Archive of Our Own

Shane's day starts at 5:15 a.m. every morning. He's not particularly excited to be up so early, but it's his routine and, lately, it feels like the only thing keeping his life stitched together.

His alarm goes off and he lays in his incredibly organized nest for a few minutes, counting down in his head for exactly three minutes before he forces himself up and out of bed, stretching briefly just to get his muscles working again. He likes to shower in the morning, likes the hot water to be scalding as he closes his eyes and breathes. He follows that up with a number of blockers: scent patches go on his neck, meant to neutralize his major scent markers, and then scent-neutralizing deodorant rubbed carefully beneath his arms and across the back of his neck. He finishes that with his twenty-four hour scent block nasal spray, his nose always wrinkling as he sniffs the fluid, fighting the urge to sneeze. He puts up with it every morning in order to not have to smell the variety of scents he runs into every day. He throws back his suppressant pill on the way out the door. 

He spends a paltry amount of time on cardio, just trying to wake up, before he makes his protein shake and heads to Montreal's practice facility, far too early for actual practice, but early enough to get a more proper workout before anyone else gets there.

All of this is muscle memory at this point, necessary and mundane. Shane goes to the arena smelling like nothing and not able to take any scents in; that's how the MLH likes their omegas.

Shane learns that lesson at eighteen, freshly drafted and informed by the team's omega liaison, who happened to be an alpha, that his scent is better lost and his sense of smell stunted. No matter how many points he scores, no matter how many Cups he drags Montreal toward, there is an understanding about Shane's dynamic: he needs to be calm and level headed, never too emotional, which is impossible without his list of blockers.

According to them, that is.

Never mind that Shane Hollander has led the Metros in scoring every season. Never mind that he played through cracked ribs, a separated shoulder, and finished an entire playoff game with a fractured wrist because the trainers thought he was exaggerating the pain.

Omegas have such weak constitutions, after all.

Shane is the first omega captain in Montreal's history, a milestone that they've presented to the public, proud and ecstatic at the engagement that followed.

This makes his job as captain both better and worse. Some of his teammates respected him; most of them, probably. This respect didn't erase their instincts, however. Didn't erase the subtle little digs they sometimes don't even notice they use. His role doesn't stop alphas from puffing up their chests during review, insulted an omega is telling them what they did wrong. It also doesn't stop management from insisting on assigning him what they call 'support staff' during road trips, like he was going to collapse into heat at center ice if he was left unsupervised for too long.

To put it simply, Shane is exhausted. He is exhausted in a way sleep wouldn't fix, restless down to his bones.

He feels it now as he stands in his kitchen, staring blankly at his coffee maker while the machine sputters and drips. He has a brand new pack of suppressants, though he's starting to suspect he's either becoming immune or the package he bought months ago is defective. Something to explain what the hell is going on with him.

The blackouts are getting worse.

They aren't dangerous, in the long run, just strange. Strange because they only ever happen when Shane is at home; never on the road, at the rink, or even when in public.

His blackouts only ever happen in his condo.

Shane doesn't even realize something is happening at first. He'll get home after practice or a game, exhausted, and the second the front door closes behind him something in his body loosens. A warmth spreads through him and his thoughts will go fuzzy at the edges. His inner omega will start purring low and smug in the back of his mind.

Nest, it says.

Once the thought hits, the urge becomes almost unbearable. He usually makes it to the bedroom before the rest hits. Shane will crawl into bed still half dressed, burrowing instinctively into the blankets, dragging pillows close against his chest while warmth floods his body in thick, heavy waves. His painfully organized nest will become messy, Shane digging around until the chaotic placements feels perfect.

And then—nothing. Absolutely nothing. Hours vanish, sometimes even entire evenings.

The first time it happened, Shane woke up at midnight, sprawled across his sheets in only his underwear, flushed bright red and slick with sweat and something else. His body had ached with a heat-like heaviness that made his thighs press together automatically. He'd panicked, calling the team doctor to get some bloodwork done as soon as he went in that morning.

Everything came back normal, no heat markers, nothing to explain the feverish need that had consumed him.

Stress, they told him. Maybe Shane is working too hard, maybe he needs to go on a different brand of suppressants. "Maybe take a few personal days," the doctor had suggested carefully, eyeing Shane's results instead of meeting his eyes.

As if Shane Hollander has ever taken a personal day in his life.

So, instead, Shane starts monitoring it, keeping detailed notes. He makes note of the time of day he gets home, the symptoms he remembers before and after his episodes, how much time has passed since he knew what the hell he was doing.

There is no conceivable pattern except for it only happens in his home. Well, that, and one other thing: every episode left his omega more satisfied afterwards. His inner omega feels smug, maybe even a little territorial, luxuriating in something whenever Shane blinks awake in his newly messy nest.

It always feels like he knows something Shane doesn't.

The longer it goes on, the harder it gets to ignore. Especially because he's started waking up buried deeper in his blankets than he remembers arranging them, sometimes with his own dirty shirts pulled into the bed. He even woke up once with a hoodie he hadn't seen in months wrapped around his waist like a second blanket.

Shane is twenty-six years old, captain of the fucking Montreal Metros, and apparently building omega heat nests in his condo like a teenager. Because that is what Shane's omega is doing; his daily nests are organized and structured in a way that calms Shane. It is only ever his heat nests that focus more on controlled chaos and comfort than the daily practicality he usually likes to focus on.

Shane scrubs both hands down his face hard enough to hurt, blurry eyes still trained on his slowly bubbling coffee.

"Jesus Christ."

His inner omega hums under his skin, content.

The rink is the one place that still makes sense to Shane: cold air, the sound of sharp blades on ice, shouts as drills are executed and then redone when the coaches are unsatisfied. His patches and suppressants work just fine while he builds up a sweat, legs aching as he skates. There are no confusing instincts, no missing time, and no feverish naps that leave him aching and restless afterwards.

By the time Shane finishes practice, sweat dampens the collar of his undershirt and his muscles burn pleasantly. He feels slightly better, more like himself. Then he steps into the hallway outside the locker room, still slightly damp from his shower, and nearly runs directly into Ilya Rozanov.

"Oh," Shane blurts out, staring at the alpha in front of him. Fantastic, Shane thinks, absolutely incredible end to practice.

Ilya looks amused immediately, something that seems to sit permanently on his face when it comes to Shane. The alpha leans one shoulder against the wall, expensive dark coat folded over one arm, broad and relaxed in a way that somehow makes him feel even larger.

He smells good. Shane's nasal spray is supposed to dull all scents he might encounter, but his mind often tries to convince him there's a vague impression somehow, like Ilya's scent is somehow slipping through.

Cold air and smoke, with something rich and dark underneath it that settles low in Shane's gut.

"You trying to skate through walls now, captain?" Ilya asks, his accent curling around his words, voice low and rough.

That voice should honestly be illegal, Shane thinks as he clears his throat. "No."

"Mmhm," Ilya hums as his eyes drag over Shane slowly, attentive enough to make Shane hyperaware of himself. His hair is damp and his face feels flushed at the assessing gaze.

"You look tired," Ilya says.

Shane stiffens automatically, his teeth grinding together as his jaw tightens. "I'm fine."

"Did not say you were dying," Ilya replies, just as quick, an amused quirk gracing his lips.

"I know," Shane manages to get out, trying not to focus on the tilt of his mouth or the line of his body as he stands in front of him.

"You got defensive anyway," Ilya says, laughter tucked beneath the words.

Shane hates how much he likes making Ilya laugh. He also hates how easily the alpha gets under his skin.

Ilya is technically one of the owners of the Metros, but he's around the rink constantly, more than any of the other bigwigs. Too invested to stay away from hockey for long, apparently. He's a former player, the team's charismatic alpha golden boy. He's wealthy enough now that nobody tells him where he can and can't go.

Everyone likes him, Shane included. He's funny. Charming when he wants to be and protective of the team in a way that feels genuine instead of performative.

Shane also just so happens to have a humiliating crush on him. It's been years, back before Shane started his suppressants full-time, and just thinking about it makes embarrassment crawl hot across his skin.

He can see eighteen-year-old Shane standing in a tailored suit, trying not to stare while Ilya Rozanov approached him after the draft with a smirk and an offered hand.

Shane barely remembers the conversation afterward, mostly because the alpha had smelled incredible. Not just good, but completely captivating. His inner omega had practically rolled over immediately, warmth flooding his senses so hard and fast he'd almost dropped the glass of water he'd picked up earlier when he realized he was slicking up at the fucking MLH draft.

"You okay there?" Ilya had asked back then, amused.

Shane, already flushed and overwhelmed, had blurted out, "You smell really good."

It had been horrifying, completely humiliating, and he'd wanted the floor to swallow him whole immediately.

Shane got lucky at the time, Ilya not looking offended at his words, simply stilling for a moment before a pleased little smile crossed his face. "Well," the alpha had said slowly, eyes fixed on Shane's face, "that is nice to know."

Shane still thinks about it sometimes late at night and wants to die every time.

Now, Ilya watches him with that same lazy attention. "You staying late?" the alpha asks.

"Video review," Shane offers, finally taking a little step away, only now noticing he was still crowding the alpha.

"You work too much."

Shane snorts softly, crossing his arms. "You sound like my dad."

"Your papa sounds smart."

"I'll let him know you said that."

Ilya grins at Shane's response, his canines flashing, sharp and vibrantly white. The expression changes his entire face, making him unfairly handsome. He's older now than when Shane first met him, roughened around the edges in a way that only comes with age, and it just makes the alpha even more attractive. His expensive watch glints beneath his cuff, controlled strength rolling off him.

His omega shifts under his skin at the sight of him, interested. Shane shoves the feeling down hard.

"You should go home," Ilya says after a moment, quieter now.

Something about the words makes heat creep unpleasantly down Shane's spine. He's reminded of what is waiting for him if he does goes home right now: a heat nest and the strange haze that has been overtaking his life lately. "I'm fine," Shane says again.

Ilya studies him carefully, then nods once. "If you say so, captain."

Shane escapes before the alpha can say anything else, flushing at the way Ilya's tongue curled around the word captain. During the entire walk towards the video review room, he feels restless under his skin. His omega has been stirred awake, aware outside of his home for the first time in a while, and is humming low in satisfaction.

