Work Text:
"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr-
ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to
choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you
don’t even have a name for."
You Are Jeff, Crush, Richard Siken.
Ilya may have been a bit of a dick.
Hollander had looked so pretty, begging for Ilya’s cock as he touched himself, and now Ilya was blowing smoke in his face.
Shane is making a face as he drinks the vodka, but only when he thinks Ilya is not looking. It’s–cute.
Ilya wishes he could squish his cheeks between his fingers, his eyes red-rimmed and lashes sparkling with tears. Hollander looked gorgeous when he cried.
Instead, he lets another puff of smoke billow from his lips and says, “I should sleep.”
He doesn’t want to talk about Russia, his father, his brother, or the expectations of being the captain of a failed national team, but somehow, an NHL MVP.
He barely hears Shane’s reply, but feels the mattress and covers shift as Hollander gets up and heads to the bathroom to wash up. He almost calls him back, wants to press him into the mattress and not leave till the night bleeds into daylight over the Vegas skyline.
He waits for the sound of the shower, but it doesn’t come. Rather, he hears a low thud, like the solid muscled body of a hockey player falling onto the glass partition.
Ilya’s up within seconds, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray and is in the entryway of the bathroom.
His alpha is on edge, and he doesn’t know why. Something feels off.
Shane is crumpled over the sink, corded forearms barely holding him upright. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, his breath harsh.
“Shane,” says Ilya slowly, ”Are you alright?”
Shane looks up. His eyes are dark and almost wild, white canines peaking from between his lips.
Ilya is suddenly aware of the sickly honey-sweet scent diffusing in the air.
Oh, fuck.
Hollander has gone into heat. Ilya thought he’d been vividly fantasising about how wet he’d been today, or hallucinating the nostalgic scent that seemed to cling to Hollander’s skin.
Hollander has gone into heat, has a distinctly feral gleam in his normally doe brown eyes, and Ilya had taunted him, made him beg, blown smoke directly into his face–
Ilya clutches his hands in front of his groin and definitely does not squeak in terror.
Shane smiles slowly, showing off his enlarged fangs and pounces.
When Shane comes around, it's to arms wrapped around his waist, holding him flush against a warm and solid body.
“What,” says Shane slowly, wriggling slightly. The arms holding him tighten instantly, to an almost painful level.
“Hollander,” asks Rozanov tentatively. “You good?”
Shane groans. His gums hurt, and more than anything, he can feel sudden flashes of pain radiating from his abdomen. His fingers feel tacky, and his breaths are shallow and fast. “I don't think so?”
He feels Ilya’s breath against the nape of his neck, his pulse kickstarting, and the hot puffs of air, and for some strange reason, he feels almost… empty.
Shane slips out of Rozanov’s hold and flips himself around, thighs straddling his waist and ass pressing down against his rapidly filling cock. The sudden pressure is so good that he lets out a punched out moan at the slight roll of Rozanov’s hips.
He's not much better; the sound that spills from Rozanov’s mouth is going to haunt his wet dreams for the long months that Ilya’s in Russia.
Shane looks down at Ilya’s face, wanting to see how the blue in his eyes has shrunk to a ring by the dark of his pupils, but the sight almost makes him scream.
“What happened?” says Shane frantically, hand cupping Ilya’s uninjured side of his face in his palm, examining the blood crusting his nostrils, the rimmed black eye and split lip.
There are gauges down his forearms and bruises blooming around his ribs, and what looks like a particularly nasty bite mark on his shoulder, blood pooling around the ruined skin.
Shane is suddenly hyper-aware of the copper tang in his mouth and the slick heat between his thighs.
Ilya smiles that crooked smile that infuriates and attracts Shane in equal measure.
“Congratulations, Hollander. You are not so boring after all. A feral Canadian omega? Must be the first of your kind.”
Feral omegas are not frequently talked about. At least, not in Canada.
Some cultures view the violence as near divine, the hallmark of strength and a boon to the bloodline.
In North America, people have forgotten that an Alpha’s claim was less about submission and more a measure against an omega ripping out any rival alphas' throats under duress.
Few alphas remembered the time when first heats were times with casualties, unworthy alphas ending up maimed or worse under a feral omega’s fangs and claws.
Now, first heats were carefully monitored, and omegas were already under suppressant by the time it rolled around, their killing instinct dulled. Rejections still occurred, the omega, the final decision maker behind who was let into their bed, but no longer were hospitals littered with alphas clutching their maimed groins or worse, their bleeding throats.
Shane has never been subject to suppressants in his life. He is well over the standard presentation age and is assumed by medical staff to be a beta. Shane is a world-class athlete with finely honed instinct and repressed rage—honestly, Ilya’s shocked that he escaped with his balls intact.
“I'm sorry,” says Shane, eyes suddenly watering. His cheek’s smeared with Ilya’s blood, and his scent filled the room, tantalising. His teeth and cock ache from how much they wanted to be buried inside Hollander.
“Shhh,” says Ilya, rocking him gently. “It's okay, sweetheart.”
Shane keened at the sound. “My strong omega,” he croons. “So brave and smart. I am lucky to be allowed in your bed.”
Shane sobs at that. North America did not have the same customs as Russia, where alphas had to prove their worth to be allowed near an omega. And someone like Shane Hollander? Ilya was the luckiest bastard alive to be allowed in his bed.
