Archive of Our Own

Shane had never miscalculated his body before.

Not once in years of professional hockey, of suppressants timed down to the hour, of obsessively tracking apps and backup plans layered on backup plans. His cycle was reliable. Private. And he was never on the league’s internal heat assistance sheet. 

Four days.

That’s what the app said that morning. Four days until heat. He had planned it that way on purpose. Home game, light travel the week after, recovery time built in. No risks. No surprises.

He trusted that number the same way he trusted his edges on fresh ice.

Shane stepped onto the rink with the calm certainty of that knowledge sitting beneath everything else. The arena was loud and alive in a familiar way that honed his focus. His gear fit like a second skin; his breath fogged in measured bursts behind the visor; his body moved exactly the way he expected it to. There was no room for error tonight, not against them, not against him.

Ilya Rozanov was already a presence before he was a person. Fast, aggressive, irritatingly precise. They fell into their usual orbit quickly, drawn into the same plays, the same contested space, the same friction that defined their history. 

Eye contact across the face-off circle that held one beat past professional. A shoulder brush in the neutral zone that lingered a fraction too long and sent an unwelcome flicker of heat through Shane. He dismissed it. Adrenaline. Their routine was physical, yes, but it was also practiced. Predictable in its own way.

Shane had the puck pinned along the boards, one skate braced, the other digging for leverage as he leaned his shoulder into the glass. It was a familiar position, one he had occupied a thousand times. Hips low, back curved just enough to protect the puck, muscles tensed and ready for impact. He could feel Ilya approaching before he saw him, a shift in the rhythm of the play.

And then Ilya hit into him.

The collision, when it came, was hard but not unusual. Shoulder driving into Shane’s upper back, the force of it knocking him more firmly into the boards. His visor bumped the glass with a dull crack, breath jolting out of him, but he remained on his feet, absorbing it the way he was trained to.

It wasn’t even the hardest check of the night. They had taken worse runs at each other. But it was the angle, Ilya’s momentum carrying him forward and driving Shane’s back into the boards, their chests colliding flush. One gloved hand slid around Shane’s side to his waist, gripping instinctively for balance, fingers digging in through the layers of padding. Their legs tangled, and one of Ilya’s thighs forced between Shane’s, nudging them apart just enough to destabilize his stance.

It was normal. It was hockey. It was exactly the kind of aggressive, grinding board battle they have had countless times.

Until Shane inhaled. 

Ilya always smelled good. Infuriatingly so, better than any other alphas, but this was different. Beneath cold ice and clean sweat, there was something else his scent blockers should’ve dulled, but didn’t. Crisp pine needles, a bite of crushed black pepper, an almost smoky sweetness like caramelized sugar just on the edge of burning. Closer, heated by exertion, it dragged straight into Shane’s lungs, into his blood, into the base of his spine before his suppressants could compensate. It slammed into his senses all at once, unfiltered and overwhelming.

His body answered instantly.

A faint burn exploded into a vicious, needful twist deep inside him. Heat, like a dam bursting. His slick, a scent he’d never allowed to escape in public, bloomed between his legs, warm and sweet. His vision blurred. His thighs trembled. Against the cold boards, his own body felt fever-hot. It was a physiological shift that left no room for denial and did not care about timing or planning or the fact that this was happening in the middle of a damn game. 

The world narrowed to the press of Ilya’s body and the roar of blood in Shane’s ears. His hips twitched, traitorous, seeking friction he couldn’t afford to want. His scent spiked, a lactonic peach note breaking past the suppressants like they were never there. The firm line of Ilya’s body and the pressure of his thigh between Shane’s legs was suddenly all he could think about.

A soft, involuntary whine escaped Shane.

Oh shit.

For one frozen second, their gazes locked.

The realization passed between them in that single shared look: Ilya knew exactly what he had just triggered. Shane knew Ilya knew. 

“Fuck…Hollander—” Ilya cut himself off, voice dropping into something rougher, almost a growl that vibrated through both their pads, deep enough that Shane felt it in his own chest. 

Shane’s breath stuttered. His head tilted back against the glass in a reflex he couldn’t suppress, his throat exposed in a posture his instincts recognized before his mind could intervene. The mating gland there pulsed hot and visible under the thin skin above his collar, screaming to be bitten. 

Ilya’s nostrils flared. His eyes widened, dark pupils blowing wide. His body went rigid against Shane’s, every muscle locking. 

Then the whistle blew.

Hands were suddenly everywhere, grabbing, separating. Someone hauled Ilya backward, another stepped in front of Shane, blocking the line of sight as if that would diffuse whatever just happened.

