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The locker room smells like sweat and rubber and ice. It always smells like some varying combination of the three, depending on whether it’s a game day or just practice. It’s been worse than usual, however.
The Raiders are in the playoffs, and something just isn’t clicking. Maybe it’s the stress, or maybe someone put a fucking curse on them, but passes just aren’t connecting, and line changes chafe instead of gliding. It’s not fucking acceptable, and after two losses against the Admirals– one, humiliatingly, on home ice– both Coach LeClaire and Captain Ilya Rozanov know something needs to change.
Shane sits on a bench in the Raiders locker room, Ilya Rozanov standing behind him. The Raiders are in their game day suits– they had a media scrum today, and Rozanov asked everyone available to stick around for an hour or two afterwards for a special NHL-sponsored teambuilding session.
The room is filled with the scent of frustrated alphas, stress and tension nearing its boiling point. It would be overwhelming if Shane weren’t used to it. It’s his job, after all, to settle those nerves.
When the last of the Raiders files into the room, Rozanov claps his hands. The room quiets instantly.
“Our performance recently has been– lacking,” he sneers. It’s the kindest word he could’ve chosen, and it still grates on the team’s nerves. “Coach LeClaire and I have worked with the NHL to remedy this.”
He puts a hand on Shane’s shoulder.
“This is Shane Hollander. He works for the NHL’s Department of Player Safety. He’s agreed, with permission from the NHL, to assist us with our– issues.” The hand grows heavier. “Shane’s worked with several playoff teams in the past, and his success rate has been astronomically high. He’s the best in the department. You will treat him well.”
Rozanov steps back, and Shane stands up. “As you heard from your Captain, I’ll be helping you all today. Does anyone have any concerns before we start?”
No one speaks. All of them look fucking shell-shocked, actually, and yeah, that’s fair. This isn’t a highly advertised service the NHL provides– for the most part, it remains a widespread, unconfirmed rumor.
The Omegas in the Department of Player Safety, loaned out to teams in need to boost morale and team cohesion. Shane stumbled into it by accident and stayed once he realized the potential. His potential.
Shane smiles. The Raiders remain mute.
“I think your men need a helping hand, Captain.”
“They need many helping hands. This is why you are here, yes?” He reaches out and pulls Shane back against his broad chest, tilts his head up with a firm hand, and presses a kiss to his mouth.
Shane moans into the kiss, licking at his lips and smiling as Rozanov opens his mouth. He licks into his mouth, one hand cradling Rozanov’s jaw in return and the other reaching down to untie his shirt.
He chose an outfit specifically for ease of removal today, and the fabric comes loose without much hassle. There’s not really a mandatory work uniform, just whatever the omega feels most comfortable in, but there is a mandatory collar. These sessions have been known to provoke intense feelings in alphas, and the NHL doesn’t really want to take responsibility for an accidental mating. So: a mandatory black leather collar, made of industrial-grade materials, and unbreakable in case of an accidental bite.
His shirt slides down his torso and puddles on the ground. Shane breaks the kiss to lean down and fold it, removing his slacks on the way. Both items of clothing are handed to Rozanov, who tucks them into his locker before turning back.
Shane, completely nude bar the collar, stands before him with a small smile. “Come on, Captain,” he teases. Rozanov barks out a laugh and moves Shane to perch on the locker room bench. Shane takes it one step further, shuffling forward so he has enough room to present properly, chest down and ass up.
Someone in the room gasps.
“Good omega,” Rozanov purrs. The words, the exposure– both of them send shivers down Shane’s spine.
He’s been wet and leaking since he entered the room. He’s been looking forward to this since he got the request, since he saw the email from Ilya G. Rozanov, Boston Raiders, Captain, signed neatly at the bottom.
He reaches between his legs and uses two fingers to spread his pussy.
He’s red and wet, hair neatly trimmed. He knows he looks good, and satisfaction spreads through his chest at Rozanov’s appreciative moan. Two rough fingers pet gently against his folds and come back shiny with slick.
“You prepared well.”
“I’m a professional. Of course I did.”
Rozanov grunts. Shane can hear him unzipping his slacks, loud in the otherwise silent locker room, and he only gets a moment’s preparation before the head of Rozanov’s cock presses into his entrance.
