Work Text:
Every five years the MLH has a run. It’s a league mandated breeding program, part of their contracts, and for most alpha players it’s exciting. Who wouldn’t want to fully embrace their instincts and chase down omegas in the woods? To smell someone ripe and fertile and ready to be fucked, and then fuck them until the alpha inside them was satisfied and their genes were passed on? It wasn’t cheating if it was a breeding program, and even some of the omegas were already someone’s mate, maybe to a player that was middling at best and needed a generational hockey great cuckoo in their nest.
Shane gets his call letter on a Wednesday in February, and the team doctor pulls him aside at practice the next day to test him for any illnesses or infections. For a brief few minutes Shane wonders how fast he can contract gonorrhea, and how badly he can fuck up the treatment so he’s still not clean come March mating season, but that would screw up hockey. It doesn’t matter anyway because Shane’s tests come up negative, like he knew they would because he’s only sexually active with his own hand.
Shane’s at the top of the points board even while still in his entry level contract, and the MLH wants his offspring. It’s a normal regular thing that a normal regular athlete at the top of their game would be a part of, and Shane is supposed to feel honored. He’s supposed to be happy he gets to fuck a bunch of omegas with the big guys in the league, but the panic simmers under his skin like a second itch under his oncoming rut. It’s worse when he flies out with the other guys to middle-of-nowhere California, where they won’t freeze their nuts off fucking outside naked.
The Americans televised the NFL run last year—past the watershed with the alpha cocks blurred out for modesty even if every omega in heat was put on full blast. Shane hadn’t watched, but Comeau had shown him every highlight, every scandalous bit of gossip about which players were bitches, which fucked male omegas even though everyone knew they weren’t good for breeding.
MLH only ran with female omegas, because the MLH viewers didn’t want that gay shit.
Shane watches another alpha in his holding area pace, already erect under the onslaught of omega pheromones they pump through the air system to bring on a rut for anyone whose cycles didn’t line up. Shane’s worse than the alphas fucking male omegas. Shane smells the musky scent of rut curling into the air under all of the omega, and his stomach grows hot. He doesn’t even know the guy when he’s not in his jersey, some player in the Western conference he thinks, maybe on the Queens, but Shane can taste the fuck and need on the air anyway and alpha drool starts pooling in his mouth. He’s a fucked up alpha, and everyone was going to see it.
Omegas are supposed to smell like home and mate, but they’ve only ever smelled cloying and overly sweet, like rotting fruit. He’s tried. He’s tasted slick straight from pussies, bought the bottled pheromone stuff to increase his alpha appetite, and let omegas flirt with and scent him with the kind of forwardness that no one would actually want in a mate. But nothing gets him going like another alpha in his space. This is his last chance, probably. As long as even one omega smelled good, his alpha instincts would kick in and he’d chase and fuck and Shane would finally be normal.
The beta at the door to the bull pen has an omega lean, and an alpha from Tampa keeps sticking his arms through the bars trying to get her to come sit on him. It‘s just Shane and another alpha—from the Guardians—that hadn’t dropped fully into rut, but there’s still a few hours til the moon’s high and they’re released into the run.
The organizers ramp up the omega pheromones to try and get him and any other stragglers there, but it’s the guy from the Queens relieving himself with the fake omega pussy they use to keep the fighting down that brings on Shane’s rut. It smells like alpha cum, and Shane wants to mount the toy after him and pump and pump until he spills and everything mixes, like they’ve claimed it together. He wants to drop to his knees and suck the cum off his cock from its source. He wants to mount that player and bite him until he bleeds.
The need surprises him, but then again he’s never been so close to another rutting alpha before. Shane keeps himself tight to the corner so they can’t figure him out, can’t see how badly he wants to choke on their big alpha dicks.