“Jesus, Rozanov, take a fucking lap—”

Ilya resisted for a split second too long, his attention fixed on Shane with an intensity that had nothing to do with the puck. His jaw set hard, something feral threading through his expression before he forcibly reined it in and let himself be pulled away.

Shane stayed upright through sheer discipline.

Thank God for what remained of his suppressants, just enough to keep the worst of his scent contained. No one noticed the onset of his heat. No one else except the alpha pressed right up against him when it hit.

The rest of the game became survival.

His shifts were short, he avoided any contact where he could, and bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood just to stay anchored. He kept his distance from Ilya as much as possible, but even across the ice he could feel the alpha like something attuned specifically to him. It made his skin prickle, his instincts restless and distracted. 

Shane’s thoughts constantly slipped, dragged sideways by the feeling of Ilya’s body against his, the exact press of his thigh between Shane’s legs, the way he smelled—

“Cap, you good?” One of his teammates leaned over, grinning. “That board battle with Rozanov? Fucking beautiful. You really got in his head. Guy looked like he forgot how to skate.”

They thought it was gamesmanship. A dirty trick of Shane baring his throat on purpose to throw the rival off.

Shane couldn’t speak. His voice felt locked behind his teeth. His legs were unsteady on his skates, fresh slick still sliding uncomfortably warm against his skin with every tiny shift of weight. His cock throbbed painfully inside the cup.

“I’m fine,” Shane said, the words clipped, controlled by force of will alone.

He was not fine, and as the game continued, that fact had become impossible to deny. He played through it because that was what Shane Hollander did. He did not let personal shit interrupt the game. He did not let his body win.

When the final buzzer sounded, his team spilled onto the ice in celebration. Sticks raised. Helmets tapped. The crowd roared loud enough to shake the rafters. 

Shane joined the pile, forcing the motions of glove taps and back slaps, but the noise felt muffled and distant, like he was underwater. His skin felt too tight. Heat bloomed under his collarbones, spreading downward in slow, liquid waves. He could still smell Ilya on him. Smoke and pine clinging to his jersey, embedded in the fabric where their bodies had ground together.

One moment. One prolonged press of bodies.

His careful plan—weeks of tracking, scheduling, control—had shattered against the plexiglass in front of the entire arena.

When Shane skated toward the tunnel with the rest of his team, the noise of the home crowd fading behind him, his body was screaming inside. The heat was already sinking its claws in deeper, promising a long, sleepless night ahead.

By the time Shane got home, he was shaking.

His apartment was exactly as he left it: dim, quiet, prepared. It was a space designed for this, for the controlled unraveling of something he never allowed to spill into the rest of his life. The blackout curtains muted the city beyond the windows. Clean towels were folded within easy reach. Water and electrolyte packets sat ready on the bedside table.

Shane stripped quickly, movements losing their usual precision as another wave of heat crested, settling into a searing ache in his lower belly. His skin was flushed, hypersensitive, every brush of fabric suddenly unbearable. The scent of himself thickened in the enclosed space, sweet and heavy, wrapping around him in a way that made his head spin.

“Okay,” Shane said out loud, like he could talk himself through it. “You’ve done this before.”

He could ride this out alone. He always did.

Shane barely made it to his room before the heat drove him down onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed onto it, sheets cool against overheated skin, his breath already coming too fast. One hand braced against the blankets to steady himself while the other wrapped around his cock, stroking roughly, desperate for any kind of relief.

His hips rocked into his own grip, impatient, needy, as his other hand slid back between his legs to push two fingers inside his hole with an embarrassing ease. The stretch was good, but it wasn’t enough. His fingers were too thin, too short. They couldn’t reach the spot that would actually satisfy the growing heat. He added a third, curling hard, thumb pressing against his rim, but the relief was shallow and fleeting. 

Shane reached for the nightstand, fingers fumbling until they closed around the familiar weight of the highest-grade knotted dildo money can buy. It was expensive, custom, the knot shaped just right, silicone warmed by his touch as he lubed it up with shaking hands.

The first push inside sent a hard shudder through Shane, but as he started to ride it, hips rolling in desperate circles, he knew it still wasn’t working. The silicone was too smooth, too cool, too scentless. His body wanted—needed—an alpha. It wanted the heavy weight of a real knot locking inside him, the burn of teeth on his skin, the thick flood of come filling him until he couldn’t hold any more. The toy that usually did the trick felt like a poor imitation of something he could suddenly, vividly imagine. 

Something warmer. Something that smelled like pine and sweat and salt.

For a moment, it made do.

Shane rode harder, one hand jerking his leaking cock. Normally, this was where control reasserted itself, where rhythm and pressure and patience guided him through the worst of it. 

Tonight, the feedback loop was just wrong.

The sheets bunched under his knees as he shifted, chasing friction, chasing pressure, but it all felt shallow, frustratingly incomplete. He came once, but it barely took the edge off.

