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The evening light bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the coastal mansion. Shane Hollander’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous hallway, a rhythmic sound against the distant crash of waves. He adjusted his glasses, brushed invisible dust from his immaculate suit. He was a man carved from order, from duty. And every evening, that order walked into its own private chaos.
The scent hit him first, even before he pushed open the heavy door to their shared wing. Not their wing, he corrected himself. His wing, which Ilya Rozanov had invaded. Dark chocolate, rich and decadent, undercut by the sharp, clean bite of peppermint. It was an obnoxious scent, too bold, too sweet, too present. It didn’t know its place.
The kitchen was, as expected, a mess. Bowls littered the granite island, splatters of something green and viscous adorned the backsplash and a high-powered blender stood humming ominously like a trapped insect. And in the center of it all, him.
Ilya Rozanov. Twenty-one years old and built like someone forgot to tell him to stop growing. His dark hair was a riot of curls, sticking up in places as if he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His low-slung sweatpants hung precariously on his hips, exposing a sharp V of muscle leading beneath the fabric. His shirt–Shane’s shirt, he noted with a flicker of irritation–was unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a constellation of moles scattered across his toned chest and stomach. He was all lean, youthful muscle and sun-kissed skin, a raw, vibrant life force in Shane’s sterile world.
Ilya turned, his face lighting up with a smile so bright it was physically jarring. “Welcome back, alpha! I perfected this smoothie recipe you like but it tasted like grass so I added some dark chocolate–”
Shane didn’t break stride. He moved past the island, past the grinning, half-naked boy, as if he were a piece of furniture. A particularly loud, fragrant and irritating piece of furniture. He headed straight for the stairs, ignoring the way Ilya’s scent seemed to follow him, clinging to the back of his throat.
One month.
One month since the treaty, older than both of them, had snapped shut around his neck. A desperate band-aid slapped on two kingdoms bleeding out from a decades-long war. Coastline versus mountains. Trade versus arms. The solution: marry the eldest alpha child of the coast to the eldest omega child of the mountains. Simple. Political.
Shane Hollander was his parents' only child, their only alpha. He’d known his duty since he understood words. His bride was supposed to be Carina Rozanov, second youngest child of Grigori Rozanov’s total four children, an omega five years his junior. He’d met her once. Quiet. Pretty. It meant nothing. The marriage was a document, a signature to end a war. He’d show up, say the words and go back to running his family’s affairs.
He’d stood at the altar, bored, waiting. The music swelled. The doors burst open. But it wasn't Carina who ran in, breathless and wild-eyed.
It was her younger brother.
His sister was gone. Vanished. Their father was turning the mountains inside out looking for her, he said. Shane had almost laughed. A cheap, obvious trick to break the treaty. He’d opened his mouth to declare the whole farce over.
Then the boy–Ilya–had stepped forward, right beside him. He was tall, taller than Shane, he had noted.
"I'll take my sister's place," he'd said, voice steady, like he was offering to fetch a coat not become another alpha's wife.
Shane’s parents had protested. An alpha-alpha marriage was… unheard of.
But Shane was just tired. Tired of the negotiations, the posturing, the weight of it all. Fine. Let it be the alpha. At least he wouldn’t have to pretend to desire some delicate omega. At least they could annul it quickly, citing obvious incompatibility.
So, at twenty-eight, the feared Alpha Shane Hollander married Ilya Rozanov.
The brat had started whining before the reception ended.
“It’s rude to ignore your husband!”
Shane paused on the stairs, not turning around. He could hear Ilya’s bare feet padding on the floor behind him. "Put on a proper shirt," Shane said, his voice flat.
He remembered Ilya’s endless chatter about the coastal heat, his joy at shedding his mountain furs. Shane hadn’t realized it meant a permanent state of near-nudity and this relentless, unmasked scent that clung to everything.
“Aww, is my husband worrying about me?” Ilya’s ability to twist Shane’s ice into something warm and playful was infuriating.
Shane didn't dignify it with a response. He went into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly. The routine was set: Ilya would knock in an hour, babbling about some new dish, begging Shane to come taste it. Shane would ignore him. Then, late at night, stomach growling, Shane would go down and reheat whatever concoction was left. He hated waste. That was all.
But the knock never came.
An hour ticked by then two. The silence from the rest of the wing was unnerving. No clattering pans, no off-key humming, no frustrated shouts at a recipe gone wrong. Shane stood up from his desk, frowning. He unlocked his door, intending to maybe just check if the idiot had finally poisoned himself.
The door didn't get a chance to open. It was shoved inward by a heavy, sweating weight that slammed into him.
