Archive of Our Own

Ilya didn’t fuck with his suppressants. Not since the All-Star game. Before that? A text message and a sick day. The League and the Bears would prefer if he didn’t accidentally miss a few pills and spend a day fucking a pretty omega with some spare time instead of doing the job they paid him a lot of money to do. With meds, they only needed to have one a year, to prevent breakthroughs. But the union had its rules. Paid time off twice a year. More with a doctor’s note.

Ilya had wondered what that note would say, “Dear Bears, please don’t be mad. Rozanov needs to knot someone more often than your lawyers planned. Sincerely, Doctor Nosy Dick.”

Like most NHL players, Ilya timed his rut for the summer. Once a year was usually all he needed. In the early days of his career, he’d forget to take the pills, get too drunk or too distracted and leave the bottle behind on a road trip. He got lucky: missed a handful of practices and a couple of games with no more than a few yelled lectures from his coach. But he was an alpha and alphas did stupid shit. Hell, in Coach’s day, ruts happened and teams adapted. They didn’t even have the little white pills. 

In Coach’s day, there weren’t any significant omega players either. 

Now there were.

There was no doubt now that omegas belonged on the ice. Not for many years and certainly not with Shane Hollander playing. Hollander took his pills every day, without fail. He’d never missed a single game for “BIO" — the polite term the league had settled on years ago for heats or ruts. Unlike Ilya and most of the alphas in the league, he also wore scent patches. No one on the ice got to smell him: the fresh bite of pine, the richness of wood, the mist of an early morning. No. That scent was just for Ilya, his nose pressed into the side of Hollander’s neck as he licked and sucked and made Hollander sweat and shake.

That first time, Hollander had kept them on. Ilya hated them. Hated them even as he was glad that they were there. Glad that they could remind him of all of the reasons that this was a bad idea. But Hollander didn’t wear them to his room after the first All-Star game and Ilya got to learn exactly what perfect Shane Hollander smelled like. Then Ilya got a semi every time a pretty, freckled omega smelled vaguely like a tree. 

Their first heat together had been at the cottage, but it hadn’t been the first close call. Ilya had felt the simmer of it dancing up against his skin at the end of their rookie season. Had known if Hollander had just pushed, just a little bit harder, had tilted his neck, had offered, Ilya would’ve snapped. He would’ve tackled him and brought him back to his room and kept him there until all anyone could smell would be him. Until Hollander was sated and pleased and wanted no one but him. Ilya left before he could.

In Russia, most people still wore scent patches every day. It was… rude, even for alphas, to throw their scent everywhere. It lacked discipline. The only person who needed to know your scent was the omega woman you were fucking. And even then, maybe not until she was your wife. After Sochi, Ilya wore them. 

Hollander had hated them, so clearly, during every game, in the fucking bathroom in Vegas, especially in the hotel room, when Ilya had him discard his own scent patches with his clothes. Hollander had smelled like a dream as he fingered himself open on the bed, begging Ilya to fuck him.

Ilya had pretended he didn’t notice Hollander’s shaky, aborted inhale as he left. Hollander smelled rich and slightly sweet, dangerous. By the time Ilya made it to Moscow, his rut was chewing at the bars of the prison made of little white pills. 

He’d stopped wearing the patches that summer, after too many pointed remarks from Sveta. What do you have to hide, Ilyusha? Are you saving your scent for someone?

When they saw each other again in the fall, Hollander didn’t ask about it. As if he hadn’t noticed. As if Ilya’s scent didn’t matter much to him, one way or another. 

But even then, Ilya knew that wasn’t true. He knew he wasn’t alone in craving. He watched Hollander drag in huge gulps of air whenever Ilya sunk inside. He felt how much wetter Hollander’s hole got on days when he missed a little white pill. 

But Hollander texted him too. After those nights, if he could smell that Ilya was closer to a rut than he should be. He would warn him. Remind him. Taunt him. 

Giving up on the scoring race? Or just looking to escape losing?

It worked. Usually. For some reason, it was easier to remember his pills before games against Montreal. He wouldn’t get to see Hollander if he was fully in rut. Hollander wouldn’t want him in rut. He wouldn’t take the time off. Not for Ilya. If Ilya could work it out so he was close, that turned Hollander on, pleased his body, even if Hollander only wanted the hint of it. His mind didn’t want Ilya. Just his body. 

But that was fine, because if he did forget too many days in a row, Sveta was there. Or one of the other omegas and betas in cities across North America. Most women and many men were happy to take a day off work to get fucked by Ilya Rozanov. Just not Shane Hollander.

No. Hollander’s routine was too important to him. The rhythm and pattern of his life were more sacred than the faith Ilya’s father pretended to have. 

He’d asked Hollander about heats. On the couch with tuna melts between them. It felt safe. A curious question. What he usually did. Ilya assumed he had people. People he liked more than Ilya. People he trusted more than Ilya. But maybe he was wrong? Maybe Hollander skipped all of his heats, maybe that was why he was so stressed, or maybe rode them out alone in his famous fortress of solitude. Maybe he used that dildo and cried. If Hollander admitted that, maybe he’d ask if Ilya would do it instead.