The ache doubled back worse.

“Shit,” Shane cursed, pulling the toy out with a wet sound that made him shudder. His body clenched around a hollow, aching emptiness, craving more.

That was when he understood, with a clarity that bordered on dread, that he couldn’t manage this alone.

The realization sat heavy for only a moment before necessity overrode it. Shane reached for his phone, unlocking it with quivering fingers.

The league app was familiar, though Shane had never used this particular function. The anonymous heat assistance sheet always existed as something other omegas relied on, something he had kept himself separate from. But tonight his body was burning hotter than it ever had, triggered early by one single godforsakened moment pressed against Ilya Rozanov. His mind fogged deeper, a desperate, single-minded craving. For something. For him. 

Shane’s hand moved before his brain could stop it. He navigated to the heat sheet quickly, the interface stark and impersonal in a way that made the decision feel even more significant.

His request was concise, stripped of anything unnecessary.

Emergency heat. Unbonded omega. One night only. No claiming. No media. Discretion required. Address in DM.

He submitted it before he could overthink it.

The response was immediate.

Notifications stacked rapidly, each one another anonymous alpha offering availability, interest, experience. The sheer volume of it was disorienting, the implication behind it impossible to ignore. Even without a name attached, the timing narrowed the possibilities enough that it was not truly anonymous at all.

Shane stared at the screen, discomfort churning in his stomach. This was a mistake. He could feel it already. The loss of control, the exposure, the knowledge that he had just made himself available in a way he spent years avoiding.

His thumb hovered over the delete button.

Then one new entry appeared at the very top, timestamped seconds ago.

Claimed. My fault, my responsibility.

A slow, shaky breath left Shane. He knew that tone. Knew exactly who just claimed his entire heat without asking.

“…asshole.”

He did not delete the post.

Ilya could still feel the shape of Shane against him.

Those couple minutes lingered in his body long after the game ended, replaying with a clarity that felt almost intrusive. 

Shane Hollander was disciplined to the point of rigidity. He did not make mistakes like that, not in the middle of a game, not in front of an arena full of people. Whatever happened on the ice was not a tactic, not an attempt to throw him off.

It was real.

Ilya sat in the locker room longer than usual, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely as he stared at the floor. Around him, the noise of post-game chatter ebbed and flowed, teammates dissecting plays, joking, already moving on. The game was over. They’d lost. But the loss wasn’t in his head.

It was the scent. Shane’s scent. Sweet, omega heat, flaring right there on the ice, in the middle of a fucking board battle. Cloying vanilla and ripe peach, utterly overwhelming. And the sight—Shane Hollander, controlled, meticulous, professional Shane Hollander, tilting his head back, throat bare and vulnerable, eyes glazed with something far beyond gamesmanship.

Ilya’s body was still keyed up, alpha instincts unsettled and pacing beneath the surface. The exposed line of Shane’s neck, the way his scent exploded into the air like a match dropped into gasoline. It made it difficult to settle, to return to baseline.

“Man, what was that out there?” someone said nearby, laughter threading through the question. “Hollander trying something new on you?”

Ilya did not respond. The suggestion was too far removed from what he knew to be true to warrant engagement.

His phone buzzed.

Then again.

Within seconds, it became a cascade of notifications stacking faster than the phone could process them. Ilya pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

The team chat was exploding.

—check the heat sheet bro i’m dead

—is that who i think it is???

—no way that’s real

—someone send the link

An anonymous request had been posted to the league’s heat assistance sheet. The timing aligned too perfectly with the end of the game to be coincidence. There weren’t that many omegas in the league to begin with. The responses were already stacking up, some clearly from players who had also been on the ice tonight.

Ilya opened the link and stared at the message. There was no name attached. There didn’t need to be.

The request itself was brief, controlled even in its urgency. It told him everything he needed to know.

“Idiot,” Ilya muttered under his breath, already standing.

Of course Shane would wait until it was unavoidable. Of course he would try to handle it alone until his body forced his hand.

And now every available alpha was responding.

It sat poorly with Ilya, a hot spike of irritation twisting sharp and ugly in his gut. The idea of any of them walking into Shane’s apartment, breathing in that scent, touching skin still warm from the ice, putting their hands on what had just been pressed against him. It made his alpha instincts snarl. Shane wasn’t theirs. He was—

Ilya killed the thought before it could finish. He did not want to examine it too closely.

As Ilya grabbed his things and left the locker room, he opened the app again, navigating to the same page. The list of responses had grown significantly in the short time since it was posted, a steady stream of anonymous offers.

He added his own.

It was deliberately minimal, phrased in a way that would not draw attention from anyone else—but would be immediately recognizable to the person it was meant for.

