Chapter Text
When Shane arrives to practice, Ilya is already standing shirtless in the middle of the locker room.
“You are late, Hollander.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes, because he may or may not have run here. “Sorry. There was an accident, I think. The road was blocked.”
“Mhm.” Ilya does not look pleased with that explanation. “Every single day, I come here half hour early just for you. But here you are. Not grateful at all. Instead just late.”
“I’m sorry!” Shane snaps angrily, because it’s not his fucking fault. None of it.
Rozanov narrows his eyes.
“What is that fucking tone now? Do you know how many NHL captains would agree to all this?”
“Probably some,” Shane grumbles under his breath while tugging his hoodie off.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Nothing.”
“So you came here late AND rude. That it?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
Rozanov makes a displeased sound.
“You annoy me today, omega. Strip.”
“I am doing that,” Shane mutters defiantly.
This time, Rozanov doesn’t say anything. He just growls. It’s a low, dangerous sound – a clear warning. A strong, dominant smell of a powerful alpha fills the locker room and Shane can feel his whole body respond. He shivers, feeling a wave of heat while his opening slicks up and his dick hardens. The traces of his sweet omega scent float into the air, but not nearly as powerful.
Being regularly claimed by Rozanov made Shane’s scent permanently more subdued. He walks around smelling of the alpha for half a day before the temporary claim wears off and that’s the whole point. Everybody else on the team is either an alpha or a beta. They wouldn’t be able to have a normal practice, not to mention play an actual game, if Shane’s pheromones were floating around unchecked and all types of artificial blockers fall under banned Performance Enhancing Substances.
Shane got mostly used to this. Getting fully used to somebody like Ilya Rozanov feels impossible. His piercing gaze alone makes Shane squirm as he pulls off his underwear and is left standing completely naked.
He used to worry other teammates might come early and walk in on them, but that never happened. Everybody knows what’s going on before the game. There is a clear schedule to this. Orders from above.
“On your knees for me. Hands on the bench.”
Shane tightens his jaw, mentally checks himself, exhales slowly and listens.
Rozanov comes closer and smoothes an arm down his naked back.
“Good.”
Shane wants to tell him to hurry up and get it over with, but doesn’t, because in his experience that encourages Ilya to take things slow.
The anticipation is the same every time. Shane’s body got used to being used and it grew to love Ilya’s smell, so no matter how Shane feels about this stupid arrangement, a few drops of slick are already running down the insides of his thighs.
“Your fertile window is now, yes?” Ilya asks suddenly. His hand is gone from Shane’s back.
Oh.
Fuck.
Shane kind of forgot. The only thing he’s really focused on is hockey, and they travel a lot to play during the season, so he loses track of time a lot. That and, well, he may or may not have gotten confident that Rozanov will always track his cycle for him.
Rozanov is gone. Shane can hear the zipper of the bag being open.
“Yeah,” he croaks.
He knows where this is going.
Fuck, he should have paid attention to the stupid hormonal cycle. He’s a great player and a shitty omega.
Then again, most omegas don’t get fucked daily as a pre-game routine.
“You forgot?” Ilya now sounds almost amused. “Come on, Hollander. That is bad.”
“Didn’t forget,” Shane argues out of sheer stubbornness. The floor is hard and cold. His knees ache a bit. “I just– ah!”
A finger, cold from the lube, slides into his tight asshole, while the other hole – slicked up, pulsing and ready – stays cruelly empty.
“Look at that,” Rozanov murmurs, adding the second finger.
“Fuck!” Shane gasps, trying to arch away from the pressure and the stretch that’s on the edge of pain.
Rozanov’s other hand grips his hip tightly, pinning him in place.
“Easy, pet. Easy.”
“Not your pet,” Shane grumbles. Then whines immediately after, as the fingers get pushed deeper into him.
“Remember when even one was impossible?” Rozanov asks conversationally from above. He sounds unbothered, but his scent is getting heavier. “And now look how well trained. Little lube and you are ready.”
“Am not,” Shane protests, but his voice is shaky now. He tries to calm his breath, gripping the edge of the bench tightly.
The fingers are gone. Rozanov lets go of his hip and smooths the hand soothingly down Hollander’s back again, but his gentleness is not to be trusted.