If Shane hadn't been an alpha, the impact would have taken him to the ground. As it was, he staggered back, his arms automatically coming up to catch the body plastered against him. Heat radiated through his clothes. And the scent–God, the scent–was overwhelming. Dark chocolate and peppermint, but now it was raw, potent, mixed with the salty tang of sweat and something deeply, fundamentally animal.
“Alpha~”
The voice was a wrecked, wet thing, breathed directly into the hollow of his throat. Shane’s body locked. Every sense was suddenly, violently full of Ilya. The scent wasn’t just in the air now, it was a thick syrup in his lungs–dark chocolate turned molten and urgent, peppermint sharp enough to make his eyes water. It was pheromones, pure and uncut, screaming rut.
“You brat, did you forget your suppressants?” Shane snarled, his own voice rough. He tried to shove the clinging form away but Ilya barely budged, all desperate strength and boneless need. His skin was fever-hot under Shane’s palms.
Ilya shook his head, nuzzling deeper, his lips a searing brand against Shane’s pulse point. A low whine vibrated through Ilya’s chest into Shane’s. “Need alpha,” he slurred, his hands roaming shamelessly over Shane’s back, down to his ass.
Disgust–or something that he insisted was disgust–flared hot in Shane’s gut. “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Get off me.”
“Need alpha,” Ilya repeated. He rutted forward, and the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection ground against Shane’s hip. The friction sent a jolt through Shane’s spine, a traitorous spark he immediately tried to smother.
Shane’s hand fisted in the damp curls at Ilya’s nape and yanked, pulling his head back with a force that should have hurt. It did. Ilya gasped, but his eyes… his eyes were glazed, pupils blown so wide the blue was just a thin ring around black. They were hazy, dark, swimming with a feral hunger that made Shane’s throat go dry. He was panting, his own breath coming quicker now.
“You did this,” Ilya moaned, the accusation slurred with lust. He surged forward again, his mouth finding Shane’s chest through his cotton shirt, sucking and mouthing at the fabric until it was soaked, the sensation of hot, wet pressure on his nipple making Shane’s breath hitch.
“I did this?!” Shane almost shouted, the absurdity cutting through the fog of pheromones. The feel of Ilya’s mouth on him, even through layers, sent a shock of something hot and shameful straight to his cock. “Whatever. I’ll get an omega. Do whatever the fuck you want with them.”
A violent shake of Ilya’s head. He looked up, cheeks flushed a deep, blotchy red, lips swollen. He looked utterly gone, wrecked, and something about his complete, single-minded focus on Shane was terrifying.
And intoxicating.
“Need my husband.”
“I’m not an omega.” Shane’s protest was weaker now, his body thrumming with the conflict.
"So what?" Ilya breathed, and his expression shifted. The puppyish need sharpened into something predatory, possessive. The change was so sudden it stole the air from Shane’s lungs. "I'll fuck you like one."
Something in Shane snapped. With a rough noise torn from his chest, he hauled Ilya up by the hair and crushed their mouths together.
Messy, desperate, and wet. Ilya made a shocked, happy sound against his lips and immediately surrendered, letting Shane control the angle, the depth. His mouth was hot and open, tasting like mint and something uniquely Ilya. He clung to Shane, big hands gripping his shoulders like he was drowning, moaning softly as Shane licked into his mouth.
Shane walked him backward, not breaking the kiss, until the backs of Ilya’s knees hit the edge of the large bed.
Ilya fell onto the mattress with a soft oomph, looking up at Shane with blown pupils and spit-slick lips. Shane climbed over him, straddling his lap, feeling the solid heat of Ilya’s cock trapped between them, pressed against his own through their clothes and he had to bite back a groan.
“I can’t take an alpha cock, Ilya,” Shane stated, his voice flat, even as he ground down, seeking the friction.
Ilya whined, a high, needy sound. His blush deepened, spreading down his neck to his chest. “Husband can do anything,” he pleaded, his hands coming up to clutch at Shane’s hips. “Please.”
Shane looked down at him. The whimpery, blushy need was so at odds with the raw, alpha power thrumming under Ilya’s skin. It was absurd. It was amusing. It was making Shane’s blood sing.
“You’re such a slut,” Shane said, soft and mean, as he reached between them.
He made quick work of his own sleep pants, pushing them down just enough to free his erection. It was thick and heavy, already leaking. Ilya’s breath hitched at the sight. Shane then yanked Ilya’s sweatpants and boxers down in one rough pull. Ilya’s cock sprang free and Shane’s mouth actually went dry.