The door to Shane’s apartment opened just as Ilya raised his hand to knock.

Shane stood there, draped in a robe hanging open, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, hair damp and wild. He grabbed Ilya by the front of his loose team hoodie and pulled him inside. The door barely had time to shut before the space between them disappeared entirely. 

Their lips met hard and hungry. It was heat crashing into heat, mouths opening instinctively, tongues sliding together with a wild lack of coordination that turned greedy within seconds. Shane whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in Ilya’s hoodie, grinding shamelessly against the alpha’s thigh. 

Shane tasted as sweet as he smelled.

Honeyed and thick, like warmed sugar and skin, a faint mellow peach beneath it, delicate enough to cut through the sweetness. It was overwhelming up close, undoubtedly an omega in full heat, and it clung to the back of Ilya’s throat, dragging something primal up with it. 

“You smell insane,” Ilya said against his mouth, dragging his nose along Shane’s throat, inhaling deeply. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Shane snapped, hips pushing forward, desperate, rubbing against him. “Shut up and do something.”

Ilya laughed. “Bossy for someone who begged the whole league.”

Ilya shoved the robe off his shoulders, revealing Shane’s body. Lean muscle sheened in sweat, nipples peaked and tight on his chest, the trail of hair leading down to his cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. And between his thighs, slick, so much slick, the source of that maddening peach scent.

It wasn’t that Shane thought poorly of himself, not exactly; he knew what he looked like, but there had always been that unspoken, nagging sense that he didn’t quite fit the mold, that he wasn’t delicate enough, omega enough in the ways people expected.

Whatever doubt he’d had didn’t survive the way Ilya looked at him.

Ilya’s hands found Shane’s hips and dragged him closer, grip firm enough to anchor, to claim space. Shane clutched back just as tightly, fingers twisting into Ilya’s hoodie as if he needed the contact to stay upright, to stay grounded in something.

“Oh—god—”

The friction was too much. The sudden full strength of Ilya’s alpha scent, the solid press of his body, the way his hands gripped Shane’s ass and pulled their hips flush. It all hit at once. An unexpected jolt of pleasure crashed through Shane’s already overwhelmed system. His cock twitched hard, spilling in weak, shaky pulses as a small orgasm rolled through him. It wasn’t enough—nowhere near enough—but his hole tensed around nothing, a fresh gush of slick sliding further down his thighs, and a whimper tore from his throat against Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya held him there, processing.

He pulled back just enough to look at Shane, satisfaction ghosting at the corners of his mouth. One hand slid up to cup the back of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing the sensitive mating gland without pressing.

“Already?” His tone was a little amused, not even trying to hide it. “Just from kissing me? You’re that far gone, Hollander?”

Shane’s face flushed deeper, embarrassment flickering through the haze of heat, but it only sharpened the sweetness of his scent. “Don’t talk,” he said, voice hoarse. “It’s your fault. On the ice. You—”

“I smelled it.” Ilya’s grip tightened, possessive. He leaned in again, mouth brushing Shane’s ear “I felt it. Couldn’t think about anything else after that.” His other hand squeezed Shane’s ass harder, fingers digging in. “You bared your throat for me in front of everyone. You looked like you were dying for it.”

“I am, fuck, I am—”

Ilya walked Shane backward through the apartment without breaking contact, mouths sliding together again in messy, urgent kisses. Shane’s back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, then they were in the bedroom. Ilya shoved him onto the bed with surprising gentleness for how close they both were to losing it. Shane landed on his back, legs splaying open without thinking, slick coating the slightly puffy, well-worked rim of his hole from the silicone dildo he’d been riding earlier. 

“You are messy, Hollander,” Ilya said, hooking his hands under his thighs and hauling him forward. “Let me see.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He buried his face between Shane’s legs.

The first swipe of his tongue made Shane yelp, his back arching off the bed. He was velvety soft, open, dripping with that sweet-salt slick. Ilya licked a long, filthy stripe from the base of Shane’s balls all the way to his rim, savoring the taste of slick that had been dripping out of him for hours. His tongue was hot and wet, pressing flat and firm against the sensitive, puckered skin of Shane’s hole, a thick bead of slick welling up right at the center before it spilled over.

“Fuck—Rozanov,” Shane gasped, one hand flying down to grip the alpha’s hair.

Ilya hummed against him, the vibration shooting straight through Shane’s body. His tongue circled Shane’s rim once, twice, then pushed inside, fucking into him with leisurely strokes while his hand wrapped around Shane’s cock and stroked lazily. 

Ilya’s free hand slid up Shane’s body, palming one pec with rough possession. His thumb brushed over the tight nipple, rolling it slowly, then pinching just hard enough to make Shane buck off the bed with a sharp cry. The spark of pleasure-pain shot straight to his cock and hole, making both throb in time with his heartbeat.