Shane moans. Rozanov is so fucking big– not the biggest thing he’s ever taken, that pleasure goes to his custom dildo, but it’s close. It’s up there, and the stretch is so, so good.
He sinks in slowly, reveling in the wet sounds of his pussy coupled with the shocked sounds of the other Raiders, and moans happily when Rozanov bottoms out, hips flush to Shane’s ass.
“Mmmmm,” he breathes, rolling his hips back. “Yeah, there we go. Does that feel good, Cap?”
Rozanov laughs. “You know it does, Hollander. Don’t fish for compliments.” He’s still for another moment– two– before he starts to move.
The friction is immediately so, so good. Shane’s eyes close, and his mouth opens in a silent moan. One hand comes to grip his hip, and the other goes up to his neck, firm around the leather collar. It still feels fucking amazing, and Shane can’t help but push back onto his cock.
His pace increases gradually, a lazy rock to a steady thrust, deep and firm. The pressure is so, so good, moving him back and forth on the bench like he’s nothing but a fuck doll. He’s dripping wet, now, slick sliding down his thighs and dropping onto the bench. He can’t help but raise a hand to touch his clit, crying a little at the sensation.
“Holy shit, Rozy,” someone gasps. Shane doesn’t know who. He doesn’t care who. All he can think about is the way Rozanov is filling him up, pressure pressure pressure lighting him up all the way through his spine. The hand on his clit speeds up, flicking and tugging and rubbing, and he shudders with it.
“хороший мальчик, Hollander,” Rozanov croons, pressing the hand on his neck down harder. “Taking me so well, what a good fucking boy, you wanna show off? Wanna show them how good you are at taking cock? Wanna show them how perfect you are for it? How wet you are for me?”
He knows his knuckles have to be white from how hard he’s gripping the bench, knows how red and puffy and sore and used his cunt is going to be after- after everyone-
“Yes, yes, please,” he whines, and someone else curses. Rozanov hoists him up, the hand around his throat wrapping around into a chokehold, and suddenly he’s gone from being bent over the bench to kneeling on it, puffy nipples bared, Rozanov’s cock in his pussy and arm around his throat. His other hand comes around to twist at his nipples, pulling and scratching cruelly, and Shane wails, shaking.
Through the haze of his tears, he can see the other Raiders stripping off their clothes, stroking themselves to the sound of Shane’s hiccuping tears and the slow, filthy sound of Rozanov rocking his cock in and out of Shane’s pussy.
Slick and precum trail down his thighs. He loves this, he loves it, he loves being on display- he’s a professional for a reason, the most highly requested omega in the NHL. Not everyone can take on entire teams, especially those with primarily alphas like the Raiders- it makes something in Shane swell with pride that he’s the best there is at even this.
Slowly, with one shaking hand, he reaches down and spreads his folds, baring the place where Rozanov stretches him to the rest of the locker room. He knows it has to be obscene, the stretch, the way Rozanov keeps rocking into him and the way slick keeps leaking out around him. His other hand comes to rest just barely over his clit, fingers brushing the sensitive nub with each gentle rocking thrust. He tips his head back, mouthing at Rozanov’s ear, and moaning his approval when Rozanov starts sucking hickeys above the collar. The hand not around his throat comes to pet roughly at the stretched, reddened skin around his hole, feeling the place where he and Shane are connected. Shane can barely breathe through the stimulation.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” someone breathes.
Shane can feel Rozanov smirking against his jaw.
“Well?” he says. “He is the best the NHL has to offer- it would be a waste,” he grins, “if we leave him unsatisfied.”
The heat in the locker room spikes, rolling waves of different scents filling the room, and Shane feels himself clench around Rozanov’s cock at the heady mix of arousal.
No one moves, despite the way they all clearly want to. Shane watches them even though he’s partially hidden in Rozanov’s hair.
It’s not uncommon for a team’s first time to be stilted and awkward despite being incredibly horny, especially with a team as stressed as they are. It doesn’t matter- this isn’t Shane’s first time with a team like this, and he’s a professional for a reason.
He unlatches his teeth from Rozanov’s ear and presses his lips to it instead.