The alpha from the Guardians stalks closer to the fake pussies, hand fisting his cock, and a growl tears out of Shane’s throat unbidden. What the fuck is he trying to guard? The Queens alpha’s cum? The pussies are there for all four of them. The Guardians alpha bares his teeth and he’s bigger than Shane. So is his cock. Shane tips his head back to expose his neck automatically, submitting, but he doesn’t need to spread his legs wider to show off his own erection. He does it anyway, and the other alpha slides his cock into an unused pussy.
There’s two alphas fighting in the holding area next to them, and the walls rattle with it. There’s snarls and the wall behind him clangs, and ahead of him the Guardians alpha slams his hips into the toy, shaking the wall ahead. Over and over and over like a fucking echo of need and sex, the rhythm of rut. These pens aren’t meant to be permanent, and the scent of blood with rut and alpha cum has Shane slipping farther into it. The alpha’s hips flex, the divots in his ass pronounced as he gasps and knots the toy, and Shane stands. He wants to grab his neck and force him into the wall and knot him like he’s knotting the fake pussy.
He makes it three steps there before the omega scent clears from the holding area in one swoop like ocean water pulling back before a tsunami and Shane’s smelling the raw sweat and musk of every alpha in that place. The doors of the bull pens recede into the floor one sharp metal scrape at a time, and Shane’s neck prickles as the sound gets closer and closer to their holding area. They won’t be the first released—they’re just a rookie and three aging alphas—but they’re not last either, and the moment their door drops the Tampa alpha bolts and Shane’s instincts have him chase him through the fencing corralling them to different areas of the run.
The Tampa alpha doesn’t smell amazing, but he smells like sex and Shane could fuck him. He could push him down on that concrete floor and shove his cock in deep. Shane’s fast too, and he’s almost able to grab at the wide planes of his back when a switch gate drops down to separate them. Shane snarls and kicks at the gate, pisses on it to make sure he remembers which way to the alpha he’s kept from, and then there’s a high pitched buzzer sounding to make him get a move on. There’s no one to fight; the operators of the system are somewhere else with their laptops and controls watching over a video feed that keeps them separate from the elite athlete alphas and the omegas that paid to carry their offspring.
Shane punches the gate one more time, then runs down the fencing he’s clearly supposed to travel down. He’ll have to find his fucking Tampa alpha in the woods once he’s out.
His exit deposits him on one end of a long field, alphas and omegas already fucking in the grass ahead of him, the omegas too heat struck or weak to make it to the woods that’d serve as the primary chase field. Shane snorts to clear the scents from his nose–he didn’t want anyone that couldn’t even make it to the tree line. What alpha would fuck someone so easy? Not one worth Shane’s cock.
There are omegas ahead of him, weak legged but poised to start their run as they’re released in similar waves to the alphas. None of them smell good, none of them smell worth it, and Shane turns his head, a clear rejection. Their disappointment is acrid over their too sweet heat scent.
He’s spent every rut he’s ever had by himself. Sarah had offered once when the two weeks they’d spent dating had overlapped with the mating season, and so had Marnie even though they’d never gone beyond kissing, but Shane couldn’t do it. He’d rather watch hockey, he’d rather work off his frustrations by playing or working out, and if he needed more he’d knot his own hand in the middle of the night when his exhaustion overrode his fears at the enormity of his desires.
So when he runs it's because it's habit, a deep seated need formed from his past ruts to make his lungs burn and his thighs quake so that he could ignore everything and fall asleep without confronting how much he wanted to push down his captain in juniors, to have the alpha that could bench 300 at his apartment gym hold him down so he couldn’t move. He can’t run the whole night, but he can pretend, and maybe he can play at being picky when he doesn’t chase anyone in particular. There’s a clause for that in the first mating run, and then Shane will have five more years to find an omega he likes the smell of.
He reaches the tree line and skips over the roots, instincts and reaction time keeping him from stumbling. The underbrush is deep in places, but there are echoes of every run that took place here before, every omega that ducked under branches and weaved around bushes to entice only the worthy, and the alphas that powered through them powered only by lust.