But Ilya’s phone rang before he could get his answer. And then they had fucked. And Ilya had been stupid enough, scent-drunk enough, to say his name, to growl it against the side of his neck, his blood pounding despite the pills he hadn’t forgotten. And Shane had run. 

The pictures with Rose Landry didn’t even bother him. Well. That was a lie. They did. But what bothered him most was the bare stretch of neck. Shane didn’t wear patches with Rose Landry. Not even in public. Rose Landry didn’t either, not while she held his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. Rose Landry was a beta. Most straight male omegas married betas. It was just simpler that way. Easier to keep their secondary gender in a little box. Sveta had explained it to him once, when Sasha’s mother announced her son’s engagement on Facebook.  

Shane liked his boxes. He trusted Rose Landry. Was open about liking her. Wanting her. In a way he never would be with Ilya. In a way he never could be with Ilya. 

It was torture. Watching Rose Landry dance with him, watching the way she caressed the sides of his neck and ran her hands through his sweaty hair. It was all wrong. She was too gentle. Not right for his Shane. 

But maybe that was wrong too. Maybe Ilya was too rough. Maybe he had always been too rough, for someone as perfect and golden as Shane. Maybe Rose understood him better than Ilya did. Better than he ever could.

At the All-Star Game, Shane had smelled light and hopeful— fresh-cut grass and rain. Ilya had nearly licked his neck right there in the stupid bar. Ilya would’ve begged, even if Shane had been Rose Landry’s. But he hadn’t smelt like anything but Shane, so Ilya had asked. And sometimes Ilya still heard those words, like a gift, just for him. Not compatible. 

The game felt almost like rut sex. Instinctual. Greedy. Fun. He fucking loved playing with Shane. Would do it forever if he had the chance.

In the hotel room, after the beach, Shane had smelled wrong. Needy and nervous. His instincts demanded he make it go away, comfort his omega, reassure him. But he couldn’t. So he was an asshole. Just like Shane always said.

Of course, Shane, ridiculous, brave Shane had pushed harder. Demanded honesty. Demanded better. As he always did. As Ilya always failed to provide. 

Shane was braver. Even when Ilya kept telling him the truth, refused to engage with his fantasy. Russia helped keep the dream from hurting, in its odd twisted way. He needed to be able to go back to Russia for his father. And Russia wouldn’t accept a gay man. With that reality, what he wanted, what he needed, didn’t matter. 

But of course Shane saw. Shane understood. Because he always fucking understood. 

And he kept being good. Light and steady when Ilya was dark. Serious when Ilya was reckless. Gentle, when Ilya cried. He still wanted him, desperately, all the time. 

Then Father died. 

And Shane had been there. Well, not there. And Ilya had missed him. Had wandered around Moscow sniffing for pine and fresh air, wishing he could find the comfort of Shane. Boring, safe Shane that wanted him back. 

But he answered, every time. And he listened. Ilya’s rut had gotten too close. In that stupid restaurant, the time-change and the stress had gotten to him. And Sveta had handed him a pill the same time that she had said the name “Jane.” She had pressed a little harder on the word “he.”

And then Shane had listened. Hadn’t cared when he’d sobbed. Hadn’t hung up or mocked him. Not that Ilya ever thought he would. No. Shane was too good for that. Too good for him. 

Ilya needed to end it in Montreal. Even if Shane had given him the code to his door. Even if Shane finally trusted him. Especially because Shane trusted him. 

Then, Shane had crumpled to the ice and the world had fallen silent and scentless.

In the hospital, Shane had smelled wrong, antiseptic and the sickly-sweet scent of a hurting omega. That was the real reason for the scent patches, Ilya reasoned. Who could stand hitting someone who smelled like this when they were hurting?

Shane had kept raising his voice until Ilya got close enough to let Shane nuzzle into his neck. Shane had purred, loopy from the drugs but so fucking pleased to smell him. Ilya wanted to crawl into the bed, to pet and stroke and coddle the omega until the pain went away. But no. He had to leave. Had to leave his omega in the bed with the stupid beta nurse taking care of him.

Ilya could do it. Could make sure that Shane took his meds and didn’t look at his phone. But no. He couldn’t. Because he was a man. And he was an alpha. And he was Ilya Rozanov and his Shane was Shane Hollander. The perfect role model. So good no one mentioned his secondary gender. If he was gay, if he was with Ilya, no one would ever shut up about it.

He said maybe and meant no. And it was for the best. 

Then Scott Hunter won the cup and kissed his boyfriend on the ice.

And everything changed. 

Shane’s heat hit after David found them. Thankfully. Shane’s heats were shorter than average. But Ilya wouldn’t know outside of the internet. Sveta was a beta and when it came time for heats, he was never at the top of anyone’s lists. 