“So fucking pretty,” Ilya said against his damp skin, voice muffled but rough with arousal. He sucked lightly at the rim before pushing his tongue deeper again. 

A blush rose across Shane’s face, but the words only made his cock leak harder into Ilya’s fist. He couldn’t deny how the praise hit him. His omega instincts purred at being admired, wanted, claimed in this way.

Ilya’s hand on his chest never stopped moving. He squeezed the soft swell of Shane’s pec, fingers digging in, then moved to the other side to give it the same rough attention. He added a finger below into the wet, desperate clutch of Shane’s body, then two, crooking them, searching for the right spot until Shane came again with a cry, slick gushing over Ilya’s chin.

Ilya lapped him through it, gentling, then slowly withdrew. He pulled his fingers out, slick-coated, and brought them to Shane’s lips.

Shane’s eyes fluttered open, hazy. He sucked Ilya’s fingers into his mouth without hesitation, moaning around them, cleaning them with a lewd, eager swirl of his tongue. The submission, the heat-driven abandon, sent a bolt of pure lust straight to Ilya’s cock. 

Shane was so deep in heat that his body was more than ready. He didn’t need this careful prep. He needed Ilya’s cock, thick and hot and raw, splitting him open and filling the aching void. 

“Rozanov—please,” Shane begged, voice cracking. “I don’t need—I’m ready. Just fuck me.”

Ilya lifted his head, lips glossy, eyes gleaming with a hunter’s focus. “Not yet.” He buried his fingers back deep, stroking lazily over Shane’s prostate as he looked up the length of Shane’s body. 

“Always wondered what the golden boy would look like spread out like this. Bet half the league’s alphas have jerked off thinking about it. Seeing Captain Hollander desperate and leaking for a real knot.” He sucked a series of sharp little bites along the sensitive skin of Shane’s inner thighs, leaving dark marks that would bruise beautifully by morning.  “Now I finally have you under me, dripping and begging. I’m not rushing this.”

Shane’s head fell back against the pillow, a frustrated whine escaping him. Every touch, every word, every slow drag of fingers only made him needier, more ready to be fucked raw and filled until he couldn’t think. His cock was already twitching back to life, his hole fluttering greedily around Ilya’s fingers, but the emptiness gnawed deeper with every passing second.

Ilya finally pulled his fingers free, leaving Shane achingly hollow. As Ilya leaned over to grab a condom from his wallet, his knee knocked against the nightstand drawer. It slid open. Inside was the silicone dildo. Realistic. With a pronounced knot at the base still glistening from earlier use.

His mouth quirked. “Is that what you were using before I got here? Riding it alone because you couldn’t wait?”

Shane’s cheeks burned. He reached hastily to push the toy out of sight, but Ilya caught his wrist.

“Don’t hide it,” Ilya said. “Admit it, Hollander. You were fucking yourself on that thing, trying to pretend it was enough. Tell me.”

Shane swallowed, pride warring with the overwhelming need. “Yeah… I tried. Fingers first. Then the dildo. But it wasn’t—”

“But it wasn’t going to fix it,” Ilya finished. “You knew that.”

Releasing Shane’s wrist, Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed, knees spread wide. He stripped off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing the broad, muscled chest still marked with faint bruises from the season. Then he shoved his sweatpants and compression shorts all the way down his legs and kicked them off the side of the bed, freeing his cock. It sprang up thick and heavy, flushed dark at the head, precome welling at the tip. The sheer size of it, the way it curved slightly, the hefty weight of it in Ilya’s hand as he wrapped his fingers around the base made it noticeably bigger than the dildo.

Shane’s mouth went dry even as his body flooded with fresh need.

Ilya noticed the reaction immediately. “See something you like, Hollander?” A smirk tugged at his lips as he slowly stroked himself from base to tip, letting Shane look his fill. “Show me, then. Ride it the way you would if you were alone. Let me watch how you get when no one’s here to give you what you really need.”

Shane hesitated, embarrassment burning through the daze. But his body was already betraying him again. His hole tingled at the command, another trickle of slick sliding out. He couldn’t deny the alpha so close in front of him. Not when every instinct screamed to submit, to please, to be taken care of.

After slicking the dildo with more lube, Shane positioned it at his entrance. Slowly, he sank down onto it, the thick stretch pulling a quiet whine from his throat. The toy filled him nicely, pressing firmly against his prostate on every roll of his hips. Soon he was riding hard, ass lifting and dropping, the wet slap of slick and lube filling the room as the toy disappeared inside him again and again.

Ilya stroked in time with Shane’s movements, eyes never leaving the way the dildo filled him each time he came down. He watched intently like it was the best game tape he had ever seen.