A gentle breeze weaves through it all like ribbon, and Shane’s jaw drops open to taste the rut in the air as much as he smells it. There’s a wet smell clinging to it all. He knows it’s omega slick, but it’s almost negligible when there’s the scent of ice spiraling around him, of the face wash he would be mad about if he was in pads and vying for the puck, and of blood dripping onto the ice shavings after a scrum that the ref would have to scrape up before they could resume play. Shane could face him down at the circle, anticipation electric in the air in the seconds before puck drop they try to defuse in themselves and ramp up in the other with chirps like a springtime bird screaming for a fuck.
Shane’s chasing before he realizes it, bare feet gripping the earth and crushing fern and stick alike under their pads. Faster. He needs to be faster. He should be in skates—he’s faster in skates, and he can’t let his mate get away. Shane’s chasing the puck into the corners, shouldering away players and their lumber and tasting blood because the refs aren’t calling the slash, the boarding.
He sees him in a small clearing and he’s not alone, but Shane’s willing to crash the net when the puck’s loose. His mate’s teeth are scrabbling at the bite guard the omega’s wearing, but they’re not tied, and Shane leaps the last few steps to tackle him off. The other alpha’s skin is boiling, damp with exertion underneath Shane’s palms, and he grunts as he hits the ground under Shane. He’s not there for long, though, and Shane has the briefest flash of bicep in his peripherals before the other alpha is punching him off.
The alpha scrambles off of him, scrappy, and crouches between Shane and the omega. He’s familiar, more familiar than the alphas he’d been in the holding pen with, but Shane’s brain can’t skip past the groove of fuck and need. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his lip is pulled back into a snarl, warning growl rumbling between them as if Shane gives a fuck about the woman leaking slick behind him. Not when the alpha’s thighs are so muscular as they bracket his flushed and swollen alpha cock, and the want pulls deep in Shane’s stomach. Shane swallows, flexes his fingers into the soil.
They meet again in a clash of skin and sinew, and Shane pulls blood with his blunt finger nails at the other alpha’s chest as he slams his knees into Shane’s hips. Shane lands on top, and alpha drool seeps out of Shane’s mouth, smearing against his cheeks and dripping out onto the alpha. His neck is right there, and Shane wants. He surges forward, but instead of his scent gland Shane’s teeth sink into the other alpha’s forearm and they’re flipping again as Shane spits out the blood.
The other alpha moves to get off him again, and Shane knows he’s putting out the acidic scent of rejection as he grabs for the other alpha’s wrist. Shane would be so good for him, like he’s been so good on the ice. He’s been putting the Metros back on the map. What other players in their second year get invited to runs?
Shane spreads his thighs and the alpha falls between them, their arousals meeting in a desperate mix of heat and wet from Shane’s dribbling slit and the remains of the omega’s slick. What other alphas have a cock like Shane’s?
The rut scent wrapping around him deepens, and Shane gasps into it, throwing his head back as he tries to show off the sharpness of his teeth and the length of his neck in submission all at once. The other alpha’s eyes narrow, irises gone behind the wide radius of his pupils.
“You are a kinky alpha, Hollander,” the alpha rumbles, voice deep around the accented syllables, and the needle skips out of the groove on the record. Shane knows that voice, he knows this scent and he—
It’s fucking Rozanov. Shane’s trying to fuck his media rival. Awareness slams into him like a check, and oh fuck oh fuck oh shit oh fuck he’d pushed Rozanov down. This is a televised mating run. There could be a drone following him as he chased down the scent of Rozanov and tried to fuck him, oh holy fucking shit.
Shane lifts up onto his elbows, words stuck in his throat because what the fuck is he supposed to say to the man who beat him in the draft, the one Shane beat for Rookie of the Year last June. He makes it halfway up before Ilya pushes him down by a hand at his throat and Shane’s head rattles against the duff. Shane sucks in a breath through the crushing pressure, and Ilya’s hips drop further into him. Submit is radiating out his body language in waves, and Shane’s choking on it in his scent too.
“It’s okay, Hollander,” Rozanov says, fingers tightening around Shane’s neck. “I like it. I’m a kinky alpha too.”
