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The first time he’s within scenting range of Ilya Rozanov, they’re standing across the dot for the first time, Montreal and Boston finally meeting halfway through Rozanov’s rookie season.
“Shane Hollander.” Rozanov says, bent and waiting for the puck drop. “About time, yes?”
Shane keeps his eyes down, focused on winning the face-off. Scent billows towards him, curious, an introduction. Amusement tinged with cedar, confidence fused with warm saffron. Shane’s nose twitches, eyes darting up to meet Rozanov’s before re-centering on the ice.
Scents usually overstimulated Shane. He’d always had a very sensitive nose and preferred to remain scent-patched around others, and preferred for others to do the same. Alphas’ scents in particular usually made his nose wrinkle in displeasure. They were overbearing, smothering. Leaked out of them slippery and greasy like an oil spill. Always accompanied by a puffed out chest and an overcompensating grin.
But something about Rozanov’s scent…just. Didn’t. Being shut in an enclosed space, even one as spacious as Bell Centre, usually had him feeling claustrophobic, too many overpowering scents in one place. But instead of feeling stifling or choking, he felt. Comfortable? At ease?
…Alphas never made him feel at ease.
Rozanov clicks his tongue. “Rude of you to wear scent blockers, Shane Hollander. How else will I know I’ve impressed you when I out-score you tonight?”
Shane’s eyes snap up at that, guarded. “I guess you won’t.”
Rozanov grins, cocky. Tart and irreverent bergamot cloud his senses. “Oh, I’ll know.”
The puck drops, Shane belatedly realizes. He loses the face-off.
Rozanov plays a hard and fast-paced shift, nothing less than what Shane had come to expect from the rookie. Shane finds himself pressed against the boards more often than not, pucks stolen out from underneath him, plays turned around when he was sure he had an opening. Rozanov glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, his natural musk filling Shane’s nose whenever he’s near, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of typical overbearing alpha scents.
Shane huffs, frustrated, anger building that a kid some ten years his junior with only half a season under his belt was besting him each shift. Rozanov scores twice in the first, Shane having to shift his focus on just keeping the puck away from him. Shane was playing much more defensively than he usually needed to, having to base every move and reaction off Rozanov, hyper-aware of him at all times.
They reset at the dot after an icing call, Shane visibly upset with himself that he’d had to resort to icing just to get Rozanov off his back for one play.
The alpha was hungry, that was plain to see. His current stats competed only with the previous records set by Shane himself—none of his peers or fellow rookies were playing anywhere near the same caliber.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says with a grin, panting, coming to a stop opposite him once more. “Are you impressed yet?”
Shane grits his teeth into his mouth guard. Rozanov was showboating, playing in the most infuriating way possible just to…what? Get a rise out of him? Get under his skin?
“Hm? Do you like what you see?”
Shane’s brows furrow, glaring at the exhilarated scent pouring off Rozanov in waves, shameless. Warm and satisfied attraction spiced with vanilla. Pride. The scent of an alpha showing his interest.
The puck drops and Shane shoves away Rozanov’s stick and passes it off to his line-mates. Typical. Another alpha assuming all Shane needed was a knot and a slick smile and he’d easily spread for them.
Alphas assumed that because he was an omega, because he was pretty (and why did they say it like a slur? Like it was something to be ashamed of?), that he would enjoy being submissive, would crave it, beg for it. Alphas would shove him around and flash their fangs and assume he’d become a whimpering pile of slick on the floor.
What they didn’t expect was a punch to the jaw and a shove out the door while Shane once again saw to his own needs. They didn’t expect Shane to be a completely atypical omega. For him to be mouthy and irascible, giving it back as much as he could take it. Alphas never wanted that, they wanted to dominate, to conquer. No one wanted a mate that could just as easily put you in your place as he could take a knot like a champ. He was in the best shape of his life and had spent his youth playing in the MLH as the only out omega in the entire league. He could handle himself, and he could certainly handle any smug asshole who thought he was lesser because of his secondary gender.
So, Shane reconciled with the fact that mating might not be for him. Instead, he had spent his years of peak fertility focused on hockey and breaking down as many glass ceilings as there were for a non-white omega in his industry. He spent countless heats alone, learning what his body craved and what he needed to satisfy himself.