“You might need to give them a demonstration on how to fuck me, Captain,” he breathes, just loud enough to ensure the rest of the room can hear. “Not everyone can fuck me to tears like you. They might be feeling nervous.”
Rozanov laughs. The rough sound of it rumbles through Shane’s chest, pressed tightly as he is, and the movement jostles his cock inside of Shane, making him moan again.
“See?” he moans, “just like that. Just like- oh, god- yes, yes, yes,” and he can’t say anything anymore as Rozanov lets go of his neck. In one smooth motion, he lifts Shane so he’s got his thick arms underneath Shane’s knees, hoisting him up and spreading him wide and open, his cock slipping out until just the head remains, and Shane’s eyes roll back as he pushes in, slow, toes curling and legs splayed.
He’s pulled back against Rozanov’s chest, hoisted completely off the ground, held up only by the corded muscle of Rozanov’s arms underneath his knees, spreading his legs obscenely wide and pulling his thighs apart to expose his swollen pussy, red and used from Rozanov’s cock.
He isn’t nearly as massive as these hockey players, but Shane isn’t a small man by any means- and by omega standards, he’s well above average in both weight and height. He takes pride in his body, and that means maintaining the defined muscles and strength he likes to see for himself.
All that to say, he hasn’t been manhandled like this in years, maybe ever- and the ease with which Rozanov lifts him just makes him clench around his cock, arousal spiking in dizzying waves.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he chants as Rozanov rocks into him, slowly at first but with devastating accuracy. The head of his cock rubs directly over his sweet spot with every thrust, waves of pleasure rolling up Shane’s spine, heat swelling in his abdomen. Rozanov isn’t quite at the right angle to push at Shane’s cervix, but he’s certainly big enough to– Shane moans at the idea of something as thick and hot as Rozanov pressing against where no one else has. His toys just don’t feel the same.
Rozanov’s thrusts speed up, sacrificing accuracy for pressure, and Shane’s eyes roll back into his head.
“Yes, just- right there-” Shane can feel his orgasm building, stoked by the massive cock splitting him open and Rozanov’s heavy breaths in his ear, the smell of his sweat, the wintergreen-snow-spice of his scent all over Shane’s body. His orgasm furls tight in his lower belly, and he realizes with shock that-
“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna- I’m-”
He’s gonna squirt.
It comes out of his pussy in gushing waves, splattering the bench he’s hoisted over and soaking Rozanov’s slacks, and he can’t hear it over the sound of his own gasping cries, the way his hands come up to tangle in Rozanov’s hair, the way his thighs are shaking. With every thrust, he squirts more, reveling in the crushing pressure of Rozanov’s cock and the rough, low moans and gasps of the Raiders watching him let loose like a fucking fountain. Their heated stares, their sounds, Rozanov’s hot breath against his temple and his big, calloused hands digging into the meat of his thighs, all of it sends him fucking soaring.
“Mnnnn,” he moans, low and throaty, and Rozanov’s cock slows from a brutal wave to a gentle tide, rocking back and forth as Shane’s orgasm peters out. Rozanov lays a kiss on his temple, and Shane purrs, reveling in the aftershocks of his orgasm, before opening his eyes again and smiling loosely at the rest of the Raiders.
“That’s how it’s done, boys,” he laughs, bringing one shaking hand to his clit to work himself through the rest of his orgasm. Rozanov slips out of him fully, now, slapping wetly against the inside of Shane’s thigh. He’s still hard, but he understands that he’ll get his turn later- this round was about making Shane cum, about making sure the team understands what’s expected of them.
This is an opportunity so few receive, after all, and it’s time for them to make the most of it.
Marleau steps forward first. He’s a good Alternate, Shane knows, balancing out Rozanov’s intensity with humor, but never undermining his authority. They work well together in games, and they’ll work well together here. Like most of the Raiders, he’s still fully dressed in his game day suit, but Shane can see the large bulge where he’s hard in his slacks, and his mouth waters.
“Go ahead, Marley,” Rozanov says. Shane can feel his smirk pressed against his temple. “The best the NHL has to offer, yes? Felt so fucking good around my cock, so tight and wet, Боже мой.”