“Look at you,” Ilya mused. “What a beautiful view. Fucking yourself with that pathetic toy because you couldn’t have the real thing. Bet you were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you? About the way I pinned you on the boards.”

Shane’s breath hitched. He nodded before he could stop himself, thighs trembling as he chased the pressure. “Yeah—shit—Rozanov—”

The admission made Ilya’s hand speed up. “Faster. Take it deeper. Show me how empty you felt without me.”

Shane obeyed, riding the toy with desperate intensity. His cock leaked steadily onto his stomach, balls drawn tight. The orgasm built fast this time, flashing tight and hot in his belly, his hole locking around the silicone for a knot that was never going to take.

Right as he teetered on the edge, thighs shaking, a sob building in his throat, Ilya leaned forward. Without warning, he pulled the dildo out in one smooth motion, leaving Shane’s hole with a small, helpless twitch.

Shane whined at the sudden emptiness, hips bucking desperately. “Alpha—please—”

“Come for me,” Ilya said, voice low and commanding. Two thick fingers pushed inside him instantly, curling hard and perfect against his prostate. “Not from the toy. For me.”

The sudden replacement—the heat of real skin, the perfect curl of Ilya’s fingers, the heavy scent of the alpha so close—shoved Shane over the edge. He came hard, cock pulsing untouched except for the occasional brush of Ilya’s arm, spilling thick ropes across his own stomach and chest. His hole clenched violently around Ilya’s fingers, his orgasm deeper and more satisfying than anything the dildo alone had given him. A thin, wavering keen tore from his throat, vision whiting out for a second.

Ilya kept his fingers moving through it, slow and steady, drawing it out until Shane was trembling and oversensitive. When the last spasms finally faded, Ilya leaned down, mouth brushing Shane’s ear.

“See?” he said, voice warm with approval. “That’s why the real thing is better. Your little toy could never make you come like that.”

Shane lay there panting, come cooling on his skin, hole still fluttering around Ilya’s fingers. He felt wrecked already, desperate, and more turned on than he had ever been in his life.

Ilya reached for the condom on the nightstand, tearing the packet open with his teeth. Shane watched the movement, chest still heaving, body trembling with need. When Ilya rolled the latex down his thick cock, smoothing it carefully over the flushed head and the swelling base, something sharp snagged in Shane’s gut. A hint of disappointment he didn’t let show because he was still clinging to a shred of self dignity.

Ilya settled between Shane’s spread thighs, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding the blunt head of his cock to Shane’s slick, winking hole. He rubbed it slowly through the mess, teasing the rim, letting the condom catch on the tender, puffy skin.

“Tell me what you signed up for,” Ilya said. “What do you need, Hollander?”

“You,” Shane breathed, hands sliding up Ilya’s back. “Inside me. Please.”

“This,” Ilya said, finally pushing in with one devastating, slow roll of his hips, “is what you needed all along.”

Shane’s eyes rolled back. It was fuller, hotter, real. Ilya set a punishingly slow pace, burying himself to the hilt on every stroke, dragging out almost completely before sinking back in. Shane moaned, a deep, relieved sound. His omega instincts sighed in relief, the frantic, clawing emptiness finally easing as a real alpha filled him. Every nerve ending lit up, pleasure blooming hot and liquid through his core.

“Was it a trick?” Ilya gritted out, leaning close, his breath hot on Shane’s face. His control was fraying, the sight of Shane wrecked beneath him, his chest bouncing slightly with each thrust, his scent deepening. “On the boards. That pretty throat. You practically presenting yourself. Did you mean to ruin me?”

“N-no,” Shane gasped, nails digging into Ilya’s shoulders. “It just… it just happened. Your scent, Rozanov, fuck, your scent—”

Ilya believed him. The truth was more potent than any game. He drove into him, angling deeper, and Shane’s legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in.

“You get like this every heat?” Ilya asked, his mouth moving to Shane’s neck, sucking a mark just below the mating gland. Shane arched up with a whimper.

“Yes—no—fuck, I don’t know—”

“Thought you handled it alone,” Ilya said, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss just below one of the marks he’d left. “Doesn’t look like it’s working.”

Shane’s cock wept between them, untouched, every thrust milking another bead of precome from the tip. He choked on a moan, hips rocking helplessly. “Just—keep—doing that—”

The combination—the slow, devastating drag over his prostate, the gentle tease of a bite over his mating gland, the overwhelming fullness—was too much. Shane came again, a deep, dry wave of pleasure rolling through him without spilling from his cock. It left him shaking, every nerve lit and tuned too high, yet needing more.