He became somewhat of an untouchable legend among the unmated alphas in the league during his years alone. Unattainable, the ultimate prize. Forget the cup, taming the lone omega was the real goal. Shane had dealt with his fair share of players assuming a few words and a flash of interest was all they needed. They’d lay it on thick for a season or two. Until they realized he wouldn’t be an easy conquest and it turned to chirping. Telling him to give it up and retire, pop out a few pups, and leave the cups and the accolades to the alphas. That was usually about the time when Shane suddenly started getting a lot more penalties on the ice.
If Shane felt displeasure at the idea that Rozanov was like the rest…well, his scent was smothered. He was the only one who would know.
It isn’t until the end of the season, when the players gathered in Vegas for the MLH awards, that Shane gets a chance to speak to Rozanov properly.
He had tried his best to push their first game out of his mind, focusing all his energy on the rest of the season. They hadn’t made the playoffs—an unfortunate combination of their goalie playing distracted and half their defensive players coming down with the flu. But that was okay, that was what next season was for. Shane had four cups and countless MVP awards to his name. One mediocre end to the season wasn’t life-shattering at this point in his career.
He nurses a ginger ale at the bar, glancing absently at his Rolex. He knows he needs to show his face for a bit, rub shoulders with sponsors. He’s nominated for MVP this year but is pretty positive it won’t be going to him. He just needs to stick around long enough that it’s not a complete embarrassment if he dips out early.
Shane feels a shift, something heavy and weighty being placed on the bar top next to him. “Shane Hollander. Hello.”
Shane looks up, slate blue eyes lit with amusement. “Rozanov.” He glances to the side, brows raising at the shining Rookie of the Year trophy that’s placed there. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Rozanov says, leaning one elbow against the bar, body curved in towards Shane’s. “You won the award your rookie year as well, yes?”
“I did.” Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale, eyes trailing down Rozanov’s inviting posture over the lip of his glass. “2011.”
“Wow,” Rozanov stretches out the word. “I was still in the children’s leagues. And now I’m beating you to the playoffs.”
Shane rolls his eyes, irritation clinging to him along with the scent of Rozanov’s interest. “You were knocked out in the first round.”
Rozanov takes a sip out of his own glass, lips tugged at the corners in a smirk. “But we still went further than Montreal, ah?”
Shane turns his back to the rest of the room, a handful of guests still milling around. The majority of people were still at their seats in the main ballroom. He braces his hands against the bar top, eyes cutting to the younger alpha and then away when he’s caught looking. “What do you want, Rozanov?”
Rozanov leans in close, quiet enough that no one lingering would be able to catch his words. “Isn’t it obvious? Do you not like my courting gift?”
Shane freezes, eyes snapping back to Rozanov’s in shock. “What are you talking about?”
He gestures to the award, nudging it closer towards Shane. “I won it for you. To prove myself. Did I impress you finally?”
Shane can’t believe the fucking nerve of this kid, presenting his award like a dead bird on his doorstep. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Rozanov’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Why would I not be serious? I spent all season trying to get your attention. Played the best in the league, beat your old records, almost won the cup. I show my interest to you.” Rozanov leans in closer, more serious than Shane’s ever seen him. “My scent. You can smell it, yes? I know you scent-block but I thought…” He trails off, concerned. “You have not noticed?”
Of course, Shane had noticed. Whenever they were in the same room, Rozanov puffed out enough pheromones to drown out all other scents into the background. Shane could pick him out of a crowd, could recognize the spicy and complex notes with his nose plugged. “Yes, I’ve noticed.” He chances a quick glance over his shoulder. The room was empty—they must have been announcing the Hart.
Rozanov nods once, straightening until he stands at his full height, a few inches taller than Shane. “Okay. And what is your answer?”
“My answer?”
“Da. Do you accept?”
“You…” Shane can’t even find the words. The arrogance of this pup to assume that—what? Just because he had a decent season, won a few games, that Shane was going to drop to his knees right there? Had Rozanov heard about the legendary race to tame Shane Hollander and figured he’d shoot his shot? Shane rolls his eyes, disgusted. Every alpha was the same. It didn’t matter how often Shane proved himself, how many times he surpassed their standards to show that he belonged. They only ever saw him as something to claim.
“You are angry,” Rozanov says, searching Shane’s face.
“Fuck yes, I’m angry.” Shane starts to walk off towards the exit, fuming. If they were announcing MVP, he had waited at the bar long enough, there was nothing stopping him from leaving now. He could get back to his hotel room and put this entire night—this entire season—behind him.