Four days of the most athletic and demanding sex of his life and Shane finally relented. Ilya's body ached. His ribs were the least of his worries. His abs and cock and jaw and hell even his tongue burned from the effort of meeting the burning need that had subsumed Shane. Shane was always tight and enthusiastic, but during heat, he milked Ilya’s cock like a little more jizz could give him another Cup. Ilya would never need porn ever again in his life. Not with the memory of Shane’s panted whimpers and desperate pleas as he chased orgasm after orgasm for the promise of those sweet periods of relief. He could remember the way Shane had clung to him, begged for him, wanted him so clearly, for his cock and his comfort in equal measures. 

When Shane finally collapsed, knocked into a kind of deep sleep that included drool and pillow case lines on his cheek, Ilya engaged in the most delicate maneuver of his life. He wiped away the worst of the grime from Shane’s body and his own, stripped the sheets, and replaced them, all without waking Shane. He hadn’t allowed Ilya to clean him while conscious, and he’d growled the one time Ilya had really managed to make a dent in the mess. As he showered as quickly as he could, he took stock of his own body. Ilya was riddled with bite marks and bruises along nearly every inch of skin, as if a single patch of unmarked flesh was an invitation. 

The next morning, when Shane woke and Ilya pressed a water bottle, a protein bar, and the new pack of little pink pills into his hand, Shane smiled so wide that Ilya thought he might explode. 

They were nearing the end of their time at the cottage, bruises and bite marks mostly faded, with plans in place for their future and a tentative hope on the horizon, when Shane brought it up. 

“Now’s when you usually have your rut, right?” He stirred his boring chicken and rice, the truest omen of the impending season. Ilya slurped the leftover spaghetti from Yuna and David’s. They always had extra, the past few days. Ilya never said no. 

“What? You track my rut across continents, that how much you want me?” Shane’s grumpy face was gentled by the way he wiped away a stray bit of sauce from Ilya’s cheek. 

“No. I just…Alphas talk.” He shrugged. “Better to do it a few weeks before the season starts, but not too soon, or it could interfere with playoffs.” Ilya could imagine they talked. Dropped little hints to try to lure his Shane into their beds. He dropped his fork. This was too serious for spaghetti. 

“Alphas talk? Which alphas? Who is telling you about their plans?” Ilya asked with a waggled of his brows. 

“No one. Nothing like that. Jesus. It’s just—” Shane cut himself off to shove a mouthful of boring chicken in his mouth, but he couldn’t hide the pretty pink flush. Ilya grinned.

“Ooo. I want to know who is making you blush like that.” Shane swallowed, his eyes widening a bit, but Ilya kept going, “should be me no? After I suck your cock so good you—”

“Hayden’s kids have June birthdays.” Shane groaned, dropping his fork so it clattered against his own plate. He winced. Ilya grabbed it before it could keep rattling. The look of relief on Shane’s face was nearly enough to distract him. Nearly.

“What do Pike’s kids have to do with—” Pike had approximately 7000 children. They spawned. Sometimes Pike posted pictures of Shane with them. Ilya liked them with his fake account. It was mostly for liking pictures of Shane. 

“Technically, Amber’s birthday is in May, but she was premature.” Ah, this he could understand. He got hit for a living, but he could count back nine months. Or forward three? Shane shoveled more food into his mouth when it became clear Ilya wasn’t going to keep asking questions. Ilya waited until he had finished his stupid boring, macrobiotically perfect dinner before continuing. He waited for the exact last bite of his vegetables. 

“Do you think all alphas are on Hayden Pike’s fuck schedule?” Shane came very close to actually spitting across the table. 

“It’s not a fuck schedule, it’s just strategic!” He tossed up his arms and pushed back the bench to stalk back into the kitchen. His ass looked good when he stalked. Bitable really. Ilya followed him back inside, grabbing his container of leftovers as he went. 

“Did Pike tell you the schedule or did you tell him when he should fuck his wife?” Ilya called, following the sounds of banging dishes into the kitchen. 

“Jesus Christ, Ilya.” Shane muttered, scrubbing his plate far more intensely than necessary considering how little could possibly be left. 

“No, is hot.” Ilya sat on the edge of the counter. “My boyfriend telling all his alpha teammates when they can pop their knots.”

“I do not—” Shane whipped around, saw Ilya’s face, and snapped back to the sink. “Just no! Why would you even—” His shoulders began to creep up towards his ears and teasing him stopped being fun. Ilya slid off the counter and made sure to grab his dish. 

“I know. I know.” Ilya grabbed his boyfriend’s waist and tucked his chin over his shoulder. “Is joke. Yes, usually now is the best time.”

“Usually?” Shane turned and Ilya stepped back to let Shane lean against the counter beside him while Ilya rolled up his sleeves and dutifully washed his dish like a very large well trained dog. 

“Da.” The dish clinked as he added it to the dishwasher. Shane’s eyebrow twitched, which meant Ilya had done it wrong, but his mouth tightened, which meant Shane wouldn’t tell him how. He’d have to pay better attention the next time Shane emptied it. Maybe then he could learn the secret right way to have a dishwasher. 