Marleau licks his lips, almost unconsciously. Shane preens, lifting one slick-soaked hand to pat at Rozanov’s cheek. “It’ll be easier if you put me down, Cap.” Rozanov grumbles but complies, pressing one last lingering kiss to his hairline before setting him on the bench and stepping away. He can hear Rozanov lean against the lockers behind him, as if settling in for a show.
Shane flinches a little from the cold bench pressing against his bare ass, but the feeling subsides as Marleau steps between his legs and takes Shane’s face between his hands. “The boys and I really appreciate you doing this for us,” he says conversationally, as if Shane can’t smell how fucking aroused he is. Shane smiles sweetly. “You haven’t done much of anything yet, but thank you.” Someone behind Marleau lets out a peal of laughter, and Marleau huffs before leaning in to capture Shane’s mouth.
It’s a good kiss, solid and warm. He’s always liked the feeling of stubble scraping against his cheek, and Marleau’s got a good amount of it– thank god for playoff beards.
One hand stays on his cheek, and the other trails down his chest. Marleau pinches his nipple for a moment, rolls it between his fingers, and Shane moans, appreciative, into his mouth. His chest has always been sensitive, and he thinks he could probably come just from his nipples if he were worked up enough.
Marleau moves on, though, and Shane can’t be too disappointed because his fingers dip into his folds, slipping past his clit to brush against his hole. He’s still wet and open from Rozanov, so he spreads his legs a little further to show it off to the rest of the room. The heavy breaths and muted curses he gets in return are so fucking heady.
He loves being watched, loves knowing how good he looks, and loves knowing how to show it off. The sounds of the other Raiders unzipping their pants, the wet sounds of them touching themselves, all of it compounds into a dizzying mix of arousal and heat.
Marleau slips three fingers inside of Shane, and when Shane’s mouth opens into a wavering moan, Marleau moves lower to begin nipping at the line between his jaw and his neck. He sucks a hickey there while working Shane open, three fingers graduating to four, and it’s a nice feeling, if unnecessary. Rozanov’s cock stretched him wider than this, but it’s sweet of Marleau to care.
“Just a moment, Marley.”
Marleau freezes and withdraws immediately. Shane’s hips twitch involuntarily, seeking the stretch of something, and Shane blinks up at Rozanov as he maneuvers Shane into lying back on a towel laid on the bench, legs spread on either side. “This will be better, yes? Also, Marley, you should hurry the fuck up– we only have so many hours, and if everyone takes their time we will still be here while the Admirals score on empty net tomorrow.”
Marleau laughs, rolling his eyes. “Fuck you, Cap. Just making sure he’s ready.”
Shane smiles slightly. “I’m stretched, Marleau. Don’t worry about it. I’m a professional.” He stretches his legs wider, bringing down a hand to play with the slick leaking from his hole, plunging his fingers inside to stretch himself wide. He knows he looks good like this, legs up and hole empty. It makes him hot, makes his stomach squirm, knowing he’s bared like a whore for all these alphas to take. “I’m empty, Marley,” he whines.
Maybe a dirty trick, but fuck if he isn’t getting impatient. Rozanov’s cock was good– fucking amazing, even, but god, one orgasm is rarely enough for his libido to settle even if he squirts, and he’s got twenty alphas fucking salivating for him– he can smell it. The entire locker room is saturated with their lust, and Shane’s leaking for it. He pouts, just to sell the performance, and watches in real time as Marleaus’ pupils bloom before he’s scrambling over Shane, pulling his legs over his hips and pushing his cock into his pussy.
The stretch is immediate and so, so good. Shane moans happily, wrapping his legs around Marleau’s hips as Marleau pistons into Shane, each thrust knocking him further up the bench and just barely grazing his sweet spot. He loves getting fucked, loves feeling full, loves the feeling of someone moving above and behind and below him.
“I still have a mouth, you know,” he manages to get out between moans, looking over Marleau’s shoulder to the rest of his teammates. Rozanov is still leaning against the lockers behind them, but the rest of them hesitate for just a moment– Shane can feel the tension, stretching stretching stretching before it snaps and they surge forward all at once.