It was huge. Thick, veined, ruddy with blood, the head already glistening with pre-come. There was no way. No logical, physical way.
“Need your hole, alpha,” Ilya panted, his hips bucking up, his cock slapping against Shane’s thigh.
“Such a brat,” Shane tsked, but his own hands were moving, wrapping them both around their cocks. The difference was staggering, the sheer girth of Ilya’s cock sent a thrill of fear and excitement down his spine. He started to move his hands, a rough, dry glide, their cocks sliding together in the tight tunnel of his grip.
Ilya cried out, back arching. "Need… need to be inside," he panted, words slurring. "Need to cum in my alpha."
Shane’s rhythm faltered for a second. He held their cocks in one hand, barely fitting them both. With his other, he pushed his own pants down further and spat roughly into his palm before reaching between his cheeks. The first touch of his own fingers against his hole was weird. He pressed against the tight ring of muscle, jaw clenched. It gave a little under the pressure, a strange, intimate ache. He kept jerking them off with his other hand, the slick sounds filling the room.
When Ilya’s hand sneaked down, trying to find Shane’s entrance, Shane moved fast. His hand left their cocks and shot out, wrapped around Ilya’s throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his air for a second.
Ilya’s eyes flew open, wide and startled.
“Behave,” Shane growled, low and dangerous. “Be good, or I’ll leave you like this, hard and desperate.”
A tear escaped the corner of Ilya’s eye, tracing a path through the flush on his temple. The sight of it–the powerful, rut-mad alpha crying from being denied–lit a fire in Shane’s gut. It was so fucking hot.
He worked his own hole with one finger, stretching himself roughly, pain sparking through the numbness. He resumed stroking them both, their pre-cum making the glide easier. Ilya was babbling, begging, his hips stuttering.
"Gonna… alpha, I'm gonna–" Ilya choked out.
As Ilya’s body tensed, Shane positioned himself. He lifted up and, in one rough movement, sank down onto just the swollen head of Ilya’s cock.
The burn was instant and brutal. Shane gasped, a sharp sound of pain tearing from his throat. It was too much, too thick, stretching him in a way that felt wrong and shocking. Below him, Ilya roared, a raw alpha sound that shook the room. His hands flew to Shane’s hips, digging in hard enough to bruise as his cock pulsed violently, pumping hot jets of cum into that tight, clenching heat.
Shane whimpered, feeling the strange, invasive fullness as Ilya emptied into him. When the pulses subsided, Shane lifted himself off with a wince, the head of Ilya’s cock popping free. A trickle of warm cum followed.
"Right," Shane said, voice unsteady. "I'll… arrange for an omega."
He moved to get off the bed but a hand clamped around his waist. Shane looked down, ready to snarl, but the words died in his throat. Ilya was staring at Shane’s stomach, his eyes dark and focused. His free hand came up and rubbed over Shane’s lower abs, right below his navel. The touch was possessive, wondering.
“Need to knock my alpha up,” Ilya whispered, the words a dark, fervent promise.
Before Shane could process the insanity, Ilya moved. He surged up, flipping them with an easy, rut-fueled strength that stole Shane’s breath. In an instant, Shane was on his back, pinned, with Ilya looming over him, his eyes no longer hazy but sharp with a single-minded, feral intent.
“Ilya–!” Shane’s protest was cut off as Ilya ducked his head and latched his mouth onto Shane’s nipple through the wet cotton of his ruined shirt. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing the pebbled nub, his teeth grazing it. Shane arched off the bed with a choked gasp, pleasure spearing through him, bright and shocking. Ilya’s other hand was between Shane’s legs, rubbing over his hole, which was still pulsing and leaking Ilya’s cum.
Shane hated this. Hated being pinned, being treated like an omega whore, being bred. What he hated more was the violent, enthusiastic twitch of his own cock against his stomach, the way his hips pushed up into Ilya’s hand.
“Gonna get you pregnant,” Ilya mumbled against his chest, switching to the other nipple, biting it gently before soothing with his tongue. “Make you swell. Gonna be so full of me.”
"You idiot," Shane gasped, tangling a hand in Ilya’s hair, not sure if he was pulling him closer or pushing him away. "I can't get pregnant. I’m an alpha, I don't have a womb.
Ilya went utterly still. He lifted his head slowly. The look in his eyes was a dark, terrifying resolve. He leaned down until his lips were brushing Shane’s ear, his voice a low, gravelly promise. “Then I’ll rearrange your organs. Make a place for it inside my alpha.”