“So you’re not planning to have your rut in the next few days?” Shane crossed his arms and Ilya leaned back against the dishwasher.

“Why?” He dodged. He wasn’t sure if Shane would kick him out first. If he’d have to figure out how to ride it out alone for the first time in his life or if he’d just risk a breakthrough rut during the season. He’d been dreading bringing it up. What if Shane didn’t want to deal with it? What if it would be the last straw of change that their relationship was bringing to Shane’s life? What if he decided another omega or a beta would be easier after all? Someone who wasn’t publicly marketed to be trying to take him down. Someone who wouldn’t confirm all the worst things people said about omegas.

Shane's eyes tracked down to Ilya’s bare forearms and he flushed, pink racing down to his jaw. Ilya wanted to lick.

“Because I— well. I would want to. Plan.” Ilya felt the smile tug at the corner of his mouth and he rubbed his jaw. Of course Shane would. Shane wouldn’t just want to join his rut. He’d want to excel in it. Ilya looked away so Shane wouldn’t notice how that made his heart tiptappy against his ribs.

“What is there to plan?” He shrugged. “Is not heat. Shorter. Not much more fucking than we usually do.” Ilya waved his hand idly, like swatting a fly. Shane rolled his eyes, ignoring the fact that Ilya was right. Because Ilya was always right. About fucking. Mostly right. Usually right. Right when it was about fucking Shane. 

“But.” Shane blinked, eyelashes kissing freckles the way Ilya wanted to. “It’s a rut.”

“Yes, and?” He grabbed his boyfriend’s waist, pulling him closer as if he wasn’t a rock solid wall of muscle. Shane melted, resting his head on Ilya’s sternum. “Is… biological.” The was a good word. It seemed like it would be close and it was. Ilya liked those words. Not like bra and preservative. Shane’s breath was warm through Ilya’s t-shirt. The breeze of the lake was still light; Ilya’s skin was still sun-warmed and bronzed.

“I want to do it right,” Shane whispered, as if it wasn’t the most obvious worry in the world. Ilya used one finger to lift his chin, then cupped his jaw, rougher and sharper than it had been in Los Angeles, and the rubbery silicone of a scent patch didn’t brush his pinky. He hoped it never would again. Shane’s eyes were shiny, the way they got after Ilya made him wait. Shane was not patient. He denied himself so much, but he devoured Ilya with none of his oh-so marketable control.

“Can I fuck you?” Ilya asked. Shane’s hands tightened slightly, where they played with his stupid plaid shirt. Ilya felt the slight tug like a leash, pulling him closer. 

“Yes, obviously!” Shane rolled his eyes again, a break in his needy expression, but he smiled too. And Ilya chased it with a brief kiss, reluctantly pulling back for more necessary words. 

“Knot is okay?” Shane only let Ilya knot him when he knew he'd have the time to recover, had waited until after he got used to taking Ilya's cock on it's own. Ilya had never tried to hold back from knotting during a rut, but if Shane wanted him to. He would. 

“Yes, Ilya.” He brushed his thumb over a freckled cheekbone. Shane was good about sunscreen. As good as he was about all things, but still, after weeks of sun, Shane’s skin was a bit darker, disguising those freckles, making them a present just for Ilya. 

“Then it will be great. Easy as pudding.” Ilya kissed his boyfriend's nose, hooking one finger through the waist ban of his sweats and slowly pulling him back towards the shared bedroom. 

“You know that’s not the expression.” Shane sighed again. Shane sighed a lot, these past few weeks. But he smiled too. He was almost always smiling, his Shane. 

“I know nothing. My rut is coming.” Ilya teased, finally turned to pull Shane along faster. “I am big knot, little blood for brain.” Shane went, but flicked Ilya’s nipple through his shirt in retribution. Ilya gasped and spun, pushing Shane against the wall, rattling the perfect art Shane had picked for his perfect cottage. Ilya loved it but he also wanted to ruin it. 

Ilya growled and dragged his teeth along Shane’s neck, rewarded with the sharp press of Shane’s hands gripping his shoulders. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane panted, but Ilya smelled the bright burst of happiness. He dragged his nose along Shane’s jaw, up his cheek, until he could rest his forehead against his. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too, asshole.”

…

Three days. That’s how much time they had left. Ilya knew because Shane had been counting. For him. As if Ilya couldn’t count. He’d stopped his pills five days earlier. His rut should have come by now. It should have come days ago. He’d once gone into a rut after missing two pills. It had been a bad time. He’d missed a game against New York and he’d thought Coach was going to kill him.

Shane kept sniffing him. As if inhaling all of his pheromones would make the right ones start. Shane read something about exertion triggering delayed ruts. So they were training. More.

Ilya was athletic. Disciplined, even, could work as hard as he played. He had nothing on Shane Hollander. Shane suggested a marathon. Not training for one. Just running one. Casually. As if that was a normal thing to suggest during the very end of the off season. Or maybe Ilya might want to swim across the lake, it was only two miles, Ilya. His boyfriend was trying to kill him. And trying to get knotted but it was the dealer's choice which would happen first.