“Wait.” Rozanov reaches out, grabbing his wrist. Shane lets out an instinctive growl from deep in his chest, his smaller omega fangs bared. Rozanov slowly drops his hand, holding them both up in surrender. “I’m sorry, but. What have I done? Why are you angry? I can’t—” Rozanov swipes his wrist across the scent gland in his neck, a soothing gesture for pups. “I cannot scent you. I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Shane’s eyes cut towards the open ballroom, the sound of applause and acceptance speech instrumentals drifting into the open bar. The crowd would be filtering in soon for the after-party. They couldn’t stay here like this. Not with how close they were standing, not with the way Rozanov was leaking the scent of distressed alpha like a broken tap.
Shane takes a deep breath, hoping this won’t backfire in his face.
“We can’t do this here. Just. C’mon.”
He makes his way towards the bay of elevators, confident Rozanov is right behind him. Shane punches the button to the penthouse, hyper aware of how close their bodies are. He can feel the stress rolling off Rozanov in waves, the sourness of doubt and anxiety tainting his usually rich and inviting scent. He’s having a hard time fighting the urge to soothe, to settle. His inner omega whining at the thought that he was the source of distress for the alpha.
The doors shut behind them with a clang of finality. Shane glances at Rozanov from the corner of his eyes. His posture’s restrained, hands clenching at his sides.
It's then that Shane remembers just how young Rozanov is, just finishing his first season, barely nine-teen years old. He looks it now, tense and inexperienced, scent unconsciously reaching out to Shane's in a bid for reassurance.
Shane intentionally lets himself sway closer, careful enough to be mistaken for just shifting his weight. His fingers brush Rozanov’s, his first two fingers trailing down the back of his palm, in what would normally be a subtle method of sharing his scent.
Rozanov cocks his head towards him, eyes wide in question. Without his scent to share, it's just a light touch. Nice, but ultimately useless in calming Rozanov's alpha.
Shane keeps eye contact for another moment before inhaling a deep breath. Fuck it. He reaches up to the plastic sticker covering his scent gland, and rips it off with one quick motion.
“Would you just—get in!” Shane practically shoves Rozanov through the door of his suite, huffing. “Christ, if I knew you would’ve reacted like this, I would’ve waited until you made it through the door.”
Rozanov inhales deeply through his nose, before clearly regretting it, flinching backwards against the door in an aborted move. “I’m…sorry. I’m not normally this…I promise this is not normal for me.”
Shane walks towards the center of the room, loosening his tie and removing his jacket. Some distance would probably help. “It’s probably me. I’m not usually un-patched. My scent is probably a lot more potent right now while it balances out.”
Rozanov puffs out a breath like he had been punched in the stomach. “You…never?”
Shane shrugs, self-conscious. “It’s just what I’m used to. I had some, uh…incidents happen in my first few seasons.”
Rozanov nods, “Yes, I’ve seen footage. You were attacked.”
“Not according to the commissioner,” Shane scoffs. The official press release labeled the events ‘unfortunate side-effects to mixed-gender competition’. Which was a carefully-neutral PR way of saying ‘a bunch of rabid alphas couldn’t control themselves around Shane’s scent and we’ve given them a slap on the wrist for it’.
“That was not your fault, you should not have had to scent-patch because of them,” Rozanov frowns. “They should have been castrated before anyone put blame on you.”
“Well…thanks.” He trails off, awkwardly. Was Rozanov still just trying to make an impression? Separate himself from the alphas who had tried and failed? What other possible reason could he have?
“It’s fine. Whatever. It happened. I don’t know why you care so much, Rozanov. Or why you’re doing this at all. What do you want from me?”
Shane startles at the quiet chuckle that leaves Rozanov’s plush lips. “What?”
“Ah, just. A lot of things are making sense now.” He gestures towards Shane’s neck in response to his blank stare. “The distrust in your scent. I understand now. You assume many things about me, Shane Hollander.”
Shane’s shoulders hunch, defensively. “What else am I supposed to think? You’re one of the most entitled and arrogant players in the league, a cocky asshole, on and off the ice. And I’m supposed to think, what? You just want to hold hands? Stare into each other’s eyes? I know what alphas want, it’s the one thing I’ve had to learn over and over again. So yeah, sorry if I assume you’re exactly like every other alpha I’ve ever met.”
Rozanov lets him finish speaking, eyes silently trained on his, before pushing off the door and slowly making his way towards him. The hairs on the back of Shane’s neck stand on end, his omega recognizing the primal feeling of being hunted.
