Chapter Text
I'll feel you on my back
You can close my eyes, take me back home
You can move my body around
- How To Teleport: Jane Remover
-
It all begins on a Tuesday.
Shane walks into the job he had acquired through an internship that took far too long to turn into a contract, and immediately walks out with a box full of his belongings and a termination email he refuses to open until the elevator doors close. Nevermind the thousands of dollars he took out in loans to pay for the degree that made him more than qualified, he was fired with ‘reasonable circumstances,’ which meant, no you can not sue us for this.
(“It’s against our privacy policy to inquire about Secondary Genders,” the peckish HR representative had said to him. “However, through internal promotion and his voluntary medical disclosure, a better candidate with a preferred…physiological profile was selected for your role. We prefer unbiased candidates who can serve our purpose a little better. Thank you for your years here Shane, your final check will be deposited at its normal time.”
She smiled the way people do when they believe they’ve been kind enough to do him a favor. You don’t have to work omega, is what she had implied, do what you do best. Nothing.)
And, Shane had given it his all, his time, his comfort—he had moved away from his parents just to be able to sit in an enclosed office with a fancy plate with his name on it. Every day, he reviewed clinical data, scrutinized trial results, and ensured that medications targeting omegas met safety standards before they ever reached the OFDA, not barely passed, met. He monitored protocols, tracked side effects, and annotated spreadsheets with a devotion that was almost religious.
(“You’re married to the job,” Rose had said jokingly once, teasing about the mess of papers he left on his coffee table.
“I am the job,” he had said back, “It’s more for me than it is for anyone else.)
But, what did that matter now anyway? The privilege of oversight, the authority to decide what could or could not be pre-approved, was gone. Shane’s whole profession is—well, was: nothing gets through unless it survives me. It matters to him that the suppressants he has to shove down his throat everyday, fit the approval pipeline, the trial phases, the statistical thresholds. Shane knows exactly how fragile “clinically proven” can be when it comes to people like him.
Now without it he had been stripped of authority over truth itself.
Morals and ethics aside, Shane also had a bigger problem to pay attention to; his ability to pay for rent was also a pressing concern. His piss-poor attempt at savings could only last so long as his monthly loan payments magically didn't go through. And, he’d die before he ever reached out to his parents about being humiliatingly fired, that was the last and final resort. He couldn’t lie to them, but he could avoid them just for a little while. Plus—rent, it turned out, was less a monthly obligation and more a philosophical stance, and his landlord was firmly committed to it.
So, by Thursday, Shane had spreadsheeted the problem.
Column A: expenses.
Column B: remaining savings.
Column C: projected survival time assuming he did not eat, sleep, turn on the lights, shower, or exist within his apartment.
The solution, statistically speaking, was obvious and unfortunately not Column C. He would have to get a fucking roommate to split rent with until he’d find something better than a part time job. And, really, a single space was a privilege he supposed he had indulged in for way too long. Now, this was a rather pressing issue for someone who was a very particular only child. It could be worse, he thinks briefly, trying to think of all the people he knew that lived with someone. Rose lived with her best friend Miles, Hayden was mated to sweet Jackie and had a rather large family, even J.J paid a little more than Shane to live in a glorified shoe box underneath a 80 year olds townhouse.
Shane reluctantly opened his laptop and then a new document.
ROOM FOR RENT, he typed, then deleted it. Too desperate, a little too hard on the eyes. ROOM AVAILABLE, he tried. Too cheerful, god he’s opening his doors to straight creeps. After several iterations, he settled on: ROOMMATE WANTED.
He listed the square footage, the rather terrible transit access. The appliances, (washer, dryer, a dishwasher that only worked if you turned the old knob forward and then backwards and then forwards again.) The absence of pests (with the exception of a casual wasp here and there. Yeah), verified through three separate inspections and one incident involving a magnifying glass (thankfully not a termite as he suspected). He specified quiet hours, cleaning expectations, shared-space protocols. He was tempted to mimic dorm room rules and regulations but he thought that might be overkill. Shane is particular but also not in the position to be too picky about anything at the moment.