If it kept going like this, Ilya might have to go to Boston and start training camp, while Shane went back to Montreal. He’d have to do it alone. With Shane hours away. 

They were on their fourth lap around the trail nearest to the cottage and Ilya was certain he could run this loop with his eyes closed. Every stick and rock existed behind his eyelids beside the ache in calves. 

Shane’s phone rang. Not the default ringtone. Not like Ilya’s which had been on silent since 2012. No. Shane’s phone had three distinct ringtones. One for the Pikes, who called way too often, in Ilya’s opinion. One for his parents. And one for everyone else. 

This was the second. 

“Hey, Mom,” Shane answered. “No! Just running.” Ilya tried to gesture that Shane should put the phone on speaker; Shane didn’t seem to follow his excellent communication. “Yes, Mom, Ilya is also here.”

“Hello, Yuna!” Ilya called between sucked in breaths. Shane sighed as his parents clearly told him to do what Ilya had been signaling for. He was grumpy too, in that way that meant he was mostly worried. And horny.

“Fine.” Shane held the phone between them. “Mom, Dad, say hi to Ilya.”

“Hi, Ilya!” Yuna’s voice twinkled like her sons’ eyes. 

“Hello boys!” David did that. Included them as a unit. Ilya couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or not. 

“Hello Hollanders.” Ilya plucked the phone out of Shane’s unsuspecting hand. “Your son is torturing me.” Shane squawked a protest. 

“Training! We are training.”

“You can’t expect a Raider to train.” Yuna chirped better than her son. Not great. Mostly because it was clear she liked Ilya too much to mean it. 

“Mom!” Shane pinched the bridge of his phone. Ilya scoffed.

“Is all genetics in Montreal.”

“Hard work,” Shane argued.

“No, is McGill and your Mama’s Hockey IQ.” Shane blushed, faint like the freckles under his tan. He smelled sweet under the layers of sweat and pine.

“23 players,” Shane said as if he hadn’t led Montreal to every victory it had earned in the last decade.

“But you’re the best,” Ilya said the obvious, just to watch that blush spread 

“In the league?” Shane raised an eyebrow, a little cocky; Ilya felt his mouth tip into a smirk. 

“In Montreal,” Ilya offered generously.  

“Back to Boston on Friday, right, Ilya?” David interrupted. Which was good, in the big picture, even if Ilya partly wished David wouldn’t. 

“Yes.” Ilya shaped the word carefully, holding eye contact with Shane.

“How are you feeling about your last season there?” David asked. Ilya hesitated and looked away from Shane for a second to think about it. 

“I am looking forward to it,” he answered honestly, “the foundation and what comes next. It will be good, I think.” It would be different, so different: playing the season knowing that he planned to leave, publicly announcing his "friendship" with Shane, negotiating a deal with Ottawa. But it would be worth it, for the chance to be with Shane publicly, someday, it would all be worth it. 

“It’s been so great getting to know you this summer, Ilya,” Yuna said. 

“You— you too.” If Ilya stuttered, they were all kind enough not to mention it. Shane cleared his throat and took the phone out of Ilya’s loose grip. 

“We should go,” Shane said, before turning back to the phone, “I’ll talk to you later. Bye Mom. Bye Dad.”

“Bye Shane, Bye Ilya,” Shane’s parents chorused as he ended the call. 

“Ready to head back?”

“Da.”

…

Half an hour later, Ilya started to feel itchy. They’d gotten each other off in the shower, hands slippery with soap and warm water. Shane’s fancy waterfall showerhead was big enough to cover both of them, perfect for fucking. But Ilya was the only one who’d fucked Shane here. He should write a thank you note to the architect. 

Shane was making them lunch, meaning microwaving lunch, since his boring meal prep containers had arrived two days ago and Ilya was willing to eat boring salmon and vegetables and rice if it made Shane happy. At least, he was willing to do it when he was out of leftovers from the Hollanders. 

Ilya was on the couch, scrolling through Instagram, unfollowing as a part of a silent project that Shane didn’t need to know about. His feed was quickly becoming hockey highlights and photos of his teammates’ babies. A lot of them did have June birthdays. 

Then he got itchy. But not. He looked up, and Shane was on his phone, waiting for the microwave to beep. Ilya didn’t remember standing. But the itchy feeling went away as soon as he licked the sensitive spot below Shane’s ear. 

Shane tipped his head to the side, easy and warm. He smelled like pine and sunshine. Ilya nuzzled closer. 

“Ilya?”

“Mmmm?”

“Can I put the food away?” Ilya nodded. Of course Shane could put the food away. Shane could do anything. “I need you to let go.” Ilya looked down. Oh. He was holding Shane. He didn’t know. He waited for his arms to move. They didn’t.

“Ilya?”

Ilya let go. The itchy feeling came back. He reached for Shane, consciously this time, but Shane dodged, shoving the still warm containers back into the fridge. Ilya frowned. That was wrong. Shane didn’t like to do that. He said that it risked making the fridge too warm. He must really need something. 