Shane’s hand flew up to hit him but Ilya caught his wrist effortlessly, pinning it to the bed above his head.
“Don’t,” Shane snarled but the fight was leaching out of him, replaced by a throbbing, deep-seated need.
Ilya didn’t answer with words. He answered by spitting directly onto Shane’s tight, wet hole, then pressing two fingers inside without preamble.
Shane cried out, his back bowing. It was too much, too soon, but Ilya’s fingers were relentless, scissoring, stretching, preparing him with a crude, animalistic efficiency. All the while, Ilya’s mouth was back on his nipples, sucking and biting until they were swollen, hyper-sensitive peaks, throbbing with every beat of Shane’s heart.
"Alpha… does it feel good?" Ilya panted, adding a third finger. The burn was intense. "Tell me… tell me if you like it."
Shane’s head thrashed on the pillows. He was overwhelmed, filled, owned in a way that should have enraged him. Instead, a strange, powerful desire settled over him. He looked down at Ilya’s desperate, hungry face, at the drool slicking his own chest. He brought his free hand up and pushed two fingers into Ilya’s open, panting mouth.
"You want to put a baby in me?" Shane rasped. "Then you better fuck me good enough to make one happen."
That was all it took.
Ilya’s eyes glazed over completely, the last vestige of human thought vanishing into pure alpha instinct. He withdrew his fingers, lined up his cock–still hard, still massive–and pushed.
The stretch was beyond anything Shane had imagined. It was a burning, tearing fullness that stole the air from his lungs. Ilya was slow but he wasn’t gentle. Shane shouted as the thick length forced its way inside, past the initial impossible tightness, deeper than anything had ever been. The feeling of being filled, impaled, was overwhelming. Ilya drooled onto his chest as he sank in to the hilt with a grunt.
“So tight,” Ilya moaned, already pulling back and thrusting in again, setting a rhythm. “You like it, alpha? Like being fucked like an omega? Gonna give you a womb… gonna fill it… make your tits give milk…”
Shane could only moan, a continuous stream of broken sounds. He looked down, between their heaving bodies, and his vision swam.
There was a bulge. A distinct, moving swell in his normally flat, hard abdomen. With every deep, punishing thrust from Ilya, it rippled. Shane could see the outline of Ilya’s cock inside him, rearranging him, claiming space that wasn’t meant to be claimed. Shame and a dark, perverse pride warred within him.
“Too… too deep,” Shane gasped, the words torn from him. He could feel it, the pressure against something deep inside, the sense of his own organs being shoved aside to make room for the thick alpha cock splitting him open. Shame burned through him, hotter than any pleasure, because he loved it. He loved the helplessness, the fullness, the crude, animalistic claiming.
Ilya started crying then, hot tears mixing with the sweat on Shane’s neck.
“Please,” he sobbed, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. “Please, alpha, carry my baby… please let me cum… need to put a pup in you…”
The raw need in his voice, the feral desire mixed with vulnerable tears, was Shane’s undoing. He tangled his hand in Ilya’s damp curls and yanked his head back, forcing him to meet his eyes. Shane’s own vision was blurred with pleasure.
“Do you deserve it?” Shane rasped, squeezing around Ilya’s cock, milking a broken whimper from him. “Do you deserve to fill your alpha with your seed?”
“Yes! Yes, I’ll fuck you so good… cum so much… be a good husband…” Ilya babbled, his hips stuttering.
A laugh, dark and amused, bubbled out of Shane even as a particularly deep thrust punched a moan from his lungs. He pulled Ilya down into a rough, biting kiss, tasting blood–his or Ilya’s, he didn’t know. He licked it from Ilya’s lip, smirking at the dazed, wrecked look he received.
“Then do it,” Shane commanded, his voice dropping to a growl. “Fill me.”
It was all the permission Ilya needed. With a broken shout, he slammed in one last time, burying himself to the root. Shane felt the hot flood much deeper this time, painting his insides, and the sensation tipped him over the edge. He gripped his own cock and came with a shout, stripes of white shooting over his chest and stomach, so much it looked like he was pissing it out.
They collapsed together in a sweaty heap. Shane thought it was over. He was sore, impossibly full, cum leaking out of him around Ilya’s softening cock.
Then he felt it–a swelling at the base of Ilya’s cock still buried inside him.
His eyes flew open in alarm.
"Pull out," he growled, trying to shove at Ilya’s shoulders. “Ilya, pull out, you bastard!”
But Ilya shook his head, a stubborn, puppyish gesture even in the midst of his rutting madness. He wrapped his arms around Shane, holding him down, burying his face in Shane’s neck as his knot locked them together.