“Alpha,” says Shane sweetly, so at odds with the way he'd broken through the skin at Ilya’s shoulder. It would scar—and the whole world would know what a worthy partner he was.
Soon enough, the next wave of heat slammed into Shane. His skin’s fever warm under Ilya’s hands, and he whines, grinding down on his cock.
“Fuck—” hisses Ilya, well aware of his own body reacting to the sweet scent rippling off Shane and spreading throughout the room.
He flips them over so Hollander’s was between his knees, his large doe eyes watering and blown out. He tilts his head questioningly, but let out a happy chirp when Ilya grabs his wrists and pins them above his head.
It is so different from the feralty he showed before; the easy submission and trust sent a pulse of desire through his veins, cock hardening within the confines of his sweatpants.
The shivers, the throbbing and the need to protect, take, mine, mine, mine—
He was hurtling into rut.
Ilya has only so much time. He presses soft kisses over Shane's jaw and cheek, shushing his whines and murmuring, “Only five more minutes, solnyshko, please.”
He drops a message to his coach that he was staying for a few more days due to rut, another to Shane that he would see between waves that he should do the same, as well as a short list of things to expect from an alpha in rut.
He wished they had time. He makes a quick note to get Plan B in the morning, a presentation heat without being knotted—for a feral omega who had chosen an alpha would be unthinkable.
Ilya was kind of attached to his dick and would like to keep it that way.
He is thankful that he had some knotting condoms in his suitcase just in case his rut hit, but he had never thought he'd end up here, with Shane Hollander in his bed and his bite throbbing on Ilya’s shoulder.
Shane is so fucking disoriented by his heat that he had no idea what day it was.
Ilya’s arm was spread over his abdomen, and when Shane sat up, he could feel—
Shane immediately shot up, cheeks so flushed he probably looked like he'd had a gallon of Ilya’s special vodka.
He could feel slick and cum drip out of him, and the feeling was so fucking hot he could feel his lower belly clench with desire.
“Good morning,” purred Ilya, hooking his chin around Shane's shoulder and burying his nose in Shane's scent gland. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
“What do I smell like?”
“Me.” Ilya shoved Shane onto the bed, hand firmly planted between his shoulder blades.
Shane was suddenly aware of the bruises blooming around the scent gland at his neck, and the dark and spiced scent spilling over from every pore of Rozanov’s body, a heady, intoxicating fragrance that blended so well with the sweetness diffused throughout the room.
Shane arched, and Ilya wrenched him back by his hips, pulling until his face was at level with Shane's dripping hole.
Ilya was talking in rapid Russian as he gently put his thumb in, watching his cum dribble out as Shane moaned. This was too much, the mounting heat, the full weight of Ilya’s attention.
He caught a few words that Ilya said in English, probably for Shane's benefit. Slut, mine, beautiful—they littered Ilya’s frantic words as he pulled apart Shane's ass cheeks and bared his abused hole.
And Shane, he couldn't keep his voice down, as Ilya put his mouth and started eating him out with fervour.
He caught a look at Ilya’s blown-out pupils and sharp canines as he buried his face between his thighs, and the thought that his presentation heat had sent Ilya into rut was so fucking hot that Shane came with a whine.
“Alpha,” whines Shane, bouncing on Ilya’s cock.
He himself was simply lying there, arms tucked behind his head and displaying his muscled biceps and the bloody bite, seeing the mark he’d placed on his alpha’s skin was driving Shane crazy.
“Come in me,” says Shane, words spilling from his lips. “I need you–I need you so much, please.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, please, please–I’ll be such a good omega for you, I promise.”
“I know, kotik, such a good omega.”
Shane keened. “Please, alpha, fuck me, knot me–fill me up.”
Ilya chuckled darkly, planting his feet firmly into the mattress and thrusting up, his entire cock filling Hollander easily.
Shane moaned, slick pooling in the cradle of Ilya’s hips, Shane’s poor, untouched cock dripping over his belly.
“You like that,” says Ilya with a laugh, railing him even harder, savouring the soft uh-uh noises Shane made with each thrust. “Don't you?”
“So much,” says Shane, desperately. “Knot me, alpha, please.”
Ilya has a singular thought of sudden clarity, words tumbling out of his mouth, “I am so fucking lucky–”
Shane fucking screams as he comes, and as Ilya’s knot catches against his rim, he can only make out a few words.
“Alpha–so full–please, please–”
Ilya groans, pressing his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, feeling him clench down deliciously on his cock.
They stay like that, just holding each other as Ilya runs his tongue along Shane’s neck, trying to taste his honey-sweetness straight from the source.
Shane moans as Ilya’s cock, pulses within him, pressing a hand to his abdomen.
“I can feel you,” he says deliriously, and Ilya tilts his head back, more cum flooding into Shane at the words. “Fuck–”
“My omega,” says Ilya, pressing hard against Shane’s stomach, feeling the slight swell of his knot through skin, and it’s so fucking hot–
“Yours, all yours–”
Ilya hopes this heat cycle never ends.
They're standing under the rain shower, washing away as much evidence as they can.
Ilya was hoping the bite mark would scar.
“What do we do now?” asks Shane quietly.
Ilya leans over, pressing his nose into Shane's scent gland.
Without the ripe, oversweet smell of heat and sex, Ilya could finally identify what Shane's scent reminded him of, and it almost brought him to his knees.
Shane smelled like the honey cake Irina used to make on special occasions–medovik being the one thing that Ilya used to ask for after hockey tournaments.
How fitting.