“Then next time remember to prepare at home. I make time for you, little wolf, but I don’t have whole day. Team is coming soon.”
An unmistakable feeling of Rozanov’s thick cockhead being pressed against his asshole makes Shane let out a resigned groan. His second hole is pulsing hungrily, wet and ready, but in vain.
“Relax,” Rozanov orders, pushing in.
Shane clanches on instinct, without meaning to, but it’s not enough to stop an alpha on a mission. His hole gets forced open and he lets out a choked sound as he feels the swollen cock breaches him. He’d kind of like for it not to feel good. It seems unfair, that despite everything, it’s good.
Rozanov leans down, covering Shane’s back with his body. In a rare show of care, he places a kiss on the nape of Hollander’s neck.
“I said relax, Hollander. Come on. We did that hundreds times,” he murmurs and slowly, slowly pushes the dick in, inch by inch.
By the time Rozanov bottoms out, Shane is a gasping, trembling mess. He can’t even begin to describe how it feels to be so fucking impossibly full, while at the same time his other opening is desperately empty, clenching on nothing. Every time Rozanov fucks his ass instead of the vaginal opening, his body gets extremely confused. It messes with Shane’s head too.
“Good?” Rozanov asks sharply, straightening above Shane. The warmth of his body is gone, replaced by the tight grip on Shane’s hips.
Shane just groans in response. The stretch is burning, almost painful and he’s thrown off balance, because he simply wasn’t expecting this today.
(But, yeah. It is, sadly, kind of good.)
“We have no time,” Ilya decides, not waiting for any more coherent answer. He doesn't find anything alarming in Hollander’s scent – just the normal annoyance and humiliation mixed with desire and submission – so he slowly drags his cock out and then guides it back in.
“Fucking hell,” Shane hisses below him. “Slower, you asshole.”
“Was slow.”
“Was not! I’m also going to practice after this, you know?!”
“Wow. So brave today,” Ilya comments mostly to himself, then snaps his hips hard, burying deep into that tight, hot asshole.
Shane whines, omega coming out in full force. His muscles relax instantly, submitting to the display of dominance and he just melts into the bench, almost boneless.
“Yeah,” Rozanov breathes above, satisfied, feeling the body opening up to become his. He reaches down and gathers some of Hollander's slick, then rubs it into the base of his own cock before burying it back inside. “There you go, Hollander. Good little wolf for me.”
“Fuck– oh. Oh my god, don’t– Fuck!”
Rozanov gets to work, pounding that nice little asshole hard and deep. He doesn’t have to look for the right angle to get Shane’s prostate. They’ve done it so many times, it just happens on its own.
And it’s not like this is about Hollander’s pleasure. It’s work, for both of them. But when Rozanov hits that spot inside of him, Shane’s body does a sort of shiver that feels really nice on Ilya’s dick – tighter than his wolf-pussy ever has.
It’s doesn't take long to have Hollander gasping and whining, on his knees, ass up, eyes squeezed shut. Ilya watches as his own dick disappears inside the puffy ring of muscles over and over again, enjoying the desperate scent of an omega that got tricked into thinking it’s getting bred.
“Want to come before me?” Ilya asks, slowing the pounding down to nice, deep, rhythmic thrusts.
“Yeah,” Shane groans. He sounds wrecked.
“Nicer.”
“Please.”
Ilya reaches down again, this time to slide two fingers into Hollander’s other hole.
“I said: nicer,” he repeats.
Shane’s whole body convulses as he gets double penetrated. He whines loudly as the omega mindset momentarily takes over the stubborn hockey player again, but he’s back in moments. Still shaking and dripping, impaled on a thick cock, gasping from pleasure, but still so fucking proud.
“Pretty fucking please,” Shane hisses between gasps.
Now, Ilya has a sense of humor. He can see how that’s funny. He laughs quietly, twists his fingers just right and shoves an already forming knot deep into Shane’s stretched asshole.
Hollander comes with a moan so beautiful, the alpha inside of Ilya rumbles with pride and Ilya allows himself to reach down and lace his clean fingers into Hollander’s dark hair. He scratches the omega's scalp a few times while rocking his hips slightly, rubbing the swelling knot on Shane’s inner walls.