Then Rozanov slides the head of his dick into the crease of Shane’s groin, and Shane’s back arches into it. Fuck.
Rut slips back into him like it never left, and the scent of aroused alpha coils between them. Rozanov drops onto his forearm by Shane’s face, leaves crunching by his ear, and the hand he had at Shane’s neck slides down down down Shane’s chest and stomach until Shane can’t feel it any longer. Rozanov licks alpha drool off his bottom lip, and Shane tracks the movement. He smells like omega slick, his cheeks wet with it, and Shane knows his scent goes dark with the thought of Rozanov fucking anyone else.
“Do you think you are alpha enough to take me?” Rozanov says, and he pushes his cock down below Shane’s, foreskin sliding against Shane’s perineum.
“Do you think you’re enough for me?” Shane spits out, thrusting his hips up into Rozanov’s. He tries to roll them over, but he’s loose-limbed and can’t put anything in the tank, not when he feels like he’s already dished one top shelf and the lamp’s lit.
Rozanov grins that cocky fucking grin of his, and Shane wants to bite if off him, wants to drop the gloves and knock his teeth out. He wants to win the face off and take it deep into Rozanov’s zone, but it looks a lot like a shuddering moan and Shane pushing back into his cock, though.
“I’m going to make you feel me like a phantom every time we play each other,” Rozanov says, and he slides a wet hand from Shane’s ass to the back of his knees. “I’m going to fuck you so deep you will never be able to hear your name without mine attached.”
“You saying your name will always be behind mine, Rozanov?” Shane was ahead of him in points again, after all.
Rozanov’s jaw ticks, and then he’s pushing Shane’s knees up to his chest and licking a stripe across Shane’s asshole from tailbone to balls.
“Oh my God,” Shane yells, and it’s supposed to be omega girls echoing in the trees, not him. But how is he supposed to keep quiet when Rozanov’s tongue is in his ass? He didn’t know his hole could flutter, but it’s twitching against the flat of Rozanov’s tongue, grasping at it when Rozanov dips into it.
Shane’s hands find themselves in Rozanov’s curls, and he’s winding them around his fingers to pull Rozanov further into his ass. Rozanov’s laughs vibrate him from the inside, and then he’s slipping a finger in too.
Shane’s been curious about this, enough that he bought a dildo once. Beta sized even if it isn’t what he wants because Shane knows he’s massive and he’s still average alpha size, but when he looks down at Rozanov’s cock bobbing between his thighs his stomach just gets hotter. He could take it, he could take all of him. His body isn’t made for it, but it craves it all the same and that makes it a challenge Shane can overcome, a competition. Shane’s never been a loser.
“This okay?” Rozanov asks, and Shane just nods.
Rozanov’s finger curls up, and Shane’s cock splashes enough onto his belly that he thinks he’s cumming, but it’s not that. He’s heard about the prostate, he knows about it objectively, but even when he tried to give in and explore his body, he couldn’t handle the discomfort of fingers in his ass to find it.
“Keep doing that,” he says, the alpha voice slipping in automatically, and Shane throws his arm over his face to hide the blush.
He can feel the smile against his asshole without seeing it beyond the rise of Rozanov’s eyebrows between his legs. Rozanov slips another finger in and lifts up, tilting his head lazily as he circles inside where Shane wants, no needs him.
“You trying to command me, Alpha?” Rozanov says, and Shane’s cock kicks at the title. He’s an alpha, and so is Rozanov. Rozanov licks at his bottom lip and his mouth is soaking with alpha drool. It’s not slick anymore, and it was Shane’s ass that got him there.
“Fuck me right and I won’t ha—oh fuck,” Shane moans into his elbow as Rozanov rubs against his prostate again. He could come like this, he thinks. He could lose himself on Rozanov’s fingers and come harder than he has with someone else in his life.
“You want my cock?” Rozanov asks in that frustratingly lazy way he does, like Shane’s doing nothing to him, like his hand isn’t trembling at Shane’s hips and his dick hasn’t been dripping nonstop onto the leaf litter.