He comes to a stop inches from Shane, close enough that Shane could scent the clear honest intention emerging from him. That was one thing alphas had never been able to fake around him. They could suppress their scent, but none could ever truly hide their intentions. Shane’s nose was as good as a lie detector, and the only thing he was getting from Rozanov was the truth.
He reaches out for Shane’s hand, cautious. Shane’s eyes flutter closed at the comforting scent of safety and protection emanating from him. “And what is it you think I want?”
Shane blinks, owlishly, having a difficult time recalling his earlier irritation. “To…keep me. To own me. Dominate me. The same thing all alphas want.”
“I am sorry this is your experience with alphas,” he says into his open palm, tilting his head and gently rubbing his scent into Shane’s skin. “I’d kill them myself if you asked.”
“Oh,” Shane sighs, surprised. He could feel his scent reacting to Rozanov’s, warmth spreading through his veins and out through his scent gland. He didn’t know his body could still do that.
Rozanov rubs Shane’s wrist over the gland on his neck, mixing the oils there and melding their scents together. Rich sandalwood and sharp bergamot mixing with Shane’s subtle scent of amber and tonka bean. “You are very beautiful, the prettiest omega I have ever seen. But that is not the only reason why I am interested.” He cradles Shane’s hand against the side of his face, eyes locked on his, unblinking. “I want you because you are strong and powerful and driven. I want you because I have to earn my place next to you. Any alpha that wants to turn a fierce omega like you into a soft plaything is not a true alpha.”
“Yeah?” Shane breathes, the air in his lungs slowly being replaced with the scent of the alpha.
“Yes.” Rozanov takes a measured step backwards, dropping his hand. Shane feels the absence, noticeably. “If you are not interested, I will accept that. I will walk out that door and not look back. But if you are…”
Rozanov takes a deep breath and slowly sinks to his knees in front of Shane. He tilts his head backwards, baring his throat for the older omega.
“Holy shit,” Shane whispers to himself. Baring the throat or showing any sign of submission was taboo for alphas—almost completely unheard of. Their inner alphas rejected the feeling so intensely that it caused real physical pain, every molecule of their being fighting against it. Shane could see the inward struggle on Rozanov’s face, his breath coming out in short pants as he held the position. For Rozanov to do something so profound just to show his intention to Shane…
“Stop, stop. Okay, Rozanov. I get it!” Shane drags Rozanov to his feet, the younger alpha collapsing in his arms like a puppet with its strings cut. “Holy hell, okay. I get it now.”
Rozanov breathes out a chuckle against Shane’s neck, his alpha soothed at the scent of the omega fresh from the source. “Just had to make sure. You really think yourself into knots.”
“Okay, asshole. Point made.” Shane steadies Rozanov with a hand against the back of his head, subtly pressing his nose deeper against his scent gland, instinctively soothing. “I am…interested, yes. No one’s ever…tried this hard with me before, or cared enough to prove themselves.”
The alpha perks up against him, the sour stink of pain morphing into the bright and hopeful scent of reciprocation.
“But—” Shane pulls back, waiting until Rozanov met his eyes. “There’s a laundry list of reasons why this won’t work out. Our age difference, we live in completely different countries. I’m not like normal omegas, I don’t like—I don’t want…I don’t even know if I can…” He cuts himself off. “I-I might completely miss my window to have pups, and that’s even assuming I’ll want them this late in my career—”
“Hollander,” Rozanov (Ilya, his inner omega supplies, primly) interjects, “You are having panic attack. Breathe. I am not asking to mate, I’m not asking for you to quit hockey and become housewife. I just want…a chance. To be with you. To court you. Would you like that, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Shane smiles. “I would.”
The full force of Ilya’s unfiltered joy is breathtaking.
The wariness Shane had felt earlier that evening had quickly dissipated. Now that there was no front, no reason to avoid what they both clearly wanted, Shane was letting himself enjoy the warm fragrance of Ilya’s alpha musk straight from the source.
Distantly, he thought it might be going to his head.
“Holy shit, Rozanov. You smell…all of that’s for me?” He staggers forward into Ilya’s arms, nose buried into his neck. The blatant attraction and want in his scent quickly causing Shane’s thoughts to thicken like syrup.
“Whoa, whoa.” Ilya catches Shane, arms wrapping around his waist as he backs them to the couch in the center of the room. “Gospodi, Hollander. Are you scent-drunk?”