The hit happens halfway through the second period, Shane barely seeing the elbow coming. One second he's fighting along the boards for the puck, and the next, there is white-hot pain exploding across his face, a crack echoing in the air as someone elbows Shane right in the nose. The force of it snaps his head sideways, hard enough that his visor rattles, and suddenly blood is pouring down over his mouth and chin in thin, bright streams.

The whistle blows immediately.

"Jesus Christ," Hayden says somewhere beside him.

Shane spits blood onto the ice, the metallic tang coating his tongue. "My nose is broken," he says flatly.

"No shit," J.J. mutters, skating in close while glaring toward the defenseman already being dragged toward the box by the refs. Shane knows J.J. is tempted to go for the guy, give him something to think about after injuring his captain, but Shane is glad the ref stepped in already. They can use this powerplay opportunity and J.J. gunning for the guy would just even it out.

The crowd around them is roaring.

Shane barely hears it over the throbbing pulse of pain in his face. The athletic trainer, Dustin, meets him at the bench, blood continuing to drip between his fingers. Someone shoves gauze at him and then a towel.

"You gonna need to leave the game?" Hayden asks, hovering nearby with concern written all over his face.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding like you got shot," Hayden argues, clearly worried.

"It's my nose, not a fucking artery," Shane replies, spitting more blood out of his mouth, careful to catch it with the towel.

Dustin shines a light briefly onto Shane's face before grimacing. "Yeah, that's broken."

"No kidding," Shane grunts, not surprised.

"We need to reset it now before the swelling gets worse," Dustin tells him, backing away to say something to the coaches.

Shane closes his eyes briefly, only opening them when Dustin returns and touches his face gently. "Do it."

"Shane," Dustin says, a frown on his face.

"Just fucking do it," Shane tells him, pulling the towel and gauze away from his nose.

Dustin grips his face carefully. "One, two," he counts, jerking and resetting his nose before he even gets to three.

There's a loud crunch and then pain detonates through Shane's skull. He jerks violently with a sharp curse, vision spotting white for a second while fresh blood gushes down over his lips again. "Motherfucker," he snarls.

Hayden winces sympathetically. "Dude."

Shane's eyes water involuntarily from the pain, which only pisses him off more. "I'm going back out."

"The hell you are," Dustin says immediately. "You need to be checked for a concussion. That was a hard elbow, Shane."

Shane stares at him. Seven minutes later he's skating back onto the ice from the tunnel, wearing a new jersey free from blood.

J.J. skates alongside him immediately. "You actually okay?"

"Yes," Shane responds, annoyed.

"You're growling."

"I am not," Shane growls, a pained grimace making its way across his face.

"You absolutely are," J.J. argues.

Shane removes his helmet briefly, wiping angrily at the sweat on his forehead. "Can everyone stop hovering?"

J.J. doesn't look convinced and Shane chooses to ignore the look he exchanges with Hayden.

The rest of the game passes in a blur of adrenaline and pounding pain. By the end of the third period, his face feels swollen and tender enough that even breathing hurts. Montreal wins and Shane barely cares.

The team physician examines him after the game, Shane sitting shirtless in the medical room with an ice pack pressed against his face.

"Well," the doctor says carefully, "good news is it's not displaced anymore and I don't see any fractures anywhere else."

"Fantastic," Shane answers, his voice monotone.

"Bad news is your sinuses are extremely swollen."

"No kidding."

The doctor ignores the sarcasm, writing something on the tablet in his hand. "You need to stop using your scent blocking nasal spray for a while."

Shane looks up sharply. "What?"

"The spray constricts and inflames your nasal passages enough to dull scent intake," the doctor says, gesturing vaguely towards Shane's face. "Your nose is already swollen shut. Continuing to use the spray right now could cause complications."

Shane's stomach twists unpleasantly. "For how long?"

"A week, at the minimum."

"A week?"

"You can still use suppressants if you really want to, but the nasal spray needs to be dropped for now."

Shane hates that idea immediately. He's been using that spray so long that going without it feels vaguely indecent. It makes him feel exposed. It doesn't help that his suppressants are clearly doing something odd as well, no longer as effective as they should be. "I can't smell much anyway," he mutters.

"Exactly," the doctor says. "Your nose is practically useless right now regardless."

That is, he supposes, true. Everything already smells muted through the injury, the only thing getting through is mostly pressure and distant impressions.

Reluctantly, Shane nods once. "Fine."

He's leaving the medical room, the doctor waving him away while taking a call, when he nearly walks directly into Ilya again.

The alpha must've been waiting nearby, straitening up from where he was leaning against the wall as soon as he sees Shane. "Captain," Ilya says, eyes immediately narrowing as he takes in Shane's bruised face, "you look terrible."

"Thank you," Shane scoffs.

"You're welcome."

Shane snorts softly despite himself, slightly wincing when a jolt of pain emanates out from his nose.

Ilya steps closer without hesitation, one large hand coming up carefully to cup the side of Shane's jaw. "Does this hurt?" the alpha asks quietly.

Shane's brain stops working at the gentle touch, eyes locked onto the alpha's concerned gaze. Ilya's thumb brushes carefully beneath the bruise spreading across Shane's cheekbone, avoiding the worst swelling around his nose. He swipes his thumb gently across Shane's freckled cheek.

Shane's omega preens. Actually fucking preens, warmth flooding straight through him, low and heavy. A purr tries to climb up his throat and Shane, mortified, struggles to swallow it down.

"I'm okay," he says too quickly, tracking the way Ilya's eyes flicker down to his lips briefly. Shane feels feverishly hot all of a sudden.

"You should rest," Ilya murmurs.

"We leave for our next road trip tomorrow," Shane tells him, a little fuzzy at the proximity.

"I know," the alpha says. Which, Shane thinks with embarrassment, it should be obvious Ilya knows, he's one of the owners. Shane feels stupid for only a moment, too distracted by the way Ilya's hand lingers one second too long before it finally drops away.

Shane instantly misses it, which is ridiculous. It's dangerous and humiliating how much Shane wants Ilya to put his hands back on him.

Ilya smiles faintly at him. "Good luck on the trip, котёнок."

The Russian word settles somewhere deep in Shane's chest, even if he doesn't know what it means. He thinks maybe he needs to go crawl in a hole and just stay there.

By the time Shane gets home, his skin feels too tight, his body restless. His inner omega has been impossible since the interaction with Ilya, basking in the memory of his hand against Shane's face. He shouldn't be able to smell anything with how swollen his nasal passages are, but it still feels like the alpha's scent is somehow lingering on Shane's tongue.

Shane barely gets through the front door before the now-familiar haze starts curling through him. He feels warm and heavy, his limbs loosening as his omega purrs inside him.

Nest.

His body responds instantly, stripping down to his sweatpants and stumbling toward his bedroom, dragging himself into the gentle warmth of his blankets. His nest has gotten bigger without him noticing, pillows everywhere, tangled up with plush, soft blankets. His omega melts into it happily.

Shane can't smell anything, he knows this, but the haze has left him in a dreamlike state, not yet sweeping him away, so he's unsurprised when his omega insists that there's a faint, but present scent permeating his nest.

Winter air and smoke.

Shane freezes, his heartbeat stuttering hard, but his omega only hums smugly.

Ilya. Alpha.

The thought alone sends heat flooding low through his stomach, a little moan leaving his parted lips. Shane presses his face deeper into the blankets before he can stop himself, barely remembering to be careful with his nose, inhaling shakily. His omega is convinced the scent is everywhere; faint, true, but worn deeply into the fabric of his nest.

His clit physically twitches, fresh slick beginning to build between his squirming thighs.

"Oh my god," Shane whispers.

His omega practically purrs as his body flushes, his arousal coming on fast after that.

Shane ends up curled into the blankets, flushed and breathless while his hand disappears beneath the waistband of his sweats. He knows the scent of Ilya isn't actually there, that his omega has to be mistaken, but it doesn't really change anything.

His fingers find the nub of his clit immediately, no build up necessarily as he works himself over, thoughts hazy. Ilya's hand on his face, the warmth of it as he looked at Shane with concern. Ilya calling him something in Russian, his voice low and amused. Shane can imagine Ilya's scent wrapped around him, warm and possessive. His imagination runs wild with images of Ilya from when he played, the fights he would instigate, the way he would lift his jersey on the ice to wipe sweat from his brow and his toned stomach would show.

Shane bites hard into one of the pillows to swallow the broken sound that leaves him, pussy gushing as his fingers rub quickly over his hard clit. His chest feels tight as he gasps out, hips lifting slightly to hump air as his pussy spasms around nothing. By the time he comes apart, shaking and soaking through his pants, Shane feels feverish with embarrassment.

His omega, of course, is pleased.

The next morning, Shane notices it immediately: he can actually smell his own scent in his condo, though it's incredibly faint thanks to his use of semi-functioning suppresants. He takes some pain medication before jumping into his shower, nose still swollen. It's all barely there in his senses, from his almost empty shampoo bottle to his usual laundry detergent, but it's there.

His own lingering scent is worked deep into his home, though with how religiously he used his nasal spray, it is only now that he can smell it.

"Huh," Shane mutters blearily while locking the front door behind him. Apparently, a broken nose isn't as effective as actual scent blocking spray. He doesn't know if that's useful information or not, but he files the thought away anyway, heading downstairs to get ready to head to the airport.

The road trip is miserable, not because of the games, no, those are manageable. Shane can survive hockey because hockey has rules; there is structure and predictability in the sport Shane has dedicated his life to.

His nose, however, is a fucking nightmare.

The swelling starts going down by the fourth day on the road and, with it, comes scent.

Real, unfiltered scent.

Not the distant, muffled impressions Shane's gotten used to over the years through nasal spray and suppressants, but actual smell flooding his senses hard enough to make him dizzy sometimes.

It's overwhelming.

The locker room alone is awful.

Shane walks into the locker room after practice and beelines right to the shower, hoping the water will muffle the growing number of scents Shane is being assaulted with. He nearly recoils when he comes out, a grimace forming on his face.

"Oh my god," he mutters to himself, fighting the urge to cover his still sensitive nose as he stops next to Hayden, side-eyeing the alpha.

Hayden pauses halfway through untying his skates, glancing up at Shane. "What?"

"You smell terrible," Shane blurts out, surprising both himself and Hayden.