“Yes, yes,” he says automatically and it’s a relief to admit it. Shane wants an alpha’s cock so deep in him he’ll taste the cum for days.
Rozanov’s hand stills inside him, his eyes screwed shut. “Fuck, Hollander.”
Yeah, this is affecting him too. Shane lets his legs fall to the side, his chest heaving and his dick harder than it’s ever been in his life.
“You going to fuck me, Alpha?” Shane says, and it’s pulled deep from inside him. He’s had dreams like this, he thinks. Maybe his first rut when he spent the night squeezing his knot on all fours thinking about his alpha linemate pushing him into the boards and fucking him right there against the glass instead of a panting omega underneath him. It feels like he’s unraveling to say it now, out loud.
Rozanov’s face goes slack, flushed from his hairline down to his pubes. Their shared arousal smells like hockey, ramping up like the crowd in a blowout-shutout game, and Shane knows what it feels like. Shane did that. He’s not the only one out there who’s a fucked up alpha.
They stare at each other, daring one another to make that final jump into fucking. Will Shane continue to let Rozanov in his ass, or will Shane roll them over and mount him? The possibilities are overwhelming, and the choice is too much.
There’s the sound of rustling leaves next to Shane, and Rozanov’s face shutters.
“Fuck off,” Rozanov says, hard. “He’s mine.”
The omega Rozanov had been fucking earlier freezes, hand in the air like she’s mid-reaching for Shane. Shane’s chest fucking swells, peacocking because he was chosen, and it’s so fucking stupid. Her hand shakes with indecision, and Shane gets it, he does. Rozanov is fucking hot.
Rozanov is inclined to ignore her though, and he kneels fully between Shane, hand at his cock because oh shit he’s going to put it in. He’s going to get fucked by an alpha. He feels that searing heat against his hole and he’s ready to risk it all.
But Rozanov stops, frowns. He looks up at the omega. “Come here,” he says, and he doesn’t even need to make it a command because she crawls forward automatically, breasts hanging down like pendulums.
A growl tears itself out of Shane’s chest, and his thighs tighten around Rozanov’s hips. He doesn’t want her here. Rozanov pinches his side not ungently, but he’s not looking at Shane.
“Turn around,” Rozanov says, and she does. She drops her chest to the ground and presents right in front of them. The scent of slick floods the air and Shane almost chokes on it. It’s like a watermelon left to rot in the field, sweet and wet.
Shane tenses, ready to fight which is so fucking stupid because he’s an alpha—he’d barely have to bare his fangs before she’d submit. If he commanded her to leave, she would, but she’s made to be fucked by Rozanov, and Shane’s just playing at it.
Rozanov shoves his fingers into her pussy and the scent of heat mushrooms around them. Rozanov’s cock jumps against Shane’s ass at it, and Shane frowns deep into his elbow. Right, Rozanov’s a normal alpha, probably. He fucks omegas.
Except, Rozanov pulls his fingers out and slicks up his dick with them, and then he’s pressing himself back against Shane. Right, because Shane’s the one he wants to fuck.
Rozanov rolls his hips, and then he’s inside and oh god, Shane’s got an alpha cock in him. The stretch of him burns, but in the way his thighs do when he’s coming off of a shift. It’s good, it’s so good, and Shane has never felt so full. Shane clenches down curiously, and he can feel Rozanov’s cock jerk inside him.
“Still okay?” Rozanov asks, his voice wrecked. Instead of answering Shane fucks forward onto him, and Rozanov pitches forward unbidden, catching himself on his palm before he fully collapses on top of Shane.
Shane’s never felt like this in his life. Rozanov’s dick slides in and out and it smells so much like alpha rut, like hockey. Rozanov fucks in and then Shane fucks back, like they’re passing the puck. It’s automatic, no look tape to tape, and the heat between them ramps up sharply instead of a gentle build. Shane didn’t know sex could feel this good, let alone rut.