Then Shane was back, facing Ilya this time. That was nice. Shane was so pretty. So perfect. His Shane. 

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

Ah. That made sense. Shane wanted to fuck. Ilya could get hard again. Oh. He reached down to confirm, he was already half-hard. 

“Okay. I’d really rather not go through your rut in the kitchen, so let’s move.” Shane shifted, as if to break out of Ilya’s arms and whined, high and needy. But his mouth didn’t open and his face looked stern, neat that he could make that noise with that expression. “Ilya. I want to go to the bedroom.” Oh. Ilya could do that. 

“Wait!” Shane was heavy. Hockey muscles added weight, no matter how efficiently they’d been sculpted. Ilya still could hold him easily. “Okay, this is fine.” Shane looped his arms around Ilya’s neck and made a happy purring sound that Ilya recognized from his heat. He smiled, and Shane laughed and pressed his palm to the center of Ilya’s chest. Oh. That was his purr. 

They’d reached the door. Ilya pushed it open. The bed was there. Good. Ilya set Shane down. He straightened, but no, now Shane was too far away. He leaned down again and found Shane’s mouth. He tasted sweet and fresh. He really needed this. His omega needed him. 

“Clothes, Ilya.” Oh. His omega needed help taking off his clothes. Ilya could do that, he could help. He pulled Shane’s t-shirt over his head. “That’s— okay, thank you.” He tugged at the waist band of Shane’s shorts, and Shane laughed a little, probably at how cute Shane looked as he lifted his hips to help. Shane kicked off his shorts and toed off his socks while Ilya focused on dragging his teeth over Shane’s scent glans. When he looked up, Shane was naked. God. He was so pretty. Always so pretty, his perfect Shane.

“Thank you?” He’d be prettier on Ilya’s cock. “And... there it is.” Ilya flipped him and then shed his clothes as quickly as he could manage. “Hey!”

His omega would need to warm up. He couldn’t take Ilya’s cock immediately. Even if he begged for it. He was so needy. He spread Shane’s cheeks. His dusky pink hole twitched in Ilya’s direction, so pretty. Ilya spit and Shane shuddered beneath him. His hole was shiny now, spit dripping towards his balls. Ilya followed it down, licking filthy stripes, chasing the growing flavor of Shane’s slick. It was so good. So perfect. He alternated then, thrusting his tongue in as deep as he could and sucking and nibbling at Shane’s rim.

“Ilya. Ilya. Fuck, Ilya.” Shane’s chants of his name pounded like a heartbeat against his chest. Good. So Good. Shane made the sweetest noises. His sweet, perfect Shane kept giving him more slick and Ilya would never ignore such a gift. He recognized it this time, the purr rising from his own chest. If this didn’t spark his rut, nothing would.

“Jesus Christ, Ilya, you’re already—” Why could Shane speak? Ah, he’d gotten distracted. He brought his mouth back to his Shane’s hole.

“God, fuck, fingers, Ilya. I need fingers before your knot.” Ilya looked up again and felt the cool air against his damp face. Shane’s hair blocked his view as the omega’s head hung down, the arch of his flushed skin leading back to his… red ass cheeks.

“You’re hurt.”

“What?”

“No, I just—” Shane’s yoga paid off as he craned his neck around, looking at the dark red spots on his ass, as if someone has been gripping his hips for hours. Who would dare?

“Ilya.” Shane pulled his knees up and turned around and Ilya let him so that he could study his face, make sure he wasn’t scared, that he knew Ilya was here for him. 

“Who hurt you?” The words ripped out of the back of his throat, aching as he stroked Shane’s sides. Shane settled his legs on either side of Ilya’s knees.

“Ilya, you—” Ilya grabbed him to pull him closer. Ilya inhaled deeply through his nose, luxuriating in the perfect smell filling the room, pine and fresh air and mint. Shane was so lucky that he always got to smell himself. 

“I will find them.” Ilya would bring Shane their head on a stick. Maybe a hockey stick. Shane loved hockey, but right now, Shane's mouth twitched as if hiding laughter. Good. It was good he wasn't scared. Ilya would keep him safe.

“Ilya! Fingers. Then knot.” Shane leaned up, his abs flexing because he was the hottest, most capable omega in the world. He kissed Ilya firmly and Ilya tried to chase him down, but his Shane held him back by his curls. “I need your fingers first.” Ilya could do that. For his Shane. He could do that.

“Yes, I will fuck you with my fingers. Then my knot.” Shane brought his knees up, revealing his perfect hole, flushed and soft and slick. What a good omega. Staying wet for Ilya. 

Shane took two fingers easily, jolting as Ilya found his favorite bit of Shane. 

“Really? Your favorite?” Ilya stroked it once, twice, before focusing on spreading his fingers, letting Shane hiss at the stretch instead.

"Shhh… relax. Need to be relaxed for knot." 

“Lube, Ilya. I need lube.” 