The alpha blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

"You smell like expired protein powder and wet dog," Shane observes.

J.J. starts laughing so hard he almost chokes on his spit. "Crisse," he wheezes. "Your nose is working again."

Hayden scowls, straitening up and glaring at Shane. "I do not smell like wet dog."

"You absolutely do," Shane insists, honestly shocked at the revelation.

"Yeah, well, you smell like stress sweat and grass," Hayden shoots back.

Shane opens his mouth, but stops, because Hayden isn't necessarily wrong. Shane's sense of smell is stronger now, sharper than it was with the nasal spray, and he has started to catch his own scent occasionally, more distinct than it used to be. He used to smell like black tea to his own nose, hints of a creamy vanilla intertwined between the bitter notes. It's changed since the last time he smelled his own scent, a sweet and spicy undertone now overlaying the rest of it.

Unfortunately for Shane, his own scent isn't the only one he's been stuck with during this road trip. Every alpha on the team forgoes scent patches, which means they're constantly bleeding pheromones out into the air. Before, when Shane couldn't smell it, it wasn't a big deal. Now that he can't escape them, it's exhausting.

Some of the younger players smell aggressively territorial after losses, sour and punchy, while others smell nervous before games, minty and prickly to Shane's senses. One of the defensemen constantly reeks faintly of synthetic peach, complaining loudly that his omega girlfriend has started drenching herself in a new perfume.

Another new scent that comes to Shane's attention happens half way through the trip. Shane later wishes he never noticed the shift in several scents, the way they deepened and then musked around him, interest clear. Shane had walked out of the shower, towel barely hanging on around his hips as he dried his hair, skin flushed from his shower, when the first tendrils made their way to his nose. Shane had frozen, gut squirming as he slowly started to understand what he was smelling: arousal.

The room had smelled wrong, thicker and more saturated with essence of foreign alpha. His omega noticed immediately, irritation flashing across his mind. When Shane looked, several alphas on his team quickly glanced away from where their eyes had been trailing across his chest. Mortification had crashed through him so fast his stomach had twisted painfully. He had felt vaguely nauseous at this new knowledge, feeling unreasonably upset that his own teammates, who had muttered more than one omega based slur under their breath directed at him, were staring at him with desire in their eyes and lust in their scents.

His skin crawls thinking about it even now.

Shane had immediately gone to his cubby and yanked his shirt over his head, his omega shrinking inward in distress.

"Easy," J.J. had said quietly from nearby, scent calm and careful in a way that tells Shane he had been trying to calm the suddenly distressed omega.

"I'm fine," Shane had muttered, slipping into the rest of his clothes with trembling hands.

"You're shaking."

"I said I'm fine," Shane had snapped, gathering his things and making his escape to the waiting team bus.

No one said anything about his outburst. No one mentions how Shane starts dressing faster after showers, keeping his hoodie zipped high and face turned away. He avoids sitting too close to anyone for the rest of the trip, mind wandering.

Shane is the only one who uses nasal spray, none of the other alphas ever mentioning using it. If they're always able to smell the scents of the others on the team, then that means they were aware of how certain players' scents shift when Shane is wet and naked, vulnerable in the locker room.

It isn't a crazy thought that any alpha might react to a naked omega in front of them, but his inner omega is disgusted at the idea, physically recoiling at the idea that any of those lesser alphas have thought he would ever let them touch him. Shane was a male omega, a dynamic they had disparaged more than once, uncaring he could hear their omegaphobic words.

His omega drives the scowl that twists his lips and the cold glare that graces his eyes when someone gets too close. Throughout the entire road trip, his dreams are haunted by smoke and the cold bite of winter air.

By the time they land in Montreal, Shane feels stretched thin. They broke even on the road, three wins and three loses. Shane has nothing to keep him from ruminating on how overwhelmed he was by too many scents, too aware of the shifts that he was blind to before.

Shane just just wants to be home. This thought hits hard as he unlocks the door to his condo later that night, relieved to be home safe where he can exist solely in his own scent.

The second the door swings open, Shane stops dead.

Alpha.

The scent slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle; it doesn't feel imaginary this time, not faint and not a memory.

Ilya Rozanov's scent permeates his home, the scent so strong that it feels like every inch of Shane's condo is saturated with him. The usual smoke and winter bite greet him, a dark musky undertone joining; the alpha scent is rich and possessive, flooding straight into Shane's heated bloodstream.

"Oh my god," Shane whispers to himself, dazed, as his omega instincts surge awake.

There you are, his omega purrs, pleased, heat crashing through him so fast it almost hurts.

Shane shuts the door blindly behind himself, pulse hammering, his nose lifted in the air as he pants open mouthed. His nose is basically almost healed now, the swelling close to being completely gone. He never bothered bringing his spray on the road since he had no idea if the swelling would fade completely before he got him.

There's nothing muting this, nothing protecting him from the heady scent of Ilya.

Shane drops his bag near the door without even realizing it, his instincts pulling him deeper into the condo. He enters his kitchen first, the smell of alpha less concentrated than it was in the entryway and living room. Still, the whiffs of alpha hover over Shane's countertops, an image of Ilya running the scent gland on his wrists over them easy to conjure.

Shane's mouth actually starts to water. "No," he says weakly, not entirely sure what he's saying, but his omega is already drunk on it.

The living room, once he allows his feet to head there, is worse. The couch is where the most concentration of the scent is located, the leather couch smelling like Ilya sprawled across it for hours, hot skin sweating into the cushions.

The air around the couch is musky, heavy with alpha possession. Shane whimpers softly before he can stop himself, his omega frantic now. The scent presses against every instinct he has until his thoughts start blurring around the edges.

Mine, his omega croons deliriously. Shane stumbles forward helplessly, unable to keep himself standing when he reaches the couch, breathing hard as he collapses face-first against the leather cushions, a wrecked sound clawing out of his throat. The scent is overwhelming up close, his body reacting instantly to the delicious claiming scent.

Slick dampens his underwear so fast that it should feel humiliating, spit gathering in Shane's mouth as his wet pussy drips with need, his clit twitching with arousal. Before Shane can think better of it, he listens to his panting inner omega and drags his tongue against the leather, drool spilling out of his mouth as a high, needy noise leaves him. Shane's tongue drags along the cushion again while his omega writhes in pleasure beneath his skin. Instinct makes him crave the taste of his alpha's scent, his mouth puckering to suck greedily at the leather beneath him.

The taste isn't real, it can't be, but his omega is convinced otherwise. Alpha has been here and marked his territory, his omega insists, high on the ecstasy of being wanted. His body responds to the thought, heat flooding through him in violent waves. His hips rock helplessly as Shane shoves his hand down his pants, whimpering when he grinds his palm against his stiff clit.

A pathetic whine starts to build in the back of his throat, the high-pitched sound breaking free from him over and over again while he buries himself deeper into the scent. He humps his own palm, adjusting slightly so he can slide two fingers into his hungry pussy, too far gone to care about the burn that follows.

His pussy is aching, wet squelches joining his high moans, and Shane opens blurry eyes to stare unseeing at the spit slick cushion he's collapsed on. Then—there's nothing. The world dissolves in heat and desperation, Shane's awareness fading away in a familiar black tidal wave.

Shane wakes up hours later, groggy and wrung hollow. His throat feels raw and his body aches pleasantly with the aftermath of what he can only assume was an unbelievable release. The couch beneath him is damp with his sweat and spit, his pussy still somehow wet, a puddle of his slick gathered beneath Shane's parted legs. He doesn't even remember when he removed his pants. The alpha scent that enraptured Shane and stole his sense is, much to his disbelief, gone. It is completely gone, only Shane's arousal left in the air.

Shane shifts on shaky legs, laying sprawled on the floor in front of the couch, head tilted back as he stares blankly up at the ceiling, his breathing uneven. Slowly, horrifyingly, embarrassment starts creeping back in.

"What the fuck," Shane whispers to himself, utterly baffled.

Had he imagined all of that? The thought settles heavy in his stomach, the idea that the scent was never real, that Shane had simply fallen back into the blackouts that have plagued him recently, leaving him bereft.

It smelled real. Overwhelmingly real. And yet, there's nothing left in the air except him and the evidence of what he just did.

Shane presses both hands over his face with a muffled groan. "Jesus Christ."

After a few days spent looking deeply inside himself, Shane realizes something: he isn't stupid. Maybe exhausted, maybe overwhelmed, maybe even dangerously touch-starved and halfway out of his mind from weeks of strange pseudo-heats and alpha scent saturation.

But he's not stupid.

The second the haze of embarrassment fades enough for him to think clearly again, the pattern becomes impossible to ignore. The missing time, his fervent need to nest, the smug satisfaction from his omega after each and every blackout, the scent that seems to permeate his apartment only in his mind.

His mind reaches a conclusion, one drawn from years of Shane not understanding why his omega responded so strongly to one specific alpha. Shane understands now, or he understand enough of it to know that something is happening. Something real and not imaginary.

The morning after coming to said conclusion, Shane doesn't use his scent blocking nasal spray. His hand actually hovers over the box in his bathroom for a long moment before he deliberately shuts the cabinet again. He also forgoes taking the lackluster suppressants. 

His omega perks up immediately, hopeful. Shane ignores it for the most part, mind racing as he plans. Practice is just as awful as it was on the road, not completely unbearable, but enough to keep his nose wrinkled.

Shane nearly gags more than once. "Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath.

"What?" Hayden asks from beside him.

"You people are disgusting."

Hayden looks deeply offended. "You're just sensitive right now."

"You smell like burnt coffee grounds."

"And you smell—," Hayden cuts himself off abruptly, looking confused.

Shane looks over, raising an eye brow when he sees the odd look on Hayden's face. "What?" Shane asks.

"Nothing," Hayden says faintly, shaking his head like he's trying to dislodge something.

"Hayden."

There is a pause from the alpha before he shifts awkwardly, looking away. "Just...you smell interesting today?"

Mortification crashes through Shane instantly. He yanks his jersey on quickly. "Don't say things like that."

Hayden looks horrified immediately. "No, not like that! Fuck, Shane, I didn't mean—"

"Forget it." Shane escapes onto the ice before the conversation can get worse. His pulse is still raised slightly when he spots Ilya standing by the boards, the alpha near several members of management, shoulders relaxed and stance loose while listening intently to one of them talk.