Shane giggles. Honest to god, giggles. God, he feels amazing. Rozanov’s scent is like fresh rosemary being charred in a campfire. Clean, smokey, like the woods behind his cottage after a night using the fire pit. Homey. Safe.
“I think…um. I think, maybe?” He lets out another hopeless giggle. Shane Hollander, scent-drunk! Who knew that was possible?
When he had made it clear to the alphas circling him like carrion that he wouldn’t be entertaining their advances, the crooning compliments quickly turned to heckling. They questioned whether he could still get wet. If he was broken. If the reason he was still unmated was because his scent glands had shriveled up. Called him every insult their little alpha brains could think of. ‘Stone cold omega bitch’ was a popular one. After enough years of hearing it, Shane wondered if maybe they were right. If the reason he couldn’t stomach alpha scents wasn’t because of them but because of him. That something was wrong with him. For hating the feeling of submitting, for feeling sick at the thought of an alpha commanding him. That the reason he hadn’t mated wasn’t because alphas were lacking, but because he was.
But he was wrong! They were wrong! Shane felt relief sink into his veins like a drug. Though, that might just be the pheromones.
Shane rubs his open mouth across Ilya’s scent gland, stopping occasionally to give a harsh suck to the tender skin. “You smell so good. I didn’t know it could be like this.”
Ilya’s head falls against the back of the couch, neck bared to Shane’s ministrations. He digs his nails into the back of his neck when Shane’s smaller omega fangs catch on the gland. “Hollander—ah! Shane. You…we. You should stop, or we…We might. Fuck.” Shane can smell the scent of his own slick, pooling hot and lazy into his boxers. Ilya’s hands wrap around his waist and clench there, restraining himself. “Bozhe moy. Shane. You will kill me.”
“Don’t wanna’ stop,” he grunts against Ilya’s skin. It occurs to Shane this would feel even better if they were getting off at the same time. He’s so smart. Why didn’t he think of that earlier? The suckling against Ilya’s scent gland turns to full open-mouth kisses, licking and sucking across the expanse of his neck and jawline. He absently grinds his ass against the hardness Shane can feel stirring in Ilya’s dress pants. Wow, he feels huge. Shane has never been this happy. Well, maybe winning the cup the first time. But this is a close second.
“Shane. Shane!” Ilya pulls Shane back by his hold around his waist, halting the movement of his hips. “You are not in your right mind. I think it…we should probably. Wait.”
Shane pouts at that, choosing instead to ignore it. “No, thank you. Want your cock. Haven’t…fuck. Haven’t taken one in so long, Ilya.” He bites at the edge of his scent gland, just toeing the line of where a mating bite would sit. “Don’t wanna’ wait. Want it inside. Want you to be a good pup and let me have it.”
Ilya tilts his head further to the side to give him better access. “Fuck, Shane.”
“Hm? Wanna’ be good for me, Rozanov?” Shane can smell his own pheromones dripping from his pores, a heady mix of his own desire and hunger tainting the air. “You’ve been showing off all season trying to get my attention. Don’t you wanna’ show me what a good alpha you can be for me? Give me what I want?”
Ilya nods helplessly against him, hands clenching uselessly. “Yes, fuck. I can give you what you want. Just don’t want…don’t want you to regret this. I…worked so hard for it.”
A satisfied smirk appears on Shane's face. “Oh, you did, didn’t you, Alpha?” He resumes his slow grind against Ilya’s thick cock, breath hitching when his clothed dick bumps against Shane’s core. “Can’t believe you…fuck. Bared your throat to me. You’re insane. That was so fucking hot.”
Shane tears himself away from the nirvana of Ilya’s scent and pulls him into a kiss. Distantly, Shane realizes that Ilya might be just as worse off as he is. His earlier reaction to Shane’s unpatched scent combined with submitting for him surely affecting Ilya just as much, if not more.
“Was good,” Ilya groans into the kiss, licking into Shane’s mouth like the answer to life’s questions are between his plush lips. “Felt right. Like I belong at your feet.” Shane groans into the kiss as Ilya rips open his dress shirt, touching every bit of revealed skin he can reach. He drags his thumbs across Shane’s nipples, breaking away to look down the line of his body and then back up to Shane’s mouth.
“Is that what you want, pup?” Shane rolls himself against Ilya’s trapped cock, grinning at the punched-out groan that forces its way out his lungs. “Want to be on your knees for an omega?”