“Yes.” Ilya pulled his fingers out and spat on them again before trying to slide the third finger in. Shane only needed two, normally, but not when Ilya knotted him. No. When Shane asked for that, it was like back when Shane only knew the purple dildo for finding Ilya’s favorite spot. 

“I can’t reach the lube, Ilya.” That was inconvenient. “I need you to get it.”

Why didn’t Shane just say so? He could be so difficult. But Ilya liked spoiling his Shane.

“Difficult?” Ilya reached for the drawer, but couldn’t quite make it with how they were positioned. He hoisted Shane up higher, watching as Shane’s cute little toes nearly reached the headboard, and… caught the drawer with his fingertips. It made an awful noise as everything else fell out, but Ilya caught the lube. Success.

“You’re cleaning that up.” Shane panted. Ilya didn’t know what he was referring to but Shane’s thighs looked so good like that. “And you’re not knotting me in this position.”

Ilya squirted lube onto his fingers, because Shane hissed in the bad way when it was cold.

“I didn’t know you noticed— fuuucck.” Ilya started with three fingers this time and spread them quickly. 

“You asshole.”

“Niet. Yours.”  He could wait forever but Shane was getting impatient. Clearly.

“That, you pay attention to?” He pulled back slightly, sliding Shane off of his lap so he could lower his lovers’ legs and nuzzle his neck instead. Each drag of air hit like pure, clear Russian vodka. 

“I always pay attention to you, moya lyubov.” He kissed the soft skin and pulled back to watch Shane's face soften. 

“That is not always going to work.” Oh well. Ilya would just have to prove it. 

“Are you ready for knot?” He lifted Shane’s hips slightly. The head of his cock brushed across the slick furrow of Shane’s hole and Ilya’s vision whited out for a moment. Fu-uck.

“Not like this.” Ilya released his hold on Shane’s hips to grip the base of his dick, relieved that the swelling hadn’t already started. Fuck. He couldn’t pop his knot before they even started. Shane needed it. 

“Knot like this,” Ilya panted. He understood what his omega needed. “Yes.”

“No, Ilya.” Oh. That grounded him better than the ache in his balls. He released his dick to stroke soothingly over Shane’s sides. 

“Is okay,” Ilya whispered and kissed Shane sweetly. “We don’t have to.” Shane’s heat had been so recently. Maybe he was still sore. That was fine. Ilya was in control. He didn’t need to knot. It wouldn't even be difficult not to, it's not like he was in rut. 

“No, Ilya, I…” And then all of his brain cells went to his dick because Shane flipped him onto his back. Fuck. That was so sexy. Shane was so sexy. Shane flushed down his chest and Ilya lurched up to nip at one of his nipples. “Fuck! Ilya, ohh…” Ilya let go and brushed his thumb over the damp pink bud. Shane’s cock leaked against his stomach, hard and red already. One of these days, he’d make Shane come with only his tongue in his ass, but that would take a really long time, and Shane didn’t have the patience today. Clearly. “You… whatever." Shane shook his head and shifted his hips a little bit so they better aligned with Ilya's dick. "Like this, Ilya, fuck me with your knot like this.”

That, Ilya could do. He reached between them and found his cock, notching it against Shane’s hole with familiar, practiced movements. Nearly a decade of familiarity. 

The head slid in easily, given how slick and relaxed Shane was. The soft sigh that eased from Shane’s throat seemed to reverberate directly through his naked knot. He kept his hands on Shane’s hips, helping him brace as he lowered himself, achingly slowly. 

Sometimes Shane rode him like he was trying to win a race and ripped Ilya’s orgasm from him like he forced mistakes from unwary defenders. Ilya knew it had to hurt, based on how Shane winced afterwards and only did it when he had no game the next day, but sooner or later, Shane usually slammed down on his cock like it was a personal challenge. And he came like a fountain, every time.

This time, Shane savored it, easing his way down a little further and then retreating, over and over until Ilya couldn’t watch for fear of actually blowing his load and popping his knot before even getting fully inside of his omega. He didn’t need to watch as sparks flickered behind his eyelids. His world narrowed down to the tight grip and aching heat of Shane. Fuck. Fuck. It was so good. He was so good. 

Finally, finally, Shane took the last bit of his cock, already slightly swollen, and his weight settled into the cradle of Ilya’s hips. Shane shivered and dragged his nails down Ilya's chest. Bright lines of sensation mingled with the syrupy sweet pleasure of being inside his omega. 

“Please.” Someone begged. It couldn’t be Ilya. He didn’t beg. Shane rocked his hips. “Thank you, yes, please more.” Shane lifted and Ilya lost track of him as his eyelids fluttered without his permission. 

“Fuck me,” Shane growled and Ilya was helpless not to comply, his hips twitching up to meet Shane, thrust for thrust. Soon, Shane was bouncing in his lap while Ilya desperately tried to keep up. Those shockingly powerful thighs worked and Ilya’s world narrowed down to heat and friction. Pressure built in his stomach. Fuck, he was going to come. 