His eyes lift suddenly, landing straight on Shane. Warmth unfurls in Shane's stomach immediately, his omega stretching awake, delighted.

There you are, his omega purrs.

It takes Shane a moment to remember he chose not to put on any scent patches after his morning shower, so Ilya can smell him now too. Shane sees it the moment his scent must register to the older man, the alpha going still for half a second. Shane doesn't know if anyone else would notice, but he's unable to looks away from the alpha, unable to not notice how his gaze sharpens as Shane's sweetening scent beckons him.

His omega reacts instinctively to the knowledge that he is being watched, showing off throughout practice. Shane skates harder without even realizing he's doing it, his turns sharp and his shots pinpoint accurate. He can feel Ilya's heavy gaze the entire time, every inch of his omega glowing under the attention.

By the end of practice, Shane has a plan.

The cameras arrive two days later in discreet packaging. Shane tells himself that his idea isn't insane, that he's just being careful. Anything to keep himself from overthinking what he's doing as he sets the easily installable security cameras up in his condo.

One goes up in the living room, angled toward both the couch and kitchen. Another one goes in the bathroom, pointed carefully enough to catch the shower and sink area. Then, finally, one is set up in the bedroom, aimed directly at his nest.

Shane stares at the bedroom feed for a long moment after setting it up. He sees his pillow and blankets in 4k, his hoodies curled against the center like someone is already sleeping there. His omega hums contentedly at the sight, Shane doing his best to ignore it.

Then, he waits. He doesn't restart his suppressants or his nasal spray, letting himself adjust slowly to scent again. He only ever bothers with scent patches when working out at the practice arena or during a game, completely discarding any he once kept at his home. He learns how his condo smells day to day, how his own scent lays thick and sweet after occupying the same space for so long.

They go on another brief road trip, three games away, which they manage to win two of them with little struggle. Hayden snores on the other bed in their room after each game and Shane checks the cameras obsessively every evening before sleeping.

There is nothing the first night. He checks again the second and third, and still there is nothing.

Then, on the fourth night, his phone vibrates sharply against the hotel nightstand at 2:07 a.m. Shane wakes instantly, the bright screen burning his retinas when he rushes to check it. The notification sends his heart hammering in his chest.

MOTION DETECTED

His entire body goes cold and then hot, adrenaline flooding through him so fast his hands shake. Careful of any noise he might make, Shane gathers his phone and slips out of bed.

Hayden grunts softly, but doesn't wake.

Shane pads silently into the hotel bathroom before shutting the door behind him, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. His fingers tremble slightly as he unlocks his phone, opening the security app and pulling up the footage. Minutes have passed since the camera noticed movement, so he starts it from the beginning, ignoring the bright red LIVE option.

The camera feed flickers slightly as the video starts, his condo door opening and letting light spill in from the corridor. Shane can see someone enter, but it's too dark to make out their face. They close the door behind them and there is just darkness for several seconds. Shane doesn't look away, knowing somewhere deep in his gut that he has to watch.

The light is flicked on and Ilya Rozanov stands in his living room, as casual as can be.

Shane bites his bottom lip as he watches Ilya briefly look around, shrugging off his jacket with a casual ease, hanging it on the coat rack located by Shane's door without once having to glance around and look for it.

It tells Shane more then enough.

Ilya takes off his shoes, sliding them next to the door, before he fully lets himself into the condo, walking slowly as he looks around. Shane watches him tilt his nose in the air, clearly sniffing around the place. The alpha makes his way to the kitchen first, opening a cabinet and pulling out a glass. Shane watches him fill the glass with water from the fridge's dispenser, his head tilting back and his throat bobbing as he takes several long pulls.

Shane marvels at the video's quality, eyes briefly glued to the alpha's exposed throat.

Ilya doesn't hesitate, needs no time to even look, before he is washing the glass by hand, drying it and returning it to the exact place he got it from. Shane is mesmerized by the casual familiarity Ilya has with his home, how he needs no time to look for anything or second guess any locations; he has been in Shane's home frequently enough that he knows the layout without any thought put into it.

It should terrify Shane. Shane shifts from where he is leaning against the bathroom counter, his stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Ilya finishes returning the glass and then proceeds to lightly rub the scent gland on his wrist against every single appliance in Shane's kitchen. His counters, his coffee maker, his fridge; Ilya even takes a moment to open the fridge and scent mark Shane's favorite yogurt.

Ilya has been silent this entire time, going about his business with a calm, quiet focus, but he does start humming as he finishes scent marking the kitchen. He pulls open one of the drawers and pulls out a hand towel, one Shane likes to use when drying dishes, and then he is moving around and heading back towards Shane's leather couch.

Flashes of memory start appearing in Shane's mind, the way he'd gone scent drunk and dumb over that same couch, and he starts breathing faster, body shaking as he watches Ilya start undoing his belt, the clink loud in the otherwise silent condo.

Shane can't look away as Ilya strips, his body bare under Shane's hungry gaze. Ilya is incredibly fit for a retired player, muscles defined and shifting as he pulls his shirt over his head and discards it. Shane is embarrassed when he can't keep himself from gasping when Ilya's ass is suddenly facing him, round and fat. Shane's mouth waters, images of Ilya forcing Shane to eat him out flying around in his head. Ilya looks incredibly strong on the camera feed, power in every movement, and Shane is sure he could pin him down and ride Shane's face until Shane is completely lost in the feeling of his tongue in Ilya's hole.

Ilya turns around and Shane is quickly occupied with other thoughts as the alpha's cock sits half-hard, dangling between his legs like a fucking weapon. Shane gapes at the heft of it, thick and veiny, and Shane feels most of the blood in his body head to his pussy, squirming as his cunt pulses with arousal. He can almost imagine the burn and stretch he would feel accommodating Ilya's fat cock, the way it would stretch Shane's cunt out until it was red and leaking.

Shane swallows thickly, barely holding in a whimper as Ilya settles himself onto Shane's couch, naked and relaxed. Shane remembers licking at his couch, sucking the cushions like he could find the scent that surely couldn't be there, and he feels faint. If Ilya has done this before, Shane might have been licking where his ass rested, maybe where his balls, sweaty from the heat of the couch, rested. Shane's hand flies to his covered crotch, unable to stop himself from grinding against his palm as little upset breaths burst out of his chest.

Ilya spreads his legs and takes his cock into his hand, lazy tugs following as he leans back and rests his head. His eyes close as he strokes his dick, pace unhurried as he takes several deep breaths in. Shane is captivated by it, his grinding slowing until he matches the alpha's pace, eyes locked onto the erection that seems to somehow get even bigger.

After a few minutes, Ilya grunts, his hand coming up to rest on his stomach. He presses down slightly and lets out a groans, the sound erotic enough that Shane's hips twitch involuntarily, his pussy leaking more slick into his already ruined underwear. Shane stares for a moment before he realizes Ilya is pressing on his bladder.

Shane's heart stops and his pussy full on gushes, goosebumps breaking out along his skin as he watches Ilya press down again, a grunt leaving his lips. The alpha stands abruptly, and turns to face the couch. Shane is incredibly glad he chose the place he did to put the camera, because it means he has an excellent view of Ilya's cock when he grabs it and points it at the couch, directing his stream of piss as soon as he lets it loose.

Shane whimpers at the sight, his inner omega matching the sound as it begs desperately in his mind. No, mine, on me, in me, his omega whines, almost incoherent from lust, and Shane hates how in sync they are at this moment, turned on beyond belief as Ilya marks Shane's home like a stray dog, claiming territory, while also being upset it isn't Shane himself that is being pissed on.

Ilya breathes out a blissed out little moan, his stance widening as he pisses a puddle over Shane's cushions. His hips rock forward slightly and Shane matches the movement, unable to help himself still as he once more grinds his stiff clit into the palm of his hand.

Ilya finishes with a sigh, shaking his dick slightly before he grabs the hand towel from earlier and uses it to soak up the majority of his piss. Shane can still see the shine it leaves on his coach, the scent of it surely lingering even after Ilya wipes it away.

Shane watches with no small amount of need as Ilya takes the towel with him as he goes deeper into Shane's condo. He quickly exits the living room feed, switching over to the bedroom one. There is already an alert that motion was detected there, so he is more than confident he is right when he presses play. Ilya appears on screen as he walks into the bedroom, the alpha letting out an actual moan when he approaches Shane's nest.

He turns on the lamp by Shane's bed and then unabashedly invites himself into Shane's nest, both him and the pissed soaked towel making themselves comfortable with a content sigh. "Such a good nest," he mutters to himself, reaching down to take his still hard cock into his hand.

Shane is going to pass out. He shoves his pants down to his thighs with one hand, not willing to set his phone down, getting his fingers on his engorged clit in record time. He bites his lip again to stifle the moan in his throat, his pussy sopping wet as he plays with his nub, tugging on it. Ilya is jerking his cock with one hand and then using the other to rub his wrist along Shane's sheets, the alpha reaching up and tugging at one of the pillows Shane uses at night when he wants to hump something that isn't his hand. The alpha's eyes visibly roll back into his head when he catches Shane's scent on it, his fist moving faster over his weeping cock.

"Such a good boy," the alpha grumbles into the pillow, voice heavy with lust. "My omega."

Shane watches, unable to look away, as Ilya fucks up into his own hand, teeth biting harshly into Shane's pillow. Ilya looks so hot, his muscles flexing as he growls in pleasure. Shane can barely function as he watches, rubbing his slick folds and rigid clit in time with Ilya's thrusts. His pussy lips are engorged, sensitive and fat. He's absolutely soaking, dripping down his own thighs, and he is distracted by his own pleasure for long enough that it takes him a moment to realize that Ilya's starting to grow a knot.

Shane's mouth drops open in shock, spit pooling on his tongue as he stares at the alpha fisting his cock and knot on Shane's bed, the red head leaking profusely across his rapidly moving fist. Most alphas don't form knots outside of rut, but it's been proven that when surrounded by particularly compatible scents, alphas have been know to form them outside of their cycles. Shane's hips are jerking against his own hand, heaving breaths leaving him as he realizes Ilya doesn't even need Shane's actual scent to knot, just remnants that are almost a week old.