Ilya held still, buried deep, riding out Shane’s contractions as he fought with an impressive control not to follow Shane over the edge. He kept moving through it. Slow, controlled, drawing the orgasm out until Shane was whimpering from oversensitivity.

“Good boy,” Ilya said. “So fucking good for me.”

When Shane went boneless beneath him, Ilya pulled out, ignoring the omega’s whimper of loss. He flipped Shane onto his stomach with easy strength, then pulled his hips up so Shane was on his hands and knees.

Ilya slid back in one smooth thrust, and the new angle made Shane moan loudly into the sheets. Ilya started to move with purpose, fucking into him with rough, driving strokes, one hand fisted in his hair, the other splayed possessively over the small of his back.

It was then Ilya saw the phone, screen lit with the league app, still on the heat assistance sheet, lying on the nightstand.

A callous chuckle escaped him. Without missing a single beat, he reached over and snatched the phone. He kept fucking Shane lazy and deep while he scrolled through the entries, voice turning mocking and possessive.

“So many volunteers, Hollander,” Ilya purred, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “‘I’d love to knot you slow and make you cry for it,’” he read, voice dripping with derision as he snapped his hips forward. “That one’s optimistic.”

Shane groaned. “Don’t—read—”

“‘Discreet, experienced, can stay all night.’” Another thrust. “How professional.”

Shane whimpered, pushing back onto Ilya’s cock, hole clenching tight. 

“‘Always wondered how you’d sound in heat.’” He leaned down, biting Shane’s shoulder. “Loud, apparently.”

“Stop,” Shane whined, humiliation and arousal twisting together. “Rozanov—please, turn it off—”

Every name, every offer made Ilya’s thrusts sharper, his grip on Shane’s hip tighter. Possessive alpha rage bled into his tone, mixing with filthy praise. Shane’s arms gave out; he collapsed onto his elbows, then lower, until he was just on his knees, face pressed to the sheets, ass up as Ilya kept fucking him from behind.

“‘Looking forward to seeing who gets the slot. Star omega like that? Bet he’s pretty when he’s in heat,’” Ilya growled, his knot beginning to swell, catching tantalizingly on Shane’s rim with each withdrawal. “They’re not wrong about that one. You do look pretty like this, taking my cock so well.”

“Rozanov—fuck—your knot—”

“They wanted this,” Ilya said, dropping the phone, both hands now gripping Shane’s hips, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, the constant teasing pressure of his forming knot grinding right against Shane’s hole. “They wanted to be here, where I am. To feel you like this. But they are not. I am.” He leaned over, biting a fierce, claiming mark into the meat of Shane’s shoulder, not the gland, but close. “And this,” he grunted, the knot pressing insistently, “is mine.”

The filthy talk, the possessive marking, and the catching of Ilya’s knot against his oversensitive rim undid him. Shane came another time, his cock spurting weakly onto the sheets as his hole fluttered and clenched desperately around the intrusion that wasn’t yet locked inside him.

Ilya rode him through it, his own breath coming in ragged growls. When Shane collapsed forward, completely spent, Ilya pulled out once more, the condom messy and heavy. He disposed of it and produced another, his hands trembling slightly with the effort of denying his own completion. 

Shane rolled onto his back, a tear tracing a path through the sweat on his temple. His body was a tangle of overstimulation, but the heat, while banked, still smoldered in his core. 

“Don’t put it on,” he begged. “The condom.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, his composure hanging by a thread.

“I’m on birth control,” Shane pushed himself up on his elbows, the movement showcasing the bite marks blooming on his chest, his shoulders. “I…I need to feel you, the knot. Please, Rozanov—I can’t—it’s not enough.”

The plea, stripped of all pride, all restraint, hit Ilya like a body check. The alpha in him preened at the raw need, to take care of his omega, even as the rational part of his brain screamed about the typical boundaries of the heat assistance sheet. But Shane Hollander was never just another name on the list. This was never just a transaction.

“You beg so pretty,” Ilya murmured, letting the condom packet fall to the floor. “How can I say no to you?”

He ran his hands up Shane’s thighs, pushing them apart, his thumbs brushing the wet, swollen flesh. When he pushed back in, it was raw friction, no barrier, just scorching heat and the slick slide of Shane’s body welcoming him. Shane sobbed with relief. The difference was upending.

“Fuck—yes—” Shane cried, voice wrecked and trembling. The sensation of Ilya’s bare cock dragging against his walls, the wet heat, the way every ridge and vein could be felt so clearly. It was a direct, electric connection that short-circuited his brain. “That’s it—more—”

Ilya’s control snapped completely.

He hooked his hands under Shane’s knees, pushing them back toward his shoulders, folding him nearly in half, opening him up completely. Shane was pinned, utterly vulnerable, his body on full display for Ilya’s consumption. The new position drove Ilya impossibly deeper, the head of his cock grinding relentlessly against Shane’s prostate with every savage thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and loud, slick pouring out around Ilya’s cock with every plunge.