“You like my cock, Alpha?” Rozanov grits out, and Shane can’t even find the words. He’s drooling over himself and his arm and Rozanov keeps hitting that spot in him.
“Oh, fuck your Alpha pussy is so tight, Hollander.”
Rozanov likes the sound of his own voice. His chirps are just as much about hearing himself talk as they are about getting under his opponents’ skin, and Shane learned that quick in Rookie year. Shane’s always been more for action, so he tightens around Rozanov’s cock on purpose and moans.
“Fuck me, Alpha,” he breathes out, and then he feels the edge of Rozanov’s knot forming against his rim. “Oh fuck are you knotting?”
He didn’t even know alphas could do that with each other—Shane only knotted sometimes when he fucked his hand, but there Rozanov was, reacting to him like that. Like he’s someone worth mating.
Mating.
Rozanov slides past his prostate again, and his neck is right there. It’s flushed red from exertion and his pulse is jumping wildly down his jugular. Alphas are good at noticing stuff like that about other alphas. Shane has to know where to bite, how to fuck, and he’s only doing one of the two. There’s a pressure against his ass, and Shane pushes the flats of his teeth against the bundle of nerves in the crook of Ilya’s neck. Rozanov whines like something’s broken, the pressure at his hole gives with a wet pop, and Shane’s sinking his teeth into Rozanov’s neck all at once.
Warmth floods inside, and Shane’s got an alpha’s cum inside him. An alpha came inside of him. He can still feel Rozanov’s cock flexing with it.
He’s got a knot in his ass putting pressure against his prostate and an alpha orgasming on top of him, and it’s too much. It’s way too much.
“Oh God are you coming?” Rozanov moans, and Shane knots air between them, hands free.
The force of his orgasm sends cum into Rozanov’s stomach with a wet slap, like a hose in the summer. His body reverberates with it, rolling and ebbing and flowing like waves as his orgasm hits and his body flexes over and over like he’s doing reps to build strength.
“Fuck, Hollander.” It tears out of Rozanov like a punch, and then he stiffens and he’s cumming again, face pressed and mouth open against Shane’s cheek.
He grabs Shane’s jaw and pushes him towards him and then they’re kissing too. Shane’s kissing an alpha. Rozanov drags his tongue over Shane’s teeth, tasting his own blood on Shane’s fangs and the rut in their spit. Shane had never kissed anyone like this, never been kissed like this, like they wanted to consume him body and soul.
There’s a period of time after an alpha in rut comes where they’re almost rational, like they aren’t filled only with the desire to fuck and fight because one of their needs is sated. Shane’s clarity comes a few minutes later when they’re tied and kissing all fuck-dumb. One moment he’s happy to taste the flavor of Rozanov’s rut in his mouth, the next he’s stiffening underneath him because oh god, he’s under an alpha and he’s tied to an alpha and this is televised. His mom could see? Anyone could see. The league could see. He could lose hockey, holy shit and he can’t run because there’s a knot in his ass and—
Rozanov’s scent projects calm, and he blankets Shane with his body. He puts his elbow on the ground by Shane’s head and holds his head up in his palm, then traces Shane’s sweaty hairline with his fingertips.
“You fuck a man before? An alpha?” Rozanov asks, a low rumble.
Was this his idea of pillow talk? Of knot talk? Jesus fucking christ. Shane’s fucked an idiot as big as he is.
“I have,” Rozanov continues.
“Who?” Shane says, small. “Another player?”
“Ehh,” Rozanov trails off, his mouth pulled to the side as he does the so-so motion with his free hand. “No, my coach’s son back in Russia.”
“Is it okay over there? This?”
The wince on Rozanov’s face is answer enough. They’re both so fucking stupid. Their second year in the league and they undo an entire institute and tradition.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay, yes? This won’t make babies for MLH but is fun, yes? Maybe they invite us next time too so we try again.”
“You fucked an omega before I got here.”