Shane shakes, shifting his hand and forcing three fingers into himself with little preamble, the squelching sound of his pussy as he fucks it filling the air. He relishes the burn and the stretch, though with how wet he is, it is mostly just the sudden girth that burns him, his fingers sliding wetly in and out of his hungry cunt.

Ilya is growling louder now, the sound vibrating out of Shane's phone. Shane whines a high pitches sound in response, his omega uncaring that Ilya can not hear it. Shane watches as Ilya squeezes his huge knot with both of his hands, the alpha's head flying back as he starts to cum. Shane's fingers rub him in just the right spot and he spasms at the sight, pussy squirting in tandem with each of Ilya's cumshots, delirious at the idea of that pearly white cum streaking the inside of Shane's womb.

Shane is left adrift after his orgasm, gasping into his own arm, fingers shoved deeply inside of him. He stares at the screen of his phone, eyelids heavy. Ilya is still milking his fat knot, pleased little growls leaving him as he comes across his stomach and chest, the cum pooling onto him and then sliding off him in rivulets. Shane's whole body jerks at the pretty picture the alpha paints, his inner omega whining slightly at all the wasted seed. Should be inside me, his omega whispers, making Shane's cunt flutter around his fingers.

"God," Shane moans as he slips his fingers out of his dripping hole, shifting so he can sit down on the bathroom floor, awkwardly adjusting his pants so he isn't laying his sensitive bare pussy on cold tile.

Shane watches Ilya finally pull his hands away from his knot, his cock twitching occasionally, the flow of cum finally tapering off. The alpha lays there, catching his breath, his broad chest rising and falling rapidly, his gold cross shining in the warm light of Shane's bedroom. Shane pulls his legs up, wrapping his arm around his knees as he simply watches Ilya bask in his debauchery, sprawled across Shane's nest like he owned it.

Alpha does own it.

Ilya stays in the nest a few more minutes before he finally moves, groaning as he sits up. He's filthy, both his body and the sheets beneath him covered in his cum. Shane watches intently as Ilya takes his hand and drags it across his stomach. Some of it seems to be dry, but he came enough that there's still plenty of wet cum that comes off onto his fingers. Ilya proceeds to take his hand and finish his mission of ruining Shane's sheets, rubbing the cum into any spots he deems not covered enough by his initial orgasm. He pays special attention to the pillow Shane humps, wiping it heavily into the fabric. Shane pictures himself at home, pussy rubbed raw on the pillow cover, and gets dizzy when he realizes Ilya has been doing this for a while and it's very likely Shane has rubbed himself off on remnants of Ilya's seed.

Shane shivers where he is sitting, whimpering slightly at the low level burn of arousal that is slowly building once more. He feels exhausted already, dirty and dripping. When he's not scent drunk on Ilya, he usually can only go once before he feels too sensitive.

Ilya reaches over for the hand towel that Shane had forgotten about and proceeds to rub it over Shane nest as well, adding the scent of his piss to further mark Shane's nest. Ilya breathes in deeply, his chest visibly expanding as he takes in their combined scents, a little smirk appearing on his face. He adjusts Shane's sheets after, taking the piss towel with him when he is satisfied with the arrangement, almost identical to how Shane left it. He would never notice how specific blankets are arranged to hide any suspicious stains, not with how out of it he has been when confronted with Ilya's scent in his home.

The alpha takes the towel and walks into the bathroom, prompting Shane to exit from the bedroom camera and switching it over. The alpha enters, switching on the light and throwing the towel into the sink. The alpha looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, a serious look on his face, before he shakes his head, his thoughts left unspoken. He easily turns Shane's shower on, not struggling at all with the knobs. More evidence that he is intimately familiar with the way Shane's home is laid out.

The camera in the bathroom, unfortunately, is not as well placed as the other two. Shane can see over the shower curtain just enough to see Ilya's upper body, but his fat cock and gloriously round ass have been hidden from Shane.

Shane will deny it, but he definitely pouts.

He feels content as he watches Ilya shower, the steam of the hot water obscuring him even further. It takes a minute for Shane to clock his movements, a little incredulous as he watches what he thinks is Ilya jerking his cock.

"Again? Already?" Shane asks himself, incredulous. He's also a little turned on by Ilya's stamina, visions of taking Ilya's cock more than once every night dancing in his mind. Shane watches curiously, low level arousal keeping him warm as Ilya grabs the shampoo bottle from the shower organizer, unscrewing the cap. Shane titles his head when Ilya's hand disappears below what Shane can see, confused.

"Fuck," Ilya moans, his head thrown back, the shower spray running down his body, his chest glistening.

Shane is once again distracted by the sight, only shaking himself out of it when he sees Ilya pull the shampoo bottle back into frame, his hand shaking the shampoo bottle like he's trying to—Shane gulps. Like he's trying to mix something. Did Ilya just cum in his shampoo and shake it so it would mix together? Or did he piss in it, like he did to mark Shane's couch?

Shane watches Ilya climb out of the shower, drying himself off and taking the damp towel with him. Ilya proceeds to do entirely domestic chores in Shane's home, washing and drying the towel he used after the shower, but keeping the piss towel to himself. Shane feels excited and a little grateful he doesn't try to wash the sheets in his nest; Shane wants to bury his face in the middle, finally be fully aware what has happened to them in his absence. He wants to squirt over those same sheets, drool into them until his scent was fully combined with the alpha's.

Ilya returns the towel, double checks Shane's nest, and collects his clothes from the living room floor, Shane following his progress on each subsequent camera. Ilya looks around the condo one last time, prowling as he checks every corner before he collects the hand towel and takes his leave, the room going dark as he closes the door to the corridor.

Shane locks his phone and sits with what he has seen, letting himself feel the shock and disbelief. He searches for other emotions, things like horror or disgust, but he is in perfect harmony with his inner omega at this new development: they are both impossibly, terrifyingly delighted.

Shane has little doubt that he would be upset if it where anyone but Ilya. He still feels sparks of disgust when he catches faint arousal from his teammates in the locker room. If anyone else had been breaking in and doing what Ilya had just done, Shane doesn't doubt that his omega would've gone feral, angry and violent at his space being violated. Luckily, it wasn't anyone else. Just Ilya, the handsome older alpha that Shane used to watch play, sparkly eyed and enraptured.

Shane stands on shaky legs, switching the bathroom fan on to get rid of the musk of his arousal. He takes some time to clean up any of his mess from the floor. He had been so focused on Ilya that he hasn't noticed until now how thick and sweet his scent has gone, musking up the small space. He grows sluggish after several minutes of waiting, deeming it fine to finally exit, as long as the fan stays on.

Hayden is still snoring in his bed, none the wiser that Shane just squirted all over their hotel bathroom floor. He climbs into bed and falls asleep almost immediately, a light purr rising from his chest as he drifts off.

Shane barely remembers the rest of the road trip, caught up in feverish dreams of what he saw on his security cameras. He barely remembers to be happy that they have a winning record after this trip, eager to walk into his condo and take his first conscious breath of Ilya into his greedy lungs.

The flights are normal, the hotels unremarkable, and each remaining game blurs together. Interviews after each game take up the most attention he is willing to spend on anything not Ilya related, his media training not letting him space out completely while answering questions on the team's performance on the ice.

He moves through all of it like he's underwater, thoughts constantly circling back to the footage on his phone. Ilya in his kitchen, drinking water like he has done so hundreds of times. Stripping naked in Shane's living room and pissing his scent into Shane's couch, the one he licked clean during a feverish haze. He thinks of his alpha's voice when he complimented his nest, spreading his seed and musk around Shane's most vulnerable space.

Mine, Shane's omega keeps crooning happily.

Shane stops fighting it somewhere over Minnesota, giving up any pretense of not being completely enamored with Ilya Rozanov. His suspicions have been confirmed and instead of calling the police, Shane is practically panting at the idea of getting home and experiencing the cocktail of pheromones Ilya has left in his condo.

By the time the team plane lands back in Montreal, his skin feels tight with anticipation. There's a low heat curling in his stomach, his instincts tugging him towards home as soon as he exits. He barely gets out a goodbye to Hayden before he is rushing home, eager and needy.

Shane braces himself before he walks in, but he still isn't ready for the concentrated wall of scent that hits him. It is heavy and possessive in a primal way, smoke and winter air saturating the entire place.

It is comforting. Shane's knees almost give out before the door even swings shut behind him.

Shane takes in deep breaths, getting as much of the scent as he can as quickly as he can. He finds himself staring at his couch from the entryway for several long seconds, pulse racing. He marvels at what Ilya has been pulling off for so long, Shane unaware of the scent he has been leaving on everything Shane owns. Shane can only imagine how much he smelled like a claimed omega while walking around, completely unaware because of his suppressants and nasal spray.

In fact, Shane realizes, his suppressants should be fully flushed from his system now, his scent fully unrestrained for the first time in years.

His mouth waters at the possibilities.

His omega surges forward, hard enough that Shane physically sways. Go to nest, need alpha, his omega insists, and Shane is unwilling to resist. He tears his gaze away from the couch, promising himself to give it his full attention later, stumbling toward the bedroom instead.

His knees wobble by the time he reaches the bed, every step deeper into the condo only strengthening the scent surrounding him. His nest still smells overwhelmingly like Ilya, the alpha's satisfied musk worked deep into his sheets.

Shane crawls onto the mattress almost desperately, burying his face into the pillows that Ilya had marked. Warmth floods straight through him, his omega melting completely, pleased beyond words. There is a feeling of arousal, of course there is, his cunt growing wet, but the feeling of acceptance and relief is so strong that he is eventually overwhelmed by it, his last coherent thought cradling him as he slips under.

There you are.

Shane wakes up the next morning, warm and loose-limbed, completely saturated in their combined scents. He has no suppressants stopping him from leaking contentment out of his glands or any nasal spray to keep him from smelling the intoxicating cocktail of them combined.

It makes Shane feel almost gluttonous.

He luxuriates in his nest, his inner omega purring a constant rumble. He feels one with his instincts in a way he never has before, his mind in agreement with his dynamic, perfectly content in their knowledge of how much Ilya wants them.