St-Simone, Rozanov’s other A, claims his mouth first. Shane tilts his head back to open his throat and hums happily as St-Simone slides right in, filling his throat just as full as his pussy, and burying his nose in the nest of brown curls. He smells good, musky and something like cedar.
“Holy hell, Jesus fucking Christ,” St-Simone gasps. “God, it feels like a cunt.” Shane hums a little, just to feel him double over and groan.
Marleau and St-Simone rock him back and forth like the world’s dirtiest boat ride, one person pushing forward just to sink him deep onto the other’s cock before pulling back and repeating it all over again. He can feel tears and drool running down his face, and every time St-Simone retreats, Shane takes a broken, rasping gasp before his throat is filled with cock again.
Every time Marleau pulls out, more slick spills onto his thighs and onto the towel. He’s pretty sure it’s soaked– the sound is obscene, wet squelches every time Marleau pushes in, and still he rocks his hips back and forth, taking in more, wanting it harder, and every single pant and moan Marleau makes feeds that warm feeling in his stomach more.
He’s got his eyes closed, but his eyes open just a bit as someone’s cock presses into his upper arm, precum immediately making the contact slick and warm.
He brings his hand up to tease his fingertips against the head before wrapping his fist around it, flicking his wrist back and forth, and smiling around St-Simone’s cock as the man groans. He doesn’t know who, doesn’t care who– someone else moves to his other side, and he brings his other hand up to give them the same treatment.
Shane’s in heaven, he thinks. He can tell Marleau is going to cum soon, can feel it in the way his thrusts have started becoming erratic and the way he’s panting, chin against his chest, fingers tight enough around his hips to leave bruises. He lets go of one cock to tap against St-Simone’s hip and St-Simone withdraws immediately, backing away. Shane takes a deep, shuddering breath, relishing in the way his throat aches.
“Too much?” St-Simone says, and Shane shakes his head as much as he can while being rocked by Marleau’s thrusts. “No, just– I know you’re all clean– oh, yes, Marleau, right there, fuck– so you can come inside if you’d like.” Multiple curses, multiple stares directly at his puffy, red folds, where there’s a frothy mix of Shane’s slick and Marleau’s precum bubbling out, and Shane watches with delight as Marleau starts to come, then and there, just from Shane’s words. It’s so fucking hot inside, Marleau pressed as deep as he can, and the filthy wet unfurling of his cum deep inside of Shane makes his head fall back and his mouth open in a loud, delighted moan.
“God, yes, that feels so good,” he breathes, and when Marleau withdraws, he immediately brings a hand down to spread his folds, exposing his swollen hole and the pearly white cum dripping out. The ache is immediate and immense, the empty feeling in his cunt blooming with startling intensity.
“Come on, come on, next,” He chants, and the next Raider doesn’t hesitate, slapping his cock onto Shane’s pussy twice before sliding in. Shane moans, pushing his hips back greedily against the intrusion, and laughs when the man curses throatily. His hands come to grip Shane’s waist, tight enough to leave bruises.
St-Simone pushes back into Shane’s throat, and again the rocking starts, and Shane is full, so full, and his head begins to slip into that deep, warm space. His eyes slip closed.
He’s got two cocks in his hands again, St-Simone’s in his throat and someone else’s in his pussy, shoving in with bruising force. Someone’s fingers, rough and calloused, come to rub at his clit, and the stimulation makes him jerk off the bench, crying out around St-Simone’s cock. Someone’s cock pushes into his armpit, rubbing precum into the dense hair, and he can hear the slick sounds of several people jerking off over his body. There are so many intertwining scents around him, all of them heavy and aroused and just for him, him, him.
It’s so much, it’s so good– his inner omega preens, stuffed from all ends, and it only grows from satisfaction as St-Simone presses hard into his throat and finally cums, filling his mouth with thick, hot seed. He loves the taste, and that shocking bitterness finally sends him over the edge into his second orgasm of the night, pussy spasming around someone’s cock and filling that hole with more cum too. He’s squirting, shaking, soaking the towel beneath him and the alpha between his legs.
Two loads in his pussy tonight, one in his mouth– he wants more, wants all of them, wants so much that it distends his stomach and coats his mouth so much so that he can’t taste anything else.