He also did not specify his secondary gender, which felt both strategic and cowardly but he would include that in the leasing contract once he found who he was looking for.
So, Shane finds a rather taxing part-time desk job where he begins his unfortunate journey of being a deeply underpaid secretary for a stupid company that specialized in rut suppressants and gets a notification in his email that says Ilya Rozanov wants to send you a message!
An electrician looking for a place to stay. In between companies. Living in a shithole. Ilya Rozanov’s message read, will pay whatever price to move in now.
During his lunch break Shane clicks on Ilya’s profile and skips over every other piece of information until he finds what he’s looking for.
SECONDARY GENDER: Alpha.
Absolutely no way in hell, Shane thinks, never happening.
-
How’s that one saying go? Never say never? Two roads diverged into…Something, something else Shane couldn’t remember because he must’ve been fucking hit in the head too hard in his sleep somehow for ever allowing any of this to happen.
(“Hi Shane,” Ilya had said, standing before him in his work uniform that consisted of steel-toed boots dusted in chalky drywall powder, brown coveralls unzipped just enough to show a neon green undershirt stretched across a broad chest. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows exposing a beautiful expanse of skin there that Shane pointedly did not look at.
There was a smear of something dark along his jaw, grease maybe, or graphite, and Shane’s brain, traitor that it was, supplied the word smudgeable, he could wipe that stain away with his thumb or maybe his mouth. Which would be unsanitary, gross, of course.
And, Ilya Rozanov was tall. Not just tall—like structurally tall, more so built like someone who routinely hit the gym. The kind of face that made strangers assume handsome competence and insane fuckability just from once glance. His golden hair was unevenly pushed back, like he’d run his hands through it instead of combing it. And his eyes, steady and piercing blue, were somehow too intense to stare at and too pretty to look away from.
There was also a work bag on the floor beside him. Which meant he had not materialized out of his deepest darkest desires, despite Shane’s working theory and he had meant that message he sent.
“You’re early,” Shane said finally.
“You said three.” The accent was going to end his life. Shane supposed that was more than okay.
“It is three,” Shane had replied dumbfounded.
“Yes.”
Shane became abruptly aware that he was blocking the hallway. He was also deeply aware of the Alpha thing, extremely aware, painfully aware. Cosmically aware, even. He could smell Ilya so intensely it made his head a little fuzzy. He tried to reason that this was a terrible idea, that fucking scent, alone was driving even his most medically suppressed hormones haywire.
Yet.
Shane reasoned that omegas, betas, lived with Alphas all the time. Entire buildings were probably full of them. There were Alpha accountants. Alpha librarians. Alpha dentists who flossed and used sensible retirement plans. Alpha electricians, that needed a place to live and quickly. The category itself did not inherently imply danger and statistically speaking they were not the majority of the population to make up most crimes. There was no generalization there.
And yes, okay, Shane had not intended to live with one but his intentions could be flexible structures. Though, he had never once been flexible in his entire life. But, with Ilya in front of him they kind of could be.
Also, electricians were practical people. Practical people valued routine and routine meant predictability. Predictability then meant stability. Stability meant—Responsible housing choice.
Ilya, meanwhile, had not moved. He was still standing there with that same steady expression, work bag at his feet, waiting patiently for Shane to stop gawking at him. That, Shane decided, was actually reassuring because aggressive people rushed. This man was not rushing, this man was actually the opposite of rushing. This man could probably stand in a field for six hours and not fidget once. That suggested emotional regulation, possibly even maturity.
Very mature jawline, his brain added stupidly, loudly and uninvited. Shane cleared his throat, trying to find something to say, come in and eat me? No. No that wasn’t it.
There was also the financial factor. Which was significant. Which was very real. Which was not, under any circumstances, related to the fact that Ilya’s smell made Shane’s body feel suspiciously attentive.
This was a practical decision. A responsible decision. An adult decision so—
“You can move in Saturday,” Shane heard himself say before Ilya had even taken one step past the threshold.)
-
Ilya Rozanov was a good enough roommate. He washed his dishes—occasionally