Shane eventually climbs out of bed, yawning as he enters his bathroom. He has a routine for days there are no practices or games, but he is so blissed out from last night that he doesn't even feel all that bothered that he's already broken it by sleeping in. He goes to turn on his shower and freezes, suddenly hit by the memory of Ilya washing off in it, water glistening across his chest, his hand below his waist and moving.

Shane practically scrambles to get into the shower, uncaring that the water can barely be considered lukewarm. He takes his shampoo with trembling hands and uncaps it, sniffing at the contents. He marvels at the smell, surprised at how subtle the alpha scent is. It contains Ilya's scent, that's true, but if Shane had used his nasal spray there would have been zero chances of him smelling it. He suspects others would subconsciously pick up on it, especially other alphas, but it's faint enough that Shane doesn't think anyone would actually call it out or question Shane about it.

Shane doesn't hesitate any further, squirting some onto his hand and working it into his hair and over his scalp with enthusiastic motions. He wants Ilya's scent on him in every way he can get it; he wants it layered over him, wants it leaking from his pores. Shane and his omega both need it, the knowledge of this mark of possession.

Shane reluctantly washes the shampoo out of his hair, but is pleased to confirm that the scent does linger faintly. He dries off and gets dressed, thoughts already wandering to tomorrow, when he will need to go to an early morning practice. Would Ilya be there? Would his alpha be watching him? No one knows about Shane's lack of suppressants or nasal spray usage; the next time they see each other, Shane will smell completely like he is owned by Ilya.

The very thought of it leaves him feeling fuzzy.

Much to Shane's absolutely delight, Ilya finds him almost immediately the next morning. Shane has barely stepped through the practice facility doors before he feels it: attention, warm and heavy against the back of his neck. He can sense the alpha's gaze even before he catches a whiff of his fresh scent.

Shane feels vaguely hunted over it and struggles not to let the arousal show in his own blossoming scent.

Shane looks up just in time to spot Ilya peeling away from a conversation with one of the assistant coaches near the lobby, the alpha's eyes locking onto him. He looks relaxed, overall, but there's a tightness to his eyes and his jaw as he sweeps his gaze up and down Shane's body, his nose flaring slightly as he grows closer. Shane is amazed that he was oblivious to this before; it seems to obvious that Ilya is watching him with hunger, pleased to have claimed Shane, unbothered that Shane didn't know of said claim.

Shane washed his hair again this morning, using an unnecessarily copious amount of shampoo to make sure he was properly marked.

Ilya seems to appreciate it, offering Shane a light smile. "Captain," Ilya greets warmly as he approaches. "Back from your roadie alive, I see."

Shane snorts softly despite himself. "Barely."

"Mmhm. You looked miserable on television."

"That's just my face."

"No," Ilya says immediately, lips twitching. "Usually you look like маленький злой котёнок, little angry kitten."

Shane huffs out a startled laugh, a light blush working its way to his cheeks. God, the alpha was unfairly charming. For as long as Shane has known the older man, he has been funny, attentive, and kind to Shane. If he was only a freak about marking Shane, maybe Shane would feel more hesitation, but he is such a perfect alpha in every way Shane can think of that he doubts there's any level of freak Ilya could reach that Shane wouldn't happily follow him to.

Shane takes a deliberate step closer to the alpha, knowing the lingering smell of his shampoo will waft over to the alpha. Shane also, incidentally, might have rolled around in the soiled sheets after his shower. He's going to wash them later, has reached how much he can stand laying in dirty sheets, but it's been incredible while it lasted.

Ilya's reaction to getting a stronger burst of his scent is instantaneous, the alpha going completely rigid. Shane catches it, watching and waiting, and feels pleased. There's a dark spike in Ilya's scent, possessive and satisfied, and Shane has to struggle not to collapse to his knees at the richness of it all. Heat rushes through Shane, his omega melting in bliss at the alpha's reaction, ecstatic that alpha has noticed how obedient and receptive Shane has been to his scent marking.

Shane has to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt just to stay upright. He wants to bury his nose in every single one of Ilya's scent glands, wants to push his face into the trimmed curls above his cock while he chokes around his knot. Ilya's gaze drags slowly over him, lingering briefly on Shane's hair, still slightly damp from his morning shower.

The alpha eventually moves on and zeroes in on Shane's nose, taking note of the lack of swelling. "Your nose is better?" Ilya asks casually.

Shane almost laughs at the question. "Mostly," Shane manages carefully.

"Back on nose blockers?" The question slides out lightly, like Ilya's just making conversation, and has no real need for an answer.

It's a trap, Shane knows that now, and he can feel his omega perk up mischievously.

"Yes," Shane lies smoothly.

Ilya's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly at his answer, his head tilting very lightly. Shane's pulse spikes a little, giddy at the realization that the alpha can tell Shane is lying. He doesn't call Shane out, just watches him intently as their conversation moves on, Ilya switching to other topics. He asks about the trip and Shane tells him about one of the younger defensemen nearly getting arrested in Chicago after drunkenly trying to fight a statue.

Ilya watches Shane while he tells him, laughing along with him at he absurdity, and Shane feels like something precious. He feels owned and adored by the intent way Ilya listens to him, drunk on the attention. Shane doesn't usually like being the center of attention, the very idea of having everyone in a crowded room zeroing in on him sounds like a nightmare, but having Ilya's undivided attention feels like a high he never wants to come down from.

By the end of the story, his omega is purring beneath his skin and Shane decides he needs a plan. The thought arrives suddenly and fully formed, because Shane completely understands something now: he is Ilya's and has been for years. Maybe since he was a teen with Ilya's poster on his wall, maybe since the draft, maybe since his omega first caught the alpha's scent and Shane quietly started losing his mind.

The timing doesn't matter. What matters is that if Shane is Ilya's, then Ilya is Shane's in return. It settles inside his chest, the obsessive need to own and be owned. My alpha, only mine, Shane thinks in tandem with his omega, thoughts racing.

Ilya lets him finish the story with a grin, lightly bumping Shane's shoulder as he starts to walk past him. "Try not to murder anyone at practice today, captain."

"No promises."

"Violent omega," Ilya jokes, his words holding a slight purr of flirtation.

Shane's face heats instantly, unable to hide it. Ilya looks deeply pleased by the reaction and Shane can't help the fond, "Asshole," that leaves Ilya smirking in return. "Bye, Rozanov," Shane mutters. Before he turns away, ready to head to the locker room, he hesitates just slightly. He lowers his lashes, lets his expression soften just enough to appear innocent. Or, maybe enticing is what he's going for?

Shane walks away before he can completely lose his composure, his pulse pounding beneath his skin all the way to the locker room. Behind him, he can feel Ilya watching him go. He smiles to himself, a plan forming in his head.

Shane has known about the fundraiser for months, long enough to have the date in his calendar and for management to remind him repeatedly that attendance is "strongly encouraged," which really means mandatory unless you're actively dying. Shane is the captain, he has duties and obligations and, as his mother is always reminding him, a public image to maintain.

He needs to smile for the camera, shake some hands, and charm donors. Because those are certainly things Shane is well known for.

Today, however, he wakes up with a completely different agenda sitting heavy and determined inside his chest. He calls management, forces himself to sound as miserable as he can, apologizing profusely for getting food poisoning at the absolute worst time.

He is so very sorry.

He assures them Hayden and J.J. can handle media obligations perfectly well in his absence, considering both alternate captains will already be attending. Management reluctantly agrees after several rounds of concern and reminders to rest. Shane spends the entire exchange vibrating with anticipation, half-heartedly faking gagging sounds as the person on the other end of the phone tells him to rest and not worry about it.

His omega is practically pacing beneath his skin, a constant stream of go, find him, running through him.

The fundraiser starts at 7 p.m., so at 7:30 p.m., Shane is sitting in his car several blocks away from Ilya Rozanov's penthouse, staring at the glowing GPS screen. His heart pounds hard enough to hurt, the knowledge of how insane this is finally settling in. It's no worse than what Ilya has been doing without Shane's knowledge, but Shane likes to think he is usually a bit more reserved than this.

His omega presses warm and eager against the inside of his ribs, reminding him of how he felt when he watched Ilya piss onto his couch, and most of his apprehension falls away. He is ready; more than ready even. He's been claimed in every way except formally, and Shane is ready for that little detail to change.

He grabs his bag and gets out of the car, looking both ways before crossing the street and heading toward Ilya's building, head down and hood up. The lobby is exactly as he expects it to be, modern and expensive looking. It's quiet as well, expected of a building that houses obscenely wealthy people who have no patience for the mundane sounds of chaos provided in less luxurious buildings. 

The man at the front desk looks up immediately when Shane enters, visibly startling when Shane meets his eyes. The man recognizes him. Shane offers him a tired, but charming smile, the one he's perfected over years of public appearances.

"Hi," he says softly. "I'm really hoping you can help me out."

The concierge practically melts, staring starry-eyed at him. Shane is aware of how he currently looks: soft gray sweater, dark jeans, hair carefully styled just messy enough to look effortless. He isn't wearing any scent neutralizers and his soft omega scent is open.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Hollander?"

Shane lowers his eyes briefly in practiced embarrassment. "Ilya Rozanov gave me a key a while ago so I could grab some things for him," Shane explains, "which I somehow managed to lose on the way here," Shane laughs softly, self-deprecating.

The concierge looks horrified on Shane's behalf. "I'm sure Mr. Rozanov wouldn't mind letting you up."

"He's at the fundraiser we're both supposed to be at already," Shane says easily. "Honestly, I'd rather not bother him over something this stupid."

That seems to do it, the concierge smiling reassuringly at Shane's fake embarrassment. "Of course. One moment."

Shane watches him access the system with almost alarming ease. Honestly, the security in this place is terrible. His omega is deeply amused by this. Shane agrees, absently deciding he's going to convince Ilya to move into his condo instead. It's safer, more private.  It is also already dripping with their combined scents.

A few moments later, the concierge is handing him a temporary access key with an eager smile. "There you are, Mr. Hollander."

"Thank you," Shane says warmly. The poor man looks moments away from volunteering his firstborn pup to Shane.

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflect back wide brown eyes and slightly flushed freckled cheeks. Many emotions sit inside him as he watches the floor number go higher: excitement, nervousness, pure unrestrained lust.