He was made for this, made to be fucked– he loves it, can’t imagine doing anything else. He feels so fucking full with a cock in his cunt, loves the feeling of one stretching him out and rearranging his guts.
He can’t open his eyes, can’t do anything other than breathe and moan and cry out as the man between his legs slips out, and another one replaces him– this time with his mouth. The slick wetness of his tongue makes Shane wail, the accompanying heat almost volcanic against his oversensitive cunt as the man begins eating him out, stubble scraping beautifully against his lips and inner thighs. Another man pushes into his throat, and Shane gags on the intrusion, throat fluttering around the length before he adjusts and takes them deep again.
He’s crying, he knows, tears wetting his face and trailing down to his hair, and it just makes him hotter, makes the pulse in his stomach clench. He’s so sensitive, he just came, and they’re not stopping– if anything, they’re rougher, tighter grips and rougher thrusts, and Shane just takes and takes and takes. Every gasp is a moan, every sound a hiccuping cry.
At some point, he’s maneuvered into a kneeling position on the bench, on his knees, face shoved down into someone’s crotch with a fist in his hair, moving him like a fleshlight. The man behind him spanks him one, exploratory, and laughs delightedly at the way it makes his pussy flutter around his cock.
“Look at him, he fucking loves this!” He gets spanked a few more times, each hit getting harder and harder, and on the tenth, Shane’s eyes roll into the back of his head as cums, moaning around the cock in his mouth– and then gagging on the cum erupting from it.
He’s fucked on his knees, on his back, hoisted in the air, rides people’s cocks and fingers and tongue, and it’s all a blur, oversensitive and pulsing and so, so, so good. His pussy is raw and swollen, has been since Rozanov fucked him open, and every thrust sends a wave of near-painful friction up his spine, riding the edge of pain and pleasure and mixing so well he can’t tell one from the other. Someone’s begun tugging at his nipples, sucking on them like they’ll produce milk, and someone else holds his arm close to his body, fucking in and out of his armpit and moaning lowly.
A rough touch at his clit has him spasming, crying out and squirting, so it keeps happening, playful touches and mean hits. Someone pulls out of his pussy and hits directly over his clit, and the shriek that Shane lets out is deafening.
“Again, again, please, please,” is all he can get out, and it happens again, and again, and again, until his eyes roll back and he squirts just from the feeling of someone’s cock pushing into him again.
He’s so fucking wet, a combination of people cumming onto him and his own fluids, tears and sweat and slick. Everything hurts and nothing hurts. He can’t manage the strength to give hand jobs anymore, so people have taken to rutting against any part of him they can reach– one person against his thigh, another against his stomach, the man fucking his armpit cums and the heat splattered across his sensitive nipples makes him sob.
He’s drawn back from his haze when someone begins thumbing at his asshole. He prepped himself, of course, so it’s soft and wet, but he’s not really at a good angle– the cock in his mouth disengages. He whines, trying to bring it back, but someone shushes him, and he realizes it’s Rozanov– Rozanov, pulling him off of one man’s cock and pressing him flush to his chest.
“No, no, please– I want–” Shane slurs, clenching around nothing– he can feel the cum dripping out of him, smearing his thighs, and the thought of losing any of it makes him want to cry– but Rozanov just shushes him again, claiming his mouth in a deep, wet kiss, and Shane moans in relief as Rozanov settles Shane onto his cock.
He’s been fucked by so many cocks at this point, so much alpha cum spilled into his pussy, but Rozanov still feels so fucking big. He writhes a little, trying to take the last few inches, and whines as Rozanov laughs.
“Greedy omega,” he says, and takes Shane by the hips– Shane thinks he’s going to pull him off for a moment, but instead Rozanov pushes down, and the last few inches pop into him and Shane wails, shaking, squirting over Ilya’s stomach and thighs.
“Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes, yes, yes,” he chants, rocking back and forth. He thinks Rozanov is gonna start fucking him, anticipates it, but instead the hands on his hips force him still.
“Wha,” he gets out, but there’s another hand spreading open his ass and he gets it, suddenly, and god, fuck, yes, yes, yes.