“Shane,” he gritted out and reached for Shane’s dripping cock. Shane smacked his hand away. Ilya made a weak noise in the back of his throat. “I’m close. I want you to—”

“I’ll come on your knot.” Fuck. That was it. On the next downstroke, Ilya was coming, in intense, twitching pulses, clutching Shane’s hips to hold him steady. Shane leaned down and nipped at Ilya’s scent glands. Fuck, the pressure snapped and Ilya felt the stretch and waves of aching goodness as his knot swelled and Shane’s hole continued to clench around it. 

Shane hissed once then pulled back, biting his lip as he rocked and rolled his hips tentatively, feeling out the stretch. Fuck it felt so good, each minute shift lighting up Ilya’s nerves, just on the edge of too much, each movement an aching aftershock, but he wanted to see Shane come. 

Still hazy and shaking, he reached again for Shane’s cock, and this time Shane let him. One, two strokes, and Shane was gone. 

His hole gripped Ilya’s knot like a vice and Ilya watched hungrily as Shane's cock twitched and white stripes of cum spurted across Shane’s stomach. Fuck. Ilya felt his cock twitch and his knot pulse and he couldn’t tell if he was coming again but he felt a wave of it down to his toes. 

Shane shuddered once more and collapsed forward, his legs finally giving out. Cum smeared between the two of them and Ilya dragged in a greedy breath. They smelled so good. So perfect together. Bright freshness and… oh. 

“I’m in rut, aren’t I?”

“Yes. You definitely are.” Shane mumbled into chest. Ilya wrapped an arm around him. If only Shane could get closer…

…

It was the gentlest rut Ilya had ever had. Before, he remembered in a messy haze a feeling of need, of chasing and chasing. This felt different. Everything with Shane always felt different, from the very beginning. Time passed, still wanting, still hungry, but achingly aware of the man with him. He’d probably remember the smells most vividly, the bright pops of surprise and steady smoke of pleasure. He couldn’t get enough of how Shane smelled, how he tasted, the pretty sounds he made, and the way sweat beaded on his skin. That sweat felt like his. Shane felt like his. Just like he was Shane’s.

Shadows started trying to hide Shane’s freckles from him. Ilya turned on the lamp on the bedside table. Then the other one. Shane liked things even. 

That call again. Haunting and grating. But the window only showed a reflection. Ilya bared his teeth at the feral, hunched alpha in the glass but… oh. Right. Reflections. 

“Just a loon, Ilya, just a loon,” Shane crooned. Ilya struggled to place the word, obscure English too far away, but Shane's voice was gentle and patient, though Ilya could hear the laughter bubbling under like bright lemon. “I’m safe.” That was the information Ilya really needed.

Ilya kissed him and then his greedy omega was taking his cock again with a cut off sigh. 

…

After innumerable orgasms and a heavy nap, Ilya woke up. And then realized he was really awake. He groaned and pressed his face back into Shane’s shoulder.

“You with me?” Shane asked, disentangling their legs and rolling over to face him.

“Da. I think I have been with you for—” Ilya sniffed at Shane’s hair— ”12 hours?” Shane lurched back.

“Bullshit. There is no way you could smell that!” Ilya scanned him, noting the lack of bite marks. Even out of his mind with rut, Ilya hadn’t bitten him, had known it would bother Shane too much.

“Alpha instincts. I know the hours passing.” Ilya smirked.

“Passage of time,” Shane provided automatically before continuing, “And absolutely not.”

“Is true,” he lied again.

“Then why are you always late?” Shane rolled his eyes but also reached up to brush Ilya’s curls out of his face. They felt sticky and heavy. He should get up. They should get up. Get clean, but the bed was so warm and Shane was here. 

“Maybe I have better places to be.”

“Than here?” Shane raised an eyebrow. Ilya shook his head. 

“No, definitely not.” He kissed his boyfriend's forehead and Shane smiled. Ilya stored that smile away on the highest shelf of his memories, with all of his most precious things. He never wanted to forget it.

…

Hours later, after the most chaste shower they had ever taken, Ilya sat with Shane’s feet in his lap. It was comfortable. They were comfortable. Like being with Sveta, but gentler, more tentative, just more. They were still feeling each other out, in the quiet moments like this, but a tentative hope made its home in his chest. They were building something. Something real. They could do it.

“Ilya?” Shane murmured, the corners of his mouth already tipping into a smile. Ilya knew what was coming. 

“No.” Ilya drew an arcing pattern down Shane’s shin tracing each well-defined muscle.

“Did my parents —” Shane started, sitting up to stare at Ilya’s facial expressions. 

“Da. I want to fuck your dad.” It was a horrifying image but it was better than the truth. 

“Ilya.” The light from the window reflected off of his eyes, making them seem soft and vulnerable and fuck…. Shane saw him break and tried again, “You felt safe?” Ilya sighed. 

“Yes.” His boyfriend's parents made him feel safe. Really, truly safe. 

“Good.” Shane smiled and Ilya’s heart lurched. “You deserve that.”

“Yeah?” He pushed Shane’s feet away and cupped his jaw, bringing him in closer for a kiss.

“Yeah.”