and purple. Bet it spreads easy, takes it in one go even if it’s too big, and all Shane does is mewl into the pillow, soft and airy, or maybe low, like his voice already is, Ilya needs to find out, needs to hear it.
The print of his dick is starting to peek through his sweats. Ilya figures it’s time to take off as much as he can, anyway. He dips his thumbs under the hem of both his pants and underwear, and pulls them down enough to give Shane the full view. He doesn’t do it to brag, not yet. He’s only half hard.
“I will now open the airway between us. Please let me know at any point if you’d like to take a break.” He looks down at Ilya’s cock. Of course he does, he’s human. Doesn’t stop it from twitching, though. There’s no reaction in his expression but Ilya can see the slight change in the colour of Shane’s cheeks. He won’t judge. Ilya always gets red in the ears, too.
There’s a beep, and a ventilating sound, and Shane sits down in a chair which resembles Ilya’s. He props his legs up on the support and adjusts in the seat.
“Your underwear?” Ilya asks, almost innocently. Almost like it would be cruel to not offer him a full frontal.
“Y-Yes, I almost forgot,” Shane stutters, scrambling up from the chair. Must be Ilya’s pheromones.
“Let me smell you, too,” Ilya says, instructs as he would a one-night stand, airy and playful enough to not feel serious, like no punishment will come should they refuse. Because Ilya never lets it go that far. He wishes he could.
Shane’s cock is so cute by comparison. A small little thing, rounded off at the end. Why did nature give it to him, anyway? Who would he even use it on? He wants to ask, to tease. Shane must know it’s small, he wouldn’t pick up the job if he had a complex about it, right?
“Cute,” he says to himself because he can’t help it, and the echo of the tiled room delivers it to the omega, and the omega’s ears go red, but he gazes back at Ilya through his lashes, thankful? Inviting? Shy?
Now, when Shane sits back down and gets comfortable, Ilya can see his hole properly. It’s still a bit obscured by the position Shane is in, but lowering himself more would mean Ilya can’t see his face, and his face is very essential to the treatment, Ilya found.
Then it hits him, soft and gentle yet all of a sudden, too, like the vague, imagined scent of a childhood memory, like the pleasant smell of hair after it’s been washed.
Caramel, Ilya was right. Not too sweet, sweet enough, mouth-watering. And honey, just a drop, almost floral. Intoxicating. Ilya forgets to touch himself. Shane spreads his cheeks as far as he can in this position with one hand. His hole glistens slightly, starting to wet itself, to get ready for Ilya. Shane’s not even drunk on it yet. Not even drooling over himself. But his body already craves Ilya’s knot.
Ilya vaguely hears the restraints buckle against the chair as he reaches outwardly. Not too hard, just a test, he can control himself. His breathing gets heavier, deeper as it tries to take in as much of Shane as possible. His arms instinctively pull against the chain of the restraints some more. Ilya watches as a drop of slick escapes Shane, slides down onto the white chair. It’s clear and syrup-like, and the next drop gets caught by his rim as it twitches.
“Touch your dick,” he instructs.
But Shane, sweet little thing, red and pink all over, shakes his head.
Ilya pulls a little harder. Something creaks in the metal of the chair. “No? Why not? You don’t like it?”
“It’s a little…” Shane begins to murmur, but trails off as he pushes a finger into himself. To distract Ilya, maybe?
But it’s not enough. It’s not just physical to Ilya. No one understands this, his desire to tease and poke and pull, to get a reaction out of his prey, to play with it until it cries from embarrassment and then soothe it, make it cry, soothe it, make it cry.
“I know it’s little,” Ilya says, instead. He’s not smirking, but he’s close. “I like it.”
Shane shakes his head.
Two fingers in now. Ilya pumps out more pheromones, and licks his lips the more Shane’s sweeten in reaction. They might be made for each other. This might be his mate.
“Touch it, Shane. Wanna see you play with it,” he says, just loud enough to not whisper.