He cries and writhes and clenches around Rozanov’s cock as someone licks his ass open and wet, fingers pumping in and out of his hole, getting him ready for another cock. He’s saying something, probably, or just whining and begging, but he can feel Rozanov’s hand in his hair, petting and stroking and soothing, and it keeps him from outright crying for them to just hurry up already.
“M’ ready, please, please,” he slurs, rocking his hips back and forth just for the extra bursts of pleasure building in his core, and he’s rewarded with the blunt pressure of a cock against his hole.
It’s slow going. His ass doesn’t get nearly as much attention as his cunt, mostly because his cunt is easier to fuck, but he loves penetration in any form– so both at once is a fucking miracle. He can’t keep his eyes open, can’t keep the overstimulated little whimpers from spilling out of his mouth, but Rozanov’s hands firm on his waist and his mouth pressing kisses into his temple keep him grounded enough to finally, finally relax when the cock in his ass bottoms out.
He’s shaking, trembling, hurt little noises spilling from his mouth. He thinks they’re giving him time to adjust, but he doesn’t want time; he wants the rough ache of a cock rearranging his guts and he wants it now. He’s so close to having it, and if– if he just–
Shane clenches as well as he’s able to. Both men groan, Rozanov almost directly into his ear, and the groan stumbles into a laugh as Shane whines, clenching again.
“Yes, omega,” Rozanov purrs, and it’s the only warning he gets before everything else explodes.
The cock in his ass starts thrusting, hard and rough, and shoving Shane further into Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov’s grip on his waist tightens, layering the bruises that are sure to form, and lifts Shane like a fucking fleshlight before dropping him back onto his cock. It stretches stretches stretches and Shane realizes with mounting disbelief that–
“Oh my god, oh my god! Fuck, Rozanov, Rozanov– Rozy–”
The head of Rozanov’s cock presses, snug, against his cervix. He really– he really is big enough. The pressure is so fucking good, so fucking much, so deep inside him, and he–
Shane just–
He loses time again.
Rozanov uses him like a fleshlight, bouncing on his cock, the cock in his ass rocking him back and forth in shallow but brutal thrusts, and every time Rozanov drops him the head of his cock kisses his cervix in a press so intimate Shane can’t do anything but wail. It’s a near constant stream of gasping moans, tears running down his ruddy cheeks, and through the haze of his tears, he can see the rest of the Raiders, cocks limp and spent, covered in Shane’s slick and their own cum and still looking like they want to fuck him through the floor.
His head lolls against Rozanov’s, pressed chest-to-chest, and this close to his neck, he can smell Rozanov’s scent so clearly, so thick and full, wintergreen and biting snow. He mouths over the scent gland mindlessly, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive skin.
Rozanov shudders, panting. His next movement stutters imperceptibly.
Shane does it again. And again, and again, and again, closer and closer until his mouth is sealed onto Rozanov’s scent gland and he’s sucking on it like it's fucking candy. It’s just– he doesn’t know why, can’t control himself, just the suckling motion and the taste are so fucking heady and soothing at the same time.
He doesn’t realize what’s happening until it's almost too late.
Rozanov’s knot swells at the base of his cock, and the next time Rozanov drops him, he presses presses presses and the knot pops in, thick and fat and so fucking good, and his cock is so fucking deep, and Rozanov shudders and begins to cum.
Shane wails. White spots pop into his vision, and he can’t–
He can’t fucking breathe, he’s so full, he’s so fucking full, and Rozanov’s knot in his pussy and head pressing against his cervix feels better than anything else he’s ever had. He’s so fucking full, he can feel his stomach swelling where Rozanov’s cum distends it, and the cock in his ass isn’t stopping either, just rougher and rougher and jostling the knot lodged inside of him. It’s pressed directly against his sweet spot, and he squirts every time the knot presses just that much harder.
He’s shaking, nails dug deep into Rozanov’s back, and he realizes with shock that if the cock in his ass doesn’t stop–
“Wait– wait, stop–” he gasps, but it’s too late.
The knot shoves against his sweet spot again, and something inside him gives. He squirts– and his bladder gives way.