She’d disappeared while they were fucking, but Rozanov liked her scent enough to chase her earlier. No one smelled as good as Rozanov for Shane, though. The league would see his mistake and he’d be sent to minors for the rest of his contract to “develop” and they wouldn’t sign him again.
“Yes, well, maybe you can fuck an omega after. Alphas we…relax first? Make each other feel good? Like fake omega in pens.”
Rozanov’s cock twitches inside him. Fake omega indeed. Did he use one? Did he fuck it like he fucked Shane? Did he shove his knot inside and tremble and moan in front of the other alphas in his holding area? Did he like smelling the others slip into rut like Shane did? Foreign players got first dibs in runs since they kept the gene pool healthy. How many times did he get to fuck it before they let him out?
“Fuck, your rut is returning,” Rozanov breathed. “Do not…I shouldn’t cum in you again. You need to fuck an omega.”
Shane clenched down, and the rut in Rozanov spiked for a moment too. Shane didn’t want to fuck an omega, not when Rozanov smelled like this.
“I’d rather fuck you again,” Shane says, and the bottom fully dropped out of Rozanov’s scent.
He’s still hard inside since his knot hadn’t gone down, but Shane’s erection had returned. He can cum like this again on Rozanov’s cock. He can—
Rozanov humps forward, grinding inside Shane’s ass, and Shane’s cock gives a pathetic squirt. Not even a real cum.
“You are very bad,” Rozanov gasps into his neck, oversensitive. Would he bite Shane? His face is right there, his breath hot against Shane’s gland. God, he’d mate him. He’d get fucked every day like this. Skate to the visitor’s bench next game and sit on his cock until his next shift.
Shane doesn’t know how much longer it took for Rozanov’s knot to fully deflate, or for the cum to spill out of him with Rozanov’s cock. He just knew that Rozanov stood up on shaking legs and tried to leave. Didn’t he know that Shane already caught him once?
He makes it three steps before Shane has him pressed face first to a tree by the nape of his neck.
“You need to fuck an omega, Hollander,” Rozanov says, but that’s not what he smells like. He smells like he wants to fuck again, and he smells like Shane’s.
“I want to fuck you.”
The cum drips down Shane’s thighs, and Shane watches Rozanov’s nose flare. He smells like Rozanov’s too.
Shane bit him, Rozanov is his. That’s how it works. This run is for breeding, not mating, but they didn’t put bite guards on alpha necks and Shane bit him. He’s his.
“Shane,” Rozanov tries again, but it has the opposite effect because that’s his name.
“You’re mine, Ilya,” he says against his bite, and Ilya’s knees give out.
Shane catches him against the tree with his hips, his cock against Ilya’s cheek. His precum spits by his eye like a tear, and that’s interesting. He pushes down on it until his dickhead distorts Ilya’s lips. Shane’s always liked blow jobs best, but he doesn’t think he’ll close his eyes for this one. Not when Ilya’s curls are a mess and his mouth is so fucking sexy.
“Turn around,” Shane gasps out. He wants to see Ilya’s mouth stretched around him, he wants to feel his tongue at his balls.
“You trying to make me quiet, Alpha?” Ilya asks.
“Why would I fuck an omega when I can fuck your mouth,” Shane says, and Ilya’s eyes screw shut.
“Fuck. Okay.”
Ilya turns around, dropping fully to his knees, and takes Shane’s dick in his mouth without any preamble. He doesn’t use his hands. He’s, like, taking it deep and Shane’s dick head bumps the back of his throat. He doesn’t even gag, so Shane gives an experimental thrust.
He’s used to this, Shane realizes. He relaxes his jaw automatically and guides Shane’s pace with a hand at his ass like he’s taken alpha cocks all his life. Or maybe he’s just perfect for Shane’s cock, because if Ilya’s learned on anyone else Shane would cut their fucking dick off.
“Oh fuck, Ilya,” he moans, his forearms braced against the tree trunk because he can’t hold himself up when confronted with this—this fucking sexy alpha. He’s gonna cum. He’s barely started but his balls are drawing up and his knot catches Ilya’s lips and oh fuck Ilya’s going to take it in his mouth, but he can’t. Not this time.