The elevator doors open directly into Ilya's penthouse. Shane is immediately greeted with a wall of Ilya's scent, smoke and wintery air now familiar to him. It wraps around Shane as he enters, soft and comfortable in nature. It's not aggressive like the deliberate territorial scenting left in Shane's own condo, but that just makes it special. It's comfort and home, relaxation soaked permanently into expensive furniture and dark wood floors.

Shane exhales shakily, closing his eyes and basking in it all. His omega has gone belly up, held completely safe within his alpha's comforting scent. Shane toes off his shoes and walks deeper into the penthouse like he belongs there, taking in the automatic lights that flicker on when he walks by.

The penthouse itself is gorgeous, massive windows overlooking Montreal at night. Ilya has dark furniture, all of the pieces tasteful in a way Shane absolutely would not have expected from a younger, showboating Ilya, but perfectly fits his more refined older self. The light is warm and low, several lamps strategically placed around the room.

There are traces of hockey everywhere once he starts look for them. Ilya has several of his own jerseys framed on one wall and photos of his glory days tucked onto shelves. One picture is of a much younger Ilya holding a Stanley Cup while grinning wildly at the camera. Shane stares at it helplessly for a second, his own memories of a younger Shane watching in awe as his favorite player won coming forward.

He sniffs a little, a smile on his face, and then he sniffs again, smile melting into a concentrated frown. He raises his nose into the air, breathing Ilya in again, but managing to catch a second scent with it.

Shane blinks. It's his own scent. It's older, which allows for it to be just different enough for Shane to differentiate it from his current scent. His brow furrows as he tries to follow the scent, walking past the couch, the kitchen, and going further into Ilya's den. He ends up at the entrance of Ilya's bedroom. Shane's breath catches a little at the sight. Ilya has been bringing Shane's scent home, has been taking it into his bed with him.

Shane follows his own scent through Ilya's bedroom in a daze. It's everywhere, faint traces worked into Ilya's walls and his bedsheets. Shane spies one of his own hoodies hanging in Ilyas open closet. A watch Shane got for free from Rolex sits on Ilya's nightstand. He draws closer and his scent grows stronger, this time growing sweet. Shane follows his nose and ends up digging under Ilya's pillow, pulling out a familiar pair of sweatpants. They're one of Shane's favorite pairs, often worn when he needs to be extremely comfortable before sleep, and, more often than not, soaked through with Shane's slick after he has one of his blackouts. He hasn't seen them in almost a month.

Shane lifts the sweats and breathes them in, smiling. They still hold a faint note of his arousal. Ilya must have gone through his dirty laundry basket and took them. Shane feels something inside him go painfully soft, glowing now that he knows Ilya has carried Shane home with him. He wouldn't be able to invite anyone into his bedroom without them getting a whiff of the omega who already occupied the space, even if it was unknowingly.

His omega croons happily in the back of his mind. Good alpha. Shane agrees; his wonderful alpha deserves a reward. Tonight his instincts feel perfectly synchronized with what he wants, and what Shane wants is to give something back in return for how caring and loyal Ilya has been.

Ilya's bed is enormous and neatly made, dark sheets perfectly smooth beneath low golden lighting. Shane stands at the edge of it for several seconds, simply basking in the smug anticipation that burns hot in his chest. He strips out of his sweater and jeans, folding them carefully and placing them on the side table. Shane climbs onto the bed slowly, shuffling until he's laying down on the soft sheets. He's purring as he imagines what he might look like to his alpha; hard muscles encased in lacey black panties and a matching bralette that he specifically bought for tonight.

The items are lacy and delicate in a way Shane normally avoids, mostly for the the way lacy fabrics feel against his skin. This set, however, is specially made to feel soft and unrestrictive, sleek and pleasurable on his heated body. Shane presses his face briefly into one of the pillows before rolling across the sheets. He spreads his scent, his arousal burning low in his gut as his pussy moistens the lacy fabric. He feels triumphant as he starts to match Ilya's claim from his own bed, shivering as he lands on his back.

Shane slowly runs his hand over his chest, rubbing his pebbled nipples through the lacy fabric. He touches himself slowly, body already flushed and sensitive from the overwhelming amount of alpha surrounding him. He feels needy, but makes sure to keep him ministrations calm; this is about marking the bed with his scent, not getting off.

Well, it's not about that yet.

He spends as much time as he can simply touching himself, teasing and plucking his nipples, tracing delicate patterns along his scent glands, and rubbing his folds and clit through his panties. He never lets himself peak, bringing himself to the edge and then moving on to something else as he tries to catch his breath.

He ends up tangled in the blankets, his squirming having dislodged the carefully made sheets. His scent saturates the bed, overwhelming the old smell with sweet omega scent. He stares up at the ceiling and seriously considers just staying there, greeting Ilya with a wet pussy, his ass up in the air and ready to be taken. The fantasy of it all has his channel spasming, desperate and hungry for his alpha's cock.

Nest, his omega pipes up, claim, nest.

Shane sighs at the protest, groaning a little as his thighs rub together. As much as he wants to stay, he has a plan and his omega's protests are in line with that. Shane wants the first time Ilya fucks him to be in their nest. He wants Ilya to enter it with Shane already waiting inside, begging and whimpering for his alpha to take him.

Reluctantly, Shane climbs out of the bed again. He leaves the ruined panties and his bralette behind, placing them in the center of the bed like an offering. They're proof for Ilya to find, evidence that he isn't mistaken and that his omega was indeed in his home, touching himself and acting like a desperate slut.

Shane dresses slowly, still pleasantly hazy, and starts to leave. He does pause, a giggle leaving him when he has an idea. He slips his hand into his jeans, collecting the slick that still lingers between his lips, and then walks out, dragging slick fingers along the walls. It's a tease, an appetizer for Ilya to notice before he reaches the bedroom itself.

Shane imagines Ilya licking his walls to get Shane's taste on his tongue and can't help the little smirk he wears as he exits the penthouse, sending the elevator back down to the lobby. The concierge looks up immediately when Shane exits the elevator, concern flashing across the man's face at first; probably because Shane is visibly flushed and dreamy-looking.

Shane smiles softly at him, making he poor man nearly melt again. "Sorry, took forever to find what I needed."

"Have a good night, Mr. Hollander," the man says, taking the temporary card when Shane holds it out to him.

"You too," Shane says warmly, and then he goes home to his condo and to their nest.

The sheets are clean once more, the only scent lingering on them are Shane's own. His whole condo has lost most of Ilya's scent and his omega pouts about it, but Shane remains mostly unbothered. He curls into the blankets with a deep sigh of contentment, more than confident that the lack of scent will be fixed soon enough.

Shane settles in to wait as long as he needs to for his alpha to come take what is his.

It takes exactly three hours and forty-seven minutes of waiting before Shane hears his front door creak open.

He's religiously been checking his phone, taking little cat napes in between, giving himself fifteen minutes here and there. He's not worried even as he approaches the fourth hour of waiting; his alpha will come, Shane is sure about that.

Every creak in the hallway outside his bedroom makes his omega perk up hopefully before settling again when nothing comes from it. This time, however, he hears the unmistakable sound of his front door unlocking.

Shane goes perfectly still.

His bedroom is dark except for the dim city lights spilling through the bedroom windows. Shane remains sprawled across the center of his nest, dressed in tiny shorts and nothing else, pulse pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his throat.

Shane hears the creep of footsteps as they approach, measured and calculated. A low sound rumbles faintly from down the hall and Shane's breath starts to quicken. He squirms a little on his bed, eyes peaking up from behind a plush pillow, determined to catch what his alpha looks like the exact moment he lays eyes on Shane.

Before Shane sees Ilya, he can smell him. Desperate alpha arousal crashes through the doorway, rich and sharp enough to make Shane dizzy, a flush already starting to travel down his neck. Alpha.

Ilya appears in the bedroom doorway a second later and Shane almost loses the ability to think.

The alpha looks wrecked. His curls are disheveled like he's been dragging his hands through them repeatedly. His pupils have swallowed most of the blue of his eyes, expression intense enough to make heat curl low through Shane's body. His expensive suit is wrinkled, jacket open and half his shirt is untucked.

The scent pouring off him is overwhelmingly possessive, wild around the edges. He looks beautiful.

"Omega," Ilya growls.

Shane smiles slowly from the center of the nest. "Hello, alpha."

The title visibly affects Ilya, his entire body tensing. Shane can see the outline of his arousal through his dark slacks. Shane licks his lips at the size of the bulge, shifting just enough that the sheets covering his body shift and show off his naked skin.

Shane feels no embarrassment about it, no shame as he practically invites Ilya to him without having to say anything. Shane is an offering presented to his alpha, ready for the taking.

Mine, his omega croons happily.

Ilya makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, taking a step forward into the room like he physically cannot help himself anymore. "You were in my home," he says, voice low and dangerous.

Shane's pulse flutters at the growl of Ilya's voice. "You were in mine first."

Silence follows before Ilya laughs softly, sounding completely wrecked as he replies, "You left your scent everywhere."

"You liked it."

A sharp spike of possessive satisfaction floods the room so strongly Shane almost whimpers. Ilya's gaze drags slowly across the nest, taking in every detail Shane deliberately left behind.

"You used my bed," Ilya says quietly.

"You used mine."

The alpha takes a few steps closer to Shane's nest. "I almost killed three people driving over here."

Shane laughs breathlessly. "Worth it?" he asks softly.

Ilya stares at him for one long, devastating moment. Then he closes the distance between them, reaching down and carefully cupping the side of Shane's face. The touch is almost unbearably gentle compared to the sheer intensity pouring from the alpha's scent.

"You have no idea," Ilya murmurs before he leans forward and captures Shane's lips into a kiss.

The kiss is incredibly gentle, a slow slide of lips as two lovers touch for the first time. Shane loves it, this sweet little exchange in the middle of their little game, a moment for them to reassure each other through soft touch that there is something more than just sexual compatibility and deviancy between them.

Ilya pulls away, looking down at Shane with a hungry gaze. The alpha stands up straight, stripping his clothes and revealing his body to Shane. He is more than content to watch each sliver of skin appear before him, eyes drifting from his muscled arms to his ridiculously toned thighs. Ilya leaves his underwear on, climbing onto the bed and hovering over Shane as the omega lays prone beneath him.

"You have been naughty, my omega," Ilya hums, large hand coming up to palm at Shane's tits. "You leave me such dirty gifts and don't even let me unwrap them."