Shane’s chest is so red, perfect to bite into, to leave marks on. To suck on each tit while Ilya breeds him, and later, again, while Shane’s carrying his pups.
The links of his restraints keep creaking under the pressure. He could probably break free. Then what? Scare the sweet thing? What if it runs away? Ilya needs to bite down hard and claim him before that happens.
“Come on,” he growls. “Please, Shane. Alpha wants to see it, hm?”
And then he finally hears it, Shane’s voice, an airy hum at the command, soft and high-pitched, as he’d guessed initially. He’d give a leg to hear the sounds he makes when he’s mated properly, pounded like he deserves. Short, staccato little noises, one after the other, fast, following each thrust in quick succession. Should Ilya fuck him like that first? On his stomach, ass up, face squished into the mattress until he can barely breathe, has to beg his alpha for air, pink in the cheeks, taking it, fuck, he’d take it so well.
Shane’s fingers don’t even wrap around his little cock. He holds it up by the pads of his thumb and pointer. The skin moves up and down as he begins to stroke himself. Must be three inches hard. In the back of his mind, Ilya registers the ache of the cuffs as they dig into his wrists. He can barely feel the pain.
“You ever fucked someone with it, sweetheart?”
Shane shakes his head, and his eyes open to catch Ilya’s gaze. “Never fucked a-nyone at all,” he admits to the rabid alpha in front of him. “B-Been waiting for someone to break me in.”
Ilya’s cock stirs. He positions himself at the edge of the seat, feet planted on the floor. He tucks himself back into his sweats, and without breaking eye contact, he issues out the last warning he can muster before it’s too late.
“These won’t last.” He raises his bruised wrists to his sides, because that’s all the length he’s allowed. “If you don’t leave, I’ll find a way to fuck you.”
Shane’s fingers go deeper. “I-It’s okay, Mr. Rozanov. You can’t hurt me,” the omega whispers out. “L-Look, I’m so hard for you.”
His cock’s so red at the tip it almost looks angry, frustrated at the world, at how useless it is. Ilya could suck it while he opens the omega up, soothe it a little, give it some purpose.
“I’m dominant, did they tell you.”
Ilya can’t even bring himself to speak properly anymore. His words are toothy and strained and more foreign than they’ve ever been.
“Wish an alpha like you w-would be my first,” Shane murmurs, lashes wet, but he doesn’t look at Ilya.
“You use that filthy mouth on everyone.”
The top of the chair moves forward from Ilya’s pulls. It’s constant. He’ll break free soon enough.
Shane’s three fingers in. The ones on his cock stopped moving. He shakes his head at Ilya.
“Liar,” Ilya spits out. His head turns back towards the right arm of the chair. The chains are flimsy, not hard metal. It must be the glass separator that actually holds alphas back. Maybe the kind they use to build highrises.
“You’re not looking,” Shane whines from the other side. Ilya turns. “Y-You don’t like it?”
He swallows nothing, nostrils flared. There’s slick all over the omega’s chair. Ilya would lap it all up. He’d eat him, too. Leave no trace.
But he has to break free first.
“Let me take these off,” he clinks his restraints around for a moment, “and I’ll show you how much I like it.”
Shane doesn’t say anything, but gets up off the chair silently and Ilya watches as his thighs get soaked. The slick slips out of him like honey, and then he’s standing right there, on the other side of the glass. The air fills with a thicker scent now that he’s closer. The hair on the back of Ilya’s neck stands up on end. The sweet thing doesn’t know Ilya would ruin him.
“I-I’m closer now,” Shane says, “is it better?”
Ilya jerks up again, clanking sound echoing through the room. He can almost taste the slick running down his thighs. It’s on his tongue. Why did he think he could restrain himself? Why would he ever deny himself the touch of the prettiest man in the world?
“My wrists hurt,” he says. “You want alpha to hurt, baby?”
Shane murmurs a soft ‘no’, and touches the glass between them with the tips of his fingers. He’s so good at this, Ilya realizes. So good at pretending for alpha; because it must be a pretense, some make-believe fantasy Shane is fulfilling for him. He can’t be this sweet regularly, or else he wouldn’t be working here, wouldn’t be placing himself between the jaws of beasts so easily.