Ilya shakes his head, whining into his mouth. His head lolls back on his neck, leaning against Shane like he can’t hold up his own weight. “Not just an omega. Want you. Want to be on my knees for you.”
“Fuck, Alpha.” Shane pulls back, sliding off Ilya’s lap and onto the floor. He pulls off the ripped dress shirt and shoves his pants around his ankles, baring himself to the cool temperature of the hotel room. “Bedroom. Now.” He grabs Ilya’s wrist and pulls him to his feet, shoving him in the direction of the bed. “Take your clothes off.”
They stumble towards the bed, mouths parting only to allow Ilya to pull the shirt over his head, hands leaving their bodies only to push Ilya’s pants down and off. The air between them simmers with heat, the pure attraction and desire a physical weight.
“Come on, puppy.” Shane falls to the bed in a heap, leading Ilya on top of him by the chain around his neck, like a leash. “Show me how good of an alpha you can be for me.”
“Oh God, Shane.” Ilya melts into his arms, rubbing his neck against Shane’s to scent him even further. “Can be a good alpha for you. Show off for you. Like I did all season. It’s all for you.”
Shane takes his mouth in a kiss, tugging sharply on the curls at the base of his neck. “Prove it to me, baby. A lot of alphas have tried over the years. You gonna’ show me how much better you are than all of them?”
A growl rumbles low in Ilya's throat, the thought of any other alpha touching his omega causing a red heat to fog his thoughts. "I am better." He leans back, shoving Shane's legs until his knees touch his chin. Shane gasps, head thrown back in pleasure at the insistent prodding of Ilya's tongue at his hole. He laps up the slick gathered there, lovingly tracing his tongue across Shane's folds, in the crease of his thigh, where his scent is strongest.
"Will show you every single day of my life." He rubs his nose through the trimmed hair sitting above his clit, soaking Shane's scent into every cell of his body. "You chose me, Omega. I am yours."
"Fuck, Ilya. In. Inside me. Need you. My Alpha. You showed me your throat, you're mine—"
He breaks off with a gasp, whole body frozen in stunned pleasure at the feeling of Ilya's cock breaching him. He feels like his entire life has been building to this moment, before Ilya's cock and after. He didn't realize something could make him feel so whole.
Shane's scent has gone molten, warm and sluggish like tree sap. He winds his arms around Ilya's neck, just holding him there while he gets used to the feeling of being so, so full. He's purring, he realizes distantly. He doesn't think he's ever done that before.
"Mmm, omega." Ilya nuzzles into his throat, planting kisses on whatever bits of skin he can reach. He's being good, waiting patiently for Shane while he adjusts.
Shane clenches around his cock, testing.
Ilya grunts, brokenly, like he's been shot. "Tebe tak khorosho. Shane," He pants into his neck. "Please, Shane. Can I—?"
Shane grabs him by his curls, stretching his neck back uncomfortably until his throat is bared. "Fuck me, Alpha."
Ilya pulls out until just the tip is inside, eyes cutting to Shane before thrusting inside in one smooth thrust. He doesn't give them time to rest, immediately pulling out and finding a punishing rhythm. His hips are pounding into Shane's, balls slapping loudly against him while Ilya works himself into a frenzy.
Shane releases him and covers his face with both arms, overwhelmed. He's so huge it's like a battering ram is inside of him, pounding at his cervix like he can break through by sheer force of will alone. The sound of it is so embarrassing, wet and loud, his slick pouring out of him in an endless feedback loop.
Ilya swears in Russian, leaning back to stretch out his legs, holding them both over his shoulders, hips never ceasing their movement. "So good, Shane. Squeezing me so well. Fuck. Can't believe you said yes to me, I am so lucky."
Shane moans, reaching out to grab at the back of Ilya's thigh, spurring him on faster. "God, Ilya. You feel so good, shit. It's so big, can feel you in my fucking lungs."
Ilya pants brokenly, mouth dropped open in ecstasy. His focus is narrowed solely on lasting for Shane. Making it the best he's ever had. Will ever have. His own enjoyment is second place to Shane's pleasure.
He takes him hard and fast, hips pistoning forward with the sort of youthful vigor that can only be found in a man ten years younger. He cradles Shane's head, protecting him from hitting the headboard, opposite hand trailing whenever he can reach: his nipples, his stomach, his thighs, his swollen clit.