"Can't," he whimpered as Shane felt the hot, pulsing jets of cum flooding him, more than he thought possible, wave after wave until his stomach cramped with the pressure of it.
"You're dead after this," Shane moaned, but there was no real heat in it.
As the pulses slowed, Shane lay there, panting, impaled and overflowing. Ilya nuzzled his neck, licking and sucking at the skin there, a soft, appeasing contrast to the violent joining of their bodies. Shane hated how his anger melted under the sheer physical reality of being knotted and the clingy, desperate affection Ilya was showing even in his feral state. For all of Ilya’s faults… Shane had allowed this. Had even encouraged it.
“You moaned so much,” Ilya whispered hoarsely in his ear as they lay locked together. “Maybe you were born to take an alpha cock.”
Shane clenched his internal muscles around the swollen knot still lodged inside him. Ilya whimpered, his whole body flinching. “Sorry, alpha,” he mumbled, placating.
When the knot finally went down and Ilya slipped out with a wet sound, Shane winced. He could feel it–the sheer volume Ilya had pumped into him. He looked down again. His abs were gone, replaced by a soft, rounded swell that looked obscenely full. Ilya followed his gaze and moaned at the sight and leaned down, licking a stripe from Shane’s pubic bone up to his navel.
"Disgusting," Shane muttered breathlessly.
"You're mean," Ilya mumbled against his skin before licking again.
Shane gasped when Ilya pressed his tongue hard just below his navel. The pressure forced a thick gush of cum to spill out of his used hole onto the sheets.
Ilya made a sound of discontent. He pulled his fingers free from where they were gripping Shane’s hip and before Shane could stop him, pushed two fingers back into Shane’s leaking hole, plugging it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane snapped, though the effort was weak. He was exhausted, bloated, sore in places he didn’t know could be sore.
“Keeping it in,” Ilya murmured, as if it were obvious. “For the baby.”
Shane could only close his eyes, letting the absurdity wash over him.
For days, it continued.
Ilya’s rut was a relentless tide. He used Shane’s body with a single-minded focus, bending him over the couch, pressing him against the cold glass of the window overlooking the sea, taking him on his knees on the plush rug. He was obsessed with Shane’s nipples, licking and biting and sucking until they were permanently peaked, flushed a dark rosy brown and so sensitive that the brush of satin sheets made him shudder. He fucked into Shane with a rough, desperate rhythm, his hands always roaming Shane’s belly, marveling at the way it rounded and tightened with his thrusts.
Shane’s hole, used relentlessly, grew loose, puffy and sore. It gaped open all the time and Shane could barely clench. He had a fleeting thought if it would ever close or his young husband had forever ruined his body. His own big cock, neglected and ignored, would spurt uselessly across his stomach or the sheets whenever Ilya hit his prostate just right, adding to the mess.
On the fourth day, as the first light of dawn filtered through the windows, Ilya finally stilled. He was buried deep inside Shane, who was sprawled on his stomach, too exhausted to move. The frantic energy had left Ilya’s body; his movements were slow, sated. He nuzzled the back of Shane’s neck, his smile audible in his voice.
“Gonna have a baby,” he whispered, bright and happy. He sounded so fucking cute, like he hadn’t spent days rearranging Shane’s insides and using him like a cocksleeve.
Shane reached a tired hand back and pinched the soft skin of Ilya’s side, hard. Ilya yelped.
“If you don’t clean me up,” Shane mumbled into the pillow, his voice hoarse from screaming, “I’m throwing you out to sleep in the garden.”
Ilya just nuzzled closer, his softening cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound, followed by a slow, steady trickle of days worth of cum. Shane winced at the feeling of emptiness, of being so thoroughly used and emptied.
But then Ilya was moving, gentle now, fetching a warm, wet cloth. He cleaned Shane with a tenderness that was at odds with the previous days’ ferocity, wiping away the sweat and cum, carefully dabbing at his sore, stretched hole. He ran a bath, helped Shane into it and knelt beside the tub, washing his hair with a quiet focus.
As the warm water soothed his aching muscles, Shane watched Ilya’s bowed head, the careful way his hands moved. The treaty, the war, the duty… it all felt distant, muted. This messy, infuriating, overwhelming boy with his baby fever and his ridiculous scent had, in four days, carved a space inside Shane that felt more permanent than any political alliance.
Shane sank deeper into the water, a faint, unwilling smirk touching his lips. Maybe this marriage wouldn’t end anytime soon.
And he found, to his own deep, secret amusement, that he didn’t hate that thought at all.