He’s pissing all over Rozanov’s cock, and the release is its own kind of pleasure– Shane moans, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks, humiliation and shame broiling in his gut. He hides his face in Rozanov’s neck, sobbing apologies and platitudes– he’s never fucking done this before, never lost control like that, and even through his tears he can’t get over how good it feels just to let go. His thighs tremble, he can’t feel his legs, everything between his thighs is just a throbbing mess of slick and cum and piss, and he still wants more.
Rozanov doesn’t look like he’s complaining, though, and just for a moment, when Shane can bear to look up at him through his tears–
Rozanov’s irises are completely swallowed by his pupils, and his scent is so fucking strong that Shane can’t smell anything else. It fills his nose and sticks to the back of his throat, so deep and possessive that Shane’s sobs just– cut out, for a moment. Rozanov’s hands are like a vice on his waist. He stares into Shane’s eyes, ice-blue and red-rimmed brown.
“No apologies,” he says, firmly. “No apologies– do you know how hot you are, omega? So good for us, so eager, you can’t control yourself– so fucking hot omega. So fucking good for us.” He emphasizes each statement with a kiss, licking into Shane’s mouth, and Shane shudders, overwhelmed.
He can feel the cock in his ass pull out. He whines, but Rozanov shushes him, and after a moment, he can hear the other alpha’s grunt as he cums over Shane’s back, hot wet streaks, before catching his breath and walking away. Before Shane can even begin to feel the emptiness left behind, Rozanov reaches down to plug his ass with three fingers, settling them deep.
It’s just Shane, pussy lodged on Rozanov’s knot, ass filled with Rozanov’s fingers, full of and covered in alpha cum. His chest is heaving, and his head is swimming, and his pussy is full of Rozanov– he can feel the stretch of it, and even just the thought makes him moan.
He comes back to himself, bit by bit.
His legs are numb, and everything between his legs is sore. He can barely lift his head, so he doesn’t, just lets it rest against Rozanov’s shoulder. There’s cum everywhere on his skin, and he can feel Rozanov’s free hand gently combing through the worst of it in his hair.
Eventually, he pushes himself away from Rozanov’s chest, careful not to dislodge the knot– partially because he knows the second it comes out he’s going to have a flood of cum on his thighs, but also because he can’t bear the thought of being empty– and looks up at the rest of the Raiders.
They’re sitting on benches across the locker room, clothes skewed and irreparably stained. Several of them still have their cocks out, but the vast majority have tucked themselves back into their briefs.
Shane’s fucking exhausted, but looking out at them, he feels a swelling pride as well.
All of them look satisfied, having at least come once. It’s hard not to feel at least a smidge of professional satisfaction at that, especially with how many of them there are.
He closes his eyes as Rozanov rumbles out some final instructions, but doesn’t bother paying attention. He’s done his job here, and he’s done it well.
Everyone touches him on their way out. For some, it’s just a gentle touch on the shoulder, for others, it’s a kiss pressed to his back or his hair. All of it makes warmth swell in Shane’s belly. He did well– they’re telling him they appreciated his help, that he did a good job, that they’re happy with him.
When the last alpha leaves the room and closes the locker room door with a gentle click, Rozanov sags, pressing his face deep into Shane’s neck and inhaling.
“Ilyushka,” Shane giggles, and purrs when Ilya’s fumbling hands finally manage to dislodge the collar and expose the mating bite at the base of his neck. Ilya noses happily at the mark, seemingly unable to decide between sucking at Shane’s scent glands and mouthing at the bite.
“You did so well, Shanya,” Ilya mumbles into his neck, “You were so fucking hot, took all of them so well– I had to stop myself from cumming so many times because I knew I needed to knot you.”
Shane smiles giddily, his alpha’s words washing over him. “It felt really good,” he admits, rocking back and forth on Ilya’s knot just to hear him curse. “I really– I felt so used, it was so nice.” He winces as the motion pulls at something. “I’m gonna be so fucking sore for the next week, though. Jesus Christ.”
Ilya lifts his head to look at Shane. He’s so fucking beautiful, golden curls and sea foam eyes. Shane can’t believe he’s lucky enough to belong to him.
“Too sore to let me eat you out when we get home?”
Shane laughs, tipping his forehead to rest against Ilya’s. “No, I think I’ll manage.”