Ilya’s mouth was everywhere, biting and sucking fresh marks into already bruised skin. Dark blooms across the soft swell of Shane’s tits, bruising kisses just below the mating gland on his neck, possessive nips and sucks that made Shane cry out, not in pain, but in dizzying surrender. Everywhere except the gland itself. Shane’s posted rule still held, even now.

But Shane was so far gone he didn’t care anymore.

“Do it,” he pleaded brokenly, arching up as much as the position allowed. “Bite me, claim me. I need you, just—”

“No,” Ilya growled, voice strained but firm, even as his hips never slowed. He sucked another vicious mark right below the gland instead. “You set the terms. No claiming tonight. But you’re still mine. Every fucking mark is mine.”

Shane could only sob in response, nails raking down Ilya’s back, legs shaking where they were pinned. Every brutal thrust sent sparks exploding behind his eyes.

“Alpha, your knot, please—”

Shane felt it pressing against the knot rim, stretching him wider and wider, the burn intense, almost too much. It felt impossible, like it wasn’t going to fit, like his body couldn’t possibly take something that big, but the heat made him yearn it so badly his vision blurred with desperate tears. 

“You need it?” Ilya panted, sweat dripping from his chin onto Shane’s heaving chest. “You need me to fill you? To pump my come so deep inside you it might take?” He punctuated each phrase with an agonizing thrust, his voice dropping to a vicious, worshipful whisper. “You want me to breed you full, Hollander? To see if my seed will catch on your next cycle, even with your pills?”

It was blasphemous, dangerous talk. It went against every rule Shane lived by. And in the primal cloud of his heat, it was the most arousing thing he’d ever heard.

“Yes!” Shane sobbed, every word sinking straight into him and lighting him up from the inside. “God, yes, please, breed me, knot me, just give it to me!”

The admission crumbled Ilya’s last restraint. With a final, powerful surge, he buried himself to the root, and his knot popped past the tight ring of muscle, locking them together.

The sudden, immense fullness pressed brutally against Shane’s prostate, stretching him wider than anything ever had. Ilya came with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking as long, powerful waves of come flooded deep inside Shane. Pulse after pulse, the warmth spreading through his core in euphoric waves.

Shane shattered.

His scream was muffled against Ilya’s shoulder as the knot he’d been craving for the entire night triggered another wrenching, dry orgasm, his body seizing around the throbbing intrusion. The feeling of being claimed, of being filled in a way the toy could never simulate, unspooled Shane completely. This was his first real knot, nothing like anything he had ever felt, and it was everything. He floated, anchored only by the alpha knotted inside him, by the warm spill painting his insides.

Ilya went slack, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting against Shane’s. His body was heavy and grounding as he breathed hard, hips still making tiny, instinctive thrusts as the knot kept them joined together. Their scents were fully mingled now, a new, musky signature in the air.

Slowly, Ilya shifted them to their sides, still locked together. He nuzzled into Shane’s neck, his fangs absent-mindedly skimming the forbidden mating gland. He inhaled deeply, a low, satisfied purr in his chest.

“Whole league probably saw that post,” Ilya grumbled, “All those alphas thinking they could get to my—”

The realization hit him like a cold slap. My omega. He caught himself immediately, flinching as he shoved the thought down hard, burying it under layers of pride and the familiar wall of not letting anything mean more than it should. That wasn’t what this was. This was heat. This was one night. This was nothing more than answering a heat sheet request. That was it.

Ilya stopped, just briefly. “…get to you.”

Shane made a quiet sound in response. Too gone to notice the pause, the correction.

“Wouldn’t have picked anyone else,” he murmured, voice soft and hazy with post-coital, heat-sated bliss. “Just you.”

Ilya went still, the words hitting deeper than they should have. His hand tightened reflexively where it rested on Shane, holding him in place for a second longer than necessary as the knot gave a heavy, powerful throb inside him. The warmth spreading from where they were joined, the solid weight of Ilya’s arm, the proprietary scent marking Shane. It felt more like safety than any prepped apartment ever had.

“Next time you need a real knot,” Ilya said, voice rough, “You text me first. Delete that fucking sheet, Hollander.”

“Mhm,” Shane nodded, already slipping under the compelling pull of sleep.

Ilya gave a pleased rumble, a sound of pure alpha satisfaction. He pressed a final, soft kiss to the bite mark below Shane’s mating gland. 

The heat, finally, began to ebb, fully sated. The long night had bled into dawn, the air still laced with their blended scents, the sweet undertone of warmed skin, and something neither of them was quite ready to name yet.