it's rotten work

Anyway this is all to say do we think that Ilya ever during those two weeks of summer-tinged emotional catharsis and sexual bliss puts Shane on the couch at the cottage and loves on him and then comes on his chest and stomach and then yanks his hair back and snarles into Shane's still-open mouth "You aren't allowed to fucking move until I tell you," and then leaves Shane there while the sun goes down and then when he comes back he stands in front of Shane in the dark for a very long time and finally says, "On your knees," and Shane hits his knees before the words are even fully out of Ilya's mouth and Ilya presses his thumb into the flaky-dried cum on Shane's chest and says, "You can speak," and Shane babbles out sorry after sorry as he kisses Ilya's stomach and thighs and hips and cock and Ilya just. Fucking takes him apart. Then afterward Ilya spoons up behind Shane's still-quivering body on the carpet and presses the softest kisses there and says, "Do not ever run away from our bed again."

"It was a couch." Pedantry is in Shane's fucking bones, apparently.

And Ilya bites and says, "Our bed is wherever I kiss you or fuck you or hit you or make you cry. If you are scared or mad or sad you tell me and I will stay with you in our bed until I make it better. We don't leave our bed until we can leave it together."

"I'm sorry," Shane says again, "I shouldn't have--"

"It's over now," Ilya tells him, because it is. "You came back, didn't you? Back to our bed? Yes you did. My good boy."

- "Show it to me. I know you got hit, show me. Mm. Is very painful? Mm. You on your side tonight, I think."

- "No, my baby, you'll come to Monk's. Drink two beers, talk to people who are not me. Mm, no, not Troy either. He is basically shorter you."

- "...just a little longer, I think, and then maybe a trim, just so is not in your eyes when you skate--"

- "Ah, no, he doesn't like drinking his coffee black. Oat milk, two sugars. I know what he does but is not what he likes. What, Shane, do I lie?"

- "Give me number. Ah-ah. One higher, I think. I know you like even numbers, baby."

- "Ask nicely."

- "...and then I take you home and--fuck off, Dykstra, I am coming onto my husband. You never heard of flirting? We are in the back of bus, it was private until you came back here--"

- "Here, made you tea. Something special in it for you."

- "...lunch from that Greek place? Nice. Okay, Shane will have--"

Shane Hollander presents omega late, like 17 years old late. It's fucking traumatic for him and he isn't expecting it to happen because both of his parents are betas and betas tend to have beta kids. Shane is competing in the Major Juniors. Shane is practically being promised first draft pick in the NHL. Shane knows what his life is going to look like.

Then he's an Omega and the world fucking ends. His billet mom takes him to the emergency room in the middle of the night and a well-meaning doctor says "Nothing to worry about, you're having a heat, welcome to secondary puberty, congratulations" and Shane goes non verbal for two days.

So Shane gets to Regina knowing that this will be his last competition with Team Canada or the Major Juniors because the men's teams split after 18 and the league already isn't completely happy to have an Omega on their starting line, never mind that said omega was practically their prince three months ago, when he was a beta. The Alphas on the team are already weird about him. There's one other omega on the team, a fifteen year old kid, and that kid hates Shane's guts because--well it's because Shane is a better hockey player, to be fucking honest, and the MOHL (Male Omegas Hockey League) is already breathing down Shane's fucking neck. They have never had a generational talent like Shane Hollander in the MOHL. Shane, who more than anything in this entire goddamn life just wants to play hockey, knows what a hot commodity he is to the MOHL and knows that he will be the second coming of Christ for the league. He is also so fucking angry about it that even the mention of draft day makes him want to spit.

So that's the energy that he's coming at Rozanov with outside the rink in Regina. He says, "You're a great player to watch," and by that he means, I've spent the last year watching tape of you and now that's all fucking useless. This is the only time we'll ever compete against each other. Literally FUCK my entire life.

Shane says, "You're not supposed to smoke here," and by that he means, Why are you smoking? Do you understand that you're going to be living the life that should be mine? The one I've spent ten years preparing myself for? The one yanked away from me by fucking biology??

And Rozanov looks up from his cigarette and says, "Okay."

Shane goes red and says, "Dude, you could at least pretend like this shit matters to you. They're gonna draft you in the summer."

Rozanov shrugs. "They will draft you too, Shane Hollander."

"The NHL! The fucking NHL is going to draft you. Probably first. Fuck."

Rozanov shrugs. "Yes, probably. No reason not to. Not now."

Shane sees red. "Fuck you."

Ilya sweeps his gaze up and down Shane's body and Shane feels new parts of himself light up.

"My parents are waiting for me," Shane grounds out. "Sorry."

"Sorry for?" Rozanov says. "For being rude? Is fine. Was cute."

Shane thinks maybe he wants to gut him like a fish. Or kiss him. With a fist or otherwise. These fucking omega hormones. His mom has promised he can go on suppressants the minute he turns eighteen but until then it's literally illegal in Canada and Shane's life is suffering.

"For the fucking beating we're gonna hand you," Shane grounds out.

Rozanov shrugs. "We will see."

In the handshake line, Rozanov grabs Shane's hand too tightly and leans in too close to say, "See you at the draft," and Shane thinks No you won't because the MOHL draft is the day before the NHL draft and the NHL, hopefuls and otherwise, are not known for their attendance of Omega league events. Nevermind that they're technically supposed to. Never mind that the leagues are suppose to function as two sides of the same coin. The NHL does what the NHL wants and the MOHL does what the NHL wants too. It's always been this way.

Ilya Rozanov is not going to show up to the fucking MOHL draft. On what fucking planet would that even happen.

Shane thinks this right up until he is drafted first pick of the 2009 MOHL draft to fucking Boston, because the Raiders traded their star center to New York the previous season in exchange for first pick in both the MOHL and the NHL. This was shortly after one Shane Hollander announced his new designation.

And Ilya Rozanov is smirking down at him from a balcony while Shane holds up the jersey for the Boston Bayonets and tries to pretend that the MOHL is what he dreamed of when he was a kid.

bc while yes they r sweet and soft and tender w one another they are also boys at heart and incredibly jock4jock

they’re running down the hallway with each other in a headlock after dinner w yuna and david laughing and pushing at each other until they accidentally knock a picture off the wall and yuna has to put them in a time out