"Sorry, alpha," Shane says, voice light.

"You should be," Ilya tells him, his fingers tugging on Shane's pert nipple. A whine leaves his lips, the pinching sensation making him squirm. "I am very upset I did not get to see your pretty tits in lacy bra. I want to see you wear red lace next time, have me cover your tits in cum. Will look so pretty and full when I knock you up and they are full of milk."

Shane's head flies back at that, a high pitched moan leaving his lips. Ilya palms at his chest, tweaking and pinching his nipples until they are puffy and sensitive. Shane pants as he takes it, half-lidded eyes glued to Ilya's face.

Ilya leans down, capturing Shane's mouth in a filthy kiss, tongue wet and hot. He pulls away only when Shane finds himself needing air, moving away from his mouth and instead trailing wet kisses across his cheek and neck. He takes a moment to lick Shane's freckles, marking them with his spit. He noses at Shane's mating gland on his neck, teeth lightly grazing the enflamed gland.

"I could smell you even with your silly suppressants," Ilya reveals. "I would see you before a game and fantasize about cornering you in some random storage closet. I would do whatever I had to in order to convince you that you needed to let me bite you. I did not want you to ever be able to leave me," Ilya whispers, sucking harshly over the gland.

Shane whines, eyes rolling back at the sensation. He is soaking through his shorts at this point, his pussy throbbing at each pull of his mating gland.

Ilya leaves his engorged gland alone eventually, licking down his body and stopping at his armpit. He licks the scent gland located there, groaning at Shane's natural scent. "You always smell so good," Ilya tells him. "You are perfect omega for me: so strong and big. Could fight me if you wanted, but you want me so bad you do not even try."

Shane mewls, raising his arms even higher to give Ilya complete access to his underarm. He never knew he was sensitive there, but each pass of Ilya's tongue sends a delighted shiver down his spine. He loves that Ilya likes how masculine he is, that he wants Shane as he is and not as others think an omega should look or act.

Ilya kisses across his chest and then down his navel. Shane expects more build up, a few more hickeys sucked into his skin, but Ilya surprises him by quickly pulling his shorts off and going straight for his cunt, burying his face into Shane's pussy, not missing a beat as he starts to eat him out. Shane almost kicks Ilya when his whole body jumps at the abrupt pleasure, his hands flying down in order to get a hold of Ilya's curls.

Ilya's tongue is flat and wide as he licks from Shane's wet hole to his stiff clit, his spit adding even more mess to Shane's pussy as he swipes through it. He sucks each of Shane's fat lips into his mouth before he moves back up to his clit, suckling on it gently as Shane moans above him. He sucks rhythmically, pleasuring Shane's clit and then pulling back slightly, teasing Shane.

Shane glances down, desperate to see Ilya licking into his cunt, and he meets the alpha's eyes. Ilya is staring at Shane's face, pupils blown and glazed as he feasts on the omega in front of him. He licks Shane again, applying pressure just below his clit, slick leaking out of him at every pleasurable movement.

Shane almost jumps when he feels Ilya's fingers at his entrance, the large digits dipping slightly into his waiting pussy. He slides one in easily, drawing it in and out slowly as he feels the warmth of Shane's body. Shane moans lightly, though he can immediately tell it's not enough.

"More, alpha," Shane begs, a whine leaving him.

Ilya listens to him without moving away, licking and sucking at Shane while he slips a second finger into him, the stretch much more pleasing now. Shane groans when Ilya starts speeding up both his fingers and his mouth, devouring Shane with fervor. Ilya eats him out with enthusiasm, his fingers curling and rubbing until he brushes against Shane's g spot, making the omega cry out.

"There, alpha!"

Ilya goes for it, pulling Shane apart with every thrust and tongue flick. Shane is trembling, his orgasm building up quickly. There is a building pressure, like he has to pee, and Shane chokes on his own spit as he starts to cry.

"M'gonna squirt, alpha, m'gonna come!" Shane chokes out, his restraint leaving him as he grinds his pussy into Ilya's face. Shane squirts, jets of fluid escaping him, his entire body buzzing as Ilya drinks from him, the alpha not even attempting to pull away before getting Shane's juices all over his face.

Shane collapses like his strings are cut, his lungs desperate for air. He looks down at Ilya when the alpha pulls away. Ilya looks completely slick drunk, intoxicated from Shane's scent. "So pretty," Ilya mumbles as he licks his lips. "Pretty freckles, pretty pussy," he continues, kissing the inside of Shane's shaky thigh. "My pretty captain."

"Alpha," Shane whimpers, his pussy still aching even after his orgasm.

Ilya must be able to see it on his face, because he's suddenly flipping Shane around, the omega now on his hands and knees. He thrusts his fingers back into Shane's gaping cunt, his thumb coming down to rub tight circles on his too sensitive clit. Shane shouts at the sensation, overly sensitive. Ilya doesn't let up though, rubbing at him without restraint. Shane feels the bed shift and then he feels Ilya's tongue on his asshole, licking wet stripes over his winking hole.

"Fuck me," Shane demands, spit sliding down his chin. "I need you to fuck me, alpha!"

Ilya can't seem to resist when Shane calls him alpha, because he is pulling away from Shane, leaving one last dirty lick over his asshole in parting. Shane looks back at him with tears in his eyes, making direct eye contact. Ilya removes his underwear and his reddened cock is finally revealed. Shane moans when he sees it twitch, practically wetting himself at the sight. He needs it in him so bad, needs Ilya to fuckhim and cum in him until he's bursting with it.

Ilya rests his cock head against Shane's pussy, sliding his dick in between the slick folds. "I am not going to wear a condom," Ilya tells him as he smacks his cock against Shane, simple and straightforward. He isn't asking if that's okay, just letting Shane know that it's what he's going to do regardless. He's going to fuck into Shane bare and he's going to creampie Shane whether he wants him to or not. "I am going to knock you up, breed you, put an entire litter of pups inside your belly. You will give birth and I will come to every game with our pups, will point at their mama on the ice and tell them how talented he is, how special. Everyone will know it was me that bred you, that knotted your tight pussy and filled you to the brim."

Ilya slides his cock in without any further hesitation or prep, fucking into Shane with brutal thrusts. Little punched out sounds leave Shane with every shove, the sound of harsh breathing and squelching smacks filling the room. His pussy burns slightly from the stretch, but Shane has been ready since Ilya kissed him the first time, the burn just adding to his arousal. His tongue is hanging out of his mouth, his saliva drooling out of his mouth like he is in one of those bad pornos.

Shane is whining in the back of his throat like a bitch in heat, his pussy quivering around Ilya's length. He feels overheated and high on ecstasy, his brain turned to mush, fueled only by instincts.

"Such a cute and needy breeding bitch," Ilya coos at him, adjusting his hips just enough that every time he pushes back in, his cock head rubs against Shane's g spot, sending electricity through his body. It feels like he's destroying Shane's pussy, carving a space for his cock and his cock only, molding Shane to be his forever.

Shane listens to him talk and only feels delirious with pleasure, his omega singing in wonder at such an amazing alpha wanting him. Shane feels fucked stupid, his arms collapsing as his face is smushed into the bed beneath him, grunts leaving him with each push of Ilya's hips.

"You present your pussies so prettily, omega," Ilya tells him.

Shane has enough brain power to frown slightly, confused. "P-Pussies?" he stutters out, slurring the word slightly.

"Hmhm," Ilya hums. "Your pretty pussies up in the air, just waiting for me to fuck into them." His fingers reach around Shane to gather some slick from is pussy lips before he starts rubbing them over Shane's asshole, using his juices to slips his thumb inside. Shane full on sobs at the sensation, fluttering around the intrusion. His body is buzzing, that familiar build up of pressure taking over his senses.

Ilya fucks into Shane with punishing thrusts, his thumb soon switched out for two fingers, the digits curling until they start hitting his g spot through his anal walls. Shane feels stuffed full from Ilya's cock and fingers, his insides assaulted from both ends. He is covered in his own fluids and is on the edge of coming when he feels Ilya's knot slam up against his puffy pussy.

Ilya starts to work the knot in, forcing Shane's pussy to stretch wide around the fist-sized knot.

"It's too big," Shane cries, clawing at the sheets beneath him. He starts shaking his head, too many sensations happening to him at once.

"Is only slightly bigger than my fist," Ilya slurs, chuckling when Shane curses. Ilya lets out a grunt as he forces more of the knot into Shane, the stretch unrelenting.

Shane can really feel it now, the burn and the full feeling, all of it accumulating into the final push he needs to finally be pushed over the edge. He comes almost violently, squirting around Ilya's knot as he finally pushes it all the way into Shane's spasming pussy. Ilya growls as he starts shooting his load deep into Shane's womb. Shane is groaning from low in his throat, croaking out incoherent babble as he keeps coming, sheets ruined beneath them. He thinks it might almost be over, this wall of pure pleasure, and then he feels the way his bladder is protesting the intrusion, sobbing as he starts to piss.

"I'm sorry," Shane cries out, apologizing for peeing on Ilya, though he doesn't really mean it. Shane loves the feeling of the release, loves knowing he's been fucked so good by his alpha that he had to piss all over them afterwards.

"I do not think you are really sorry," Ilya taunts him, little aborted thrusts shifting his knot around. He reaches down and starts rubbing circles over Shane's clit, laughing out loud when Shane squeals, piss getting all over Ilya's hand and arm as Shane's attempts to get away are completely futile. Eventually, blessedly, Ilya leaves his poor clit alone, giving a harsh smack to Shane's ass with his wet hand as he settles in to finish filling Shane.

Ilya smells smug behind him, pleased and content as his knot is milked by Shane's contracting pussy. "So good for me, Солнышко," Ilya praises him, leaning forward to leave a sweet kiss on Shane's shoulder blade.

Shane can barely manage to gurgle in response, completely out of it as his omega whines, cock drunk and satisfied. Ilya starts to pet him, humming happily as Shane simply floats there, safe and content to hang off of his alpha's cock for as long as it takes his knot to go down.

"L've you," Shane finally manages after several minutes, still mostly out of it, but needing his alpha to know.

"Я тоже тебя люблю," Ilya replies, his scent blanketing Shane.

Shane slips into sleep still tied to his alpha, purring and satiated.