There’s no resistance anymore. Shane’s dick is still leaking and his fucked-out brain needs a second to restart. Rozanov experimentally tries to pull the knot out. It gets stuck on the rim, so he can’t get it out, but he can kind of pull back and shove it deeper, again and again, so that’s what he does, chasing his own orgasm. Shane’s helpless whimpers become a soundtrack for it at some point, while his sweet scent fills Ilya’s nose, making his brain foggy for a short moment.
“There you go. Fuck, Hollander,” he grunts during the last few, forceful thrusts and finally, finally he spills inside.
The tension drains from his broad shoulders while come flows deep into Hollander, marking him from the inside for hours to come. There’s always a lot of it, so it takes a while, stretching Shane’s insides. Ilya’s scent thickens, filling the whole room and swallowing almost every trace of the sweet omega’s notes.
“Good boy,” Rozanov praises, slapping Hollander's ass. His dick twitches inside, giving a few last spurts of seed before the knot starts to go down.
“Fuck you,” Hollander mumbles, clearly slowly coming back to his usual, guarded self.
Rozanov chuckles at that again. He kind of likes the fact that Hollander is so feisty. Ilya has to fill this menace with cum almost every day. It would probably get boring if Shane was all shy and pliant. A pissed-off, but eventually still pliant omega? Now, that’s fun.
He pulls out gently, because Hollander isn’t wrong – he does have practice soon.
“Careful, pup,” Rozanov warns, watching the asshole clench desperately to prevent cups and cups of sperm from spilling out. Nobody has time to clean it up. Hollander always holds it in until he makes it into a bathroom stall and then lets it all out there.
Sometimes, when Rozanov is feeling generous, he fucks Shane already in the stall. Other times, when Rozanov is in a bad mood or when Hollander arrives to practice all riled up and hostile, Ilya gets a plug and the come stays inside for a long time.
It’s all routine by now. It takes about seven minutes for Shane to emerge back from the bathroom, already dressed in the under armour. Ilya has managed to clean himself up by then as well and he’s lounging on the bench, waiting for others to arrive.
“Good?” he asks casually, glancing at the man he’s just fucked like a dog.
Hollander rolls his eyes at him.
“I’m fine.”
Ilya sniffs the air.
“Mhm. You smell nice.”
“I smell like you, asshole.”
“Is what I said.”
“Fuck off.”
A wolfish grin twists Ilya’s lips.
“You are very touchy today.”
“Maybe. Dunno. Shitty day, I guess.” Hollander’s tone changes near the end into something half-resigned, half-apologetic.
“Mhm,” Ilya hums again, in acknowledgement this time. “Want kiss?”
Shane’s gaze snaps to him. Then he scowls and quickly looks away.
“Want you to shut up.”
“I think you want kiss,” Ilya argues with a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. He pushes himself off the bench and walks up to Hollander. “Yeah? You want? Is okay, I don’t care.”
Shane avoids his gaze.
“I know you don’t fucking care. I don’t care either. It must be the hormones or something…”
“Hollander.” Ilya’s fingers tighten on Shane’s jaw. “Is about game. You need it or not?”
Shane finally looks at him. There’s something vulnerable in his dark eyes.
“Yes, please,” he says quietly. He sounds more like an omega now, than when he was moaning on Ilya’s cock.
“Okay,” Rozanov nods, suddenly not finding it as funny anymore. It happens sometimes – the shift in atmosphere between them. They both pretend it doesn’t, because what else is there to do. “Come here.”
It’s an easy, confident kiss that ends way too quickly. A soft whine escapes Shane’s lips as Rozanov pulls away.
Ilya arches his eyebrows.
“That needy today, huh?”
“Not my fault,” Shane grumbles, looking away. He didn’t choose his second gender, for fuck’s sake. This is probably the fertility window talking. He really needs to stop hyperfixating on hockey and track his own cycle better.
“Is okay.” Rozanov assures him, dragging a thumb against Shane’s freckles for no real reason other than that he likes them. “Just do well at practice for me.”
Shane nods reluctantly.
“Yes, captain,” he says with the tiniest note of sarcasm.
One of those days, Ilya should take this omega home and fuck him for real, not for work. He has a feeling it might be spectacular.