“So help me, yes? Tell me how to get them off?”
It’s taking everything out of him to be gentle, to mask the growl in his throat with something that won’t scare his prey off before he can strike.
And then Shane’s head rotates to the side a little, eyes furrowed, as if in thought. Come on.
“I can trust you?”
“Of course,” Ilya lies through his teeth.
“Y-You can’t break anything, okay?”
“Promise.”
The omega huffs once. “I don’t know,” he whines some more.
So Ilya pumps more pheromones out, and he purrs instinctively when Shane reciprocates. “Wanna be closer to you, sweetheart. Wanna touch myself. Not like this, yes? Hurts like this.”
Shane nods quietly, but he’s worried. Ilya smells it on him with ease, like they’ve been with each other for years. They’re meant to mate. Ilya’s meant to breed this one. Just him, forever.
“You’re shaking,” Ilya says sweetly. “‘Cause you’re not helping alpha right now. But you want to help, yes? To feel better?”
“I do,” the omega breathes out. He must feel rejected, somewhere inside. He’s not fulfilling his alpha’s needs. On the other hand, Ilya will die if he doesn’t make the sweet thing come soon. So it’s mutual, at least. “But…”
“But?”
Shane’s fingers play with themselves in front of him from the nerves. Ilya’s jaw clenches. He’s getting impatient. He needs to fuck into him, drive his knot so deep he keeps milking the omega as he breeds him, keeps him coming on his knot until his little cock stops working.
“It’s just, I don’t want to cause trouble.” Pretty thing. So obedient. Need to fuck him stupid, teach him to take a knot, tease him until he begs for it. “I don’t technically work here,” he says.
The words don’t really register in Ilya’s mind, nor does he truly care about them in this particular moment.
“T-This is my first time doing it, I volunteered to get e-experience in the field.” So many words, none of them moaned out into Ilya’s mouth as he pushes himself so deep into Shane he can feel him in his throat; chokes on them as Ilya holds him down. “For my thesis.”
“I won’t get you into trouble,” Ilya smiles, the sounds half caught in his teeth. His accent’s thicker now, t’s and r’s rolling into each other.
“It’s just, it’s my first night, what i-if they notice…”
“Only if you take too long to decide, yes?” Ilya points with his chin towards the clock on the right wall beside them.
A second of silence, two. Shane’s chewing on his bottom lip. Ilya wants to be the one to do it instead. Bite down, taste blood, mark him everywhere.
“Under the chair, there’s a button.”
Ilya’s already reaching for it.
“It’ll open a thing on the left side.”
Found it. It’s a little key. Three, two, one second later, Ilya’s free.
But he moves slowly, languidly. Smiles at the omega who’s staring him down, afraid.
Afraid, yet when Ilya stands up and walks up to the glass, the omega doesn’t wince nor take a step back. He just stands there, completely naked save for his white socks, twiddling his fingers where his little cock rests.
“See?” Ilya half-whispers, right hand gently testing the glass. “Nothing happened.”
He’s a little shorter than him, the omega. A little smaller, too. Because Ilya builds real muscle, strength-trains with a purpose, and Shane just wants to look pretty. The thought intoxicates him further. His throat purrs in delight of what comes next. That’s who he is, Ilya Rozanov. An animal. No longer human in the face of the pretty little thing. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to question this conclusion, nor wonder why it’s uncontrollable tonight, of all nights.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Don’t you feel better now?”
“I do,” Shane admits innocently.
Ilya smiles through deep, heavy breaths. His chest rises and falls and burns with anticipation. The pretty little thing can smell it on him, no doubt, yet it doesn’t run away.
“But you want more, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane breathes out another admission with eyes closed.
“Mhm,” Ilya hums quietly. He reaches over towards the glass divider, two fingers extended, and taps lightly against it. “Let me out of here,” he says, “and I’ll give you everything.”