Shane's so distracted by how amazing his cock feels that he doesn't notice at first that Ilya has started to slow down, hips stuttering.
Ilya looks down at his cock disappearing into Shane and flinches. "I'm—Shane! Oh, fuck fuck fuck."
Shane lifts his head up, concerned. "Ilya? Are you—" He freezes, voice caught in his throat when he feels the swelling at the base of Ilya's cock inside him. Ilya is knotting. He can feel his knot. "What the fuck, are you knotting?"
"Oh my god, Shane. I-I can't—" He holds himself still, gasping like he's in pain. But Shane can still feel his knot, it's right there. "I-I've never—"
Neither of them are in their cycles, this doesn't happen, not unless…Unless.
"Gospodi, Shane. My mate. Please, can I?" Ilya is trembling, poised over Shane, face creased like a stray breeze will lock them together.
And he's right. They're true mates. They have to be. Alphas don't knot outside of a rut (or heat), unless they're with their true mate. Another person so biologically perfect for them that their bodies completely take over. It explains so much: why Ilya's scent made him scent-drunk so quickly, why he was able to tolerate his scent and no others. Why their dynamics fit so well with each other.
They were made for each other. Ilya Rozanov is his true mate.
Shane's cunt clenches around his cock, hungry. "Ilya. Fuck. I'm—I'm on…you can do it. I'm on birth control and-and suppressants. You can…holy shit, you're fucking knotting me."
Ilya doesn't hesitate after that, wasting no time as he thrusts into Shane's greedy hole, the knot just small enough that he's able to pull back out again.
"This—I've never." Shane can't even get the words out, he's so dumbstruck. He's never been knotted before, never had an alpha help him through a heat. Fuck, he didn't realize it would feel like this. How did he go so long without knowing this?
"Shane! Please, can I—" Ilya grinds his hips into him, fucking in as much as he can with the swollen knot in the way.
"Do it, Ilya. Make me come on your knot."
Ilya groans, arms shaking. He drags a hand down Shane's body, smearing his fingers through Shane's slick still pouring out around his cock. He circles his clit, swollen and poking out from its hood, eyes trained on Shane's face.
"Yes, yes, yes. Ilya, shit! I'm coming—"
Shane cuts off with a gasp as Ilya chooses that moment to shove his knot inside.
Shane screams, nails digging into Ilya's back as his knot ties them together, Ilya's cock emptying inside him. He can feel it, his dick pulsing, the ropes of come being fucked inside him. "Alpha, holy shit. Breed me. You're mine, want it. Want it inside."
And it is, they couldn't stop it now even if they wanted to. Ilya's face is furrowed, mouth dropped open in pleasure as he empties into Shane's willing body. He humps forward, tiny aborted thrusts, fucking through his own climax while Shane squeezes around him reflexively.
"Oh my god, Ilya." He feels so full, full of Ilya's come and his cock and his knot, holy shit. He moans as Ilya thrusts as deep inside as he can, staying there. He balances his weight over Shane, leaning forward to capture his mouth in a wet kiss. Ilya is everywhere, deep inside him, fucking his tongue into his mouth, clouding his head with his scent, his gorgeous body blanketing his.
"Yours. Shane." He nuzzles forward under Shane's chin, resting his head against his chest. "Ya ves' tvoy. Until you send me away."
There's a dumb smile plastered onto his face. Ilya's too.
He hums, pulling Ilya down to lay his full weight on top of him. "Oh, wow. I like this." He clenches around Ilya's knot, nerves lighting up as it bumps against his g-spot, filling him so perfectly.
"Oh, you are way gone, huh?” Ilya chuckles against his neck, nosing Shane’s scent gland. “You smell like a little prince. So Satisfied.”
"I feel very satisfied." He stretches, gasping when the movement tugs at Ilya's knot inside him. "Fuck, Ilya. How long—?"
Ilya ducks his head, suddenly nervous. "I…I'm not sure. I've never knotted anyone before."
"You…seriously?"
Ilya shrugs, embarrassed. "Is that surprising? Sharing a rut is just…intimate. Personal. Felt wrong to do that with someone casual, you know?"
Shane cocks his head, squinting, "I might've agreed, but you did just knot me the first time we ever had sex."
An answering purr rumbles in Ilya's own chest, "Yes. But that is very different." He gently thumbs across Shane's freckles, expression soft and open. "I am your mate."
Shane's head falls back against the pillows, content.
"Yeah, Ilya. Mine."