Ilya isn’t going to fuck anyone else without them knowing Shane owns him. The orgasm rips out of him and he’s shaking with it as he cums on Ilya’s face, his neck, over the bite Shane left at his neck. It’s thick, not watery and thin like it’s the second of an alpha’s rut cum. He doesn’t know how he has that much left in him at all, but he rubs it against Ilya’s lips, down his jaw and over the bite.
He’s barely caught his breath before Ilya’s pushing him flat on his ass again and spreading his legs. He fucks into Shane using his own cum as lube and it’s brutal, it’s fast. Shane feels like he’s dying, he’s dead and going to heaven. He already came and it’s so much, too much to feel Ilya at this pace, but the soreness is good, like bonus reps, like a penalty kill on an overtime shift. His eyes prickle with it, but it won’t be too much longer til Shane’s hard again.
“Da, like that, Shane,” Ilya says into his neck among all the Russian Shane can’t understand. “You are so good for me, so perfect, such a perfect fucking alpha for me.”
And Shane clenches his eyes so tightly because he can’t let out any of the tears. He’s fucked girls—omegas—but it’s never been like this. He’s never wanted to get it perfect, never wanted to practice like he practiced his edges over and over until his ankles throbbed and the zamboni guy kicked him off the ice to resurface for the beer league game. It’s not fair to get this and never get it again. Why couldn’t Shane just find an omega to like like this?
Ilya’s teeth sink into him and it’s like holding onto a live wire. Ilya grabs his hair and gasps into it, and Shane doesn’t know what noise is coming out of his mouth. For a moment it feels like he’s outside of himself, in a different time and a different moment, and then it snaps back and it’s Ilya’s heartbeat he’s hearing in his ears. He’s Ilya’s alpha hole, he’s Ilya’s alpha dick, and he’s Ilya’s mate.
Ilya knots him again, and Shane sobs with it.
Fuck.
He’s such a fucked up alpha. Shane’s not supposed to feel so fulfilled with a knot in his ass and teeth at his neck, but he does. Oh God, he does. The cameras are going to see his satisfied fucking face and think, ’Yeah, that Shane Hollander is as much a bitch as we thought he was.’ She isn’t going to watch it, but others will and just what is he supposed to tell his mom?
Ilya noses at his jaw, and it’s hard to let the panic grab hold of him when Ilya’s flooding their bond with cozy ‘I’m coming’ feelings. He’s supposed to feel bad about that too, probably. Like, he bit an alpha. He fucked an alpha.
He wants to do it again.
And he does—they do it again. Once with Ilya’s cock down his throat as he chokes on alpha cum for the first time. Another with Shane’s dick between Ilya’s legs as he knots between his thighs and drops a load on the back of Ilya’s balls. And again with Ilya on his back and his knot in Shane’s ass as Shane rides them to completion.
They don’t fuck any omegas and Shane doesn’t know if any of them came to them during their rutting fuckfest either. It’s just the two of them under the stars fucking each other to exhaustion.
Later, when their rut breaks with dawn, Ilya’s still inside him with an arm around Shane’s shoulders, holding him against his chest in his sleep. They still smell of sex and rut, but there’s something gentle over it too—their bond, however it’s supposed to be when two alphas make one. He thought maybe an alpha bond was supposed to be something violent, something as fuck-or-fight as alphas themselves, but mostly it just feels soft, like his dad carding his fingers through his hair when he was young and ill.
A drone flies overhead for the closing shot of the grounds and any couples they can find still fucking, and Shane sighs. That’s it. It’s done. Shane’s first breeding chase is over, and he’s sired no children and mated another alpha—no, his fucking rival alpha. The media definitely isn’t going to be able to mention either of their names without the other attached, that’s for fucking sure.
They’re supposed to find their way back to the organizers for robes and breakfast and to register anyone they remember tying with the league, but for now, Shane rolls over and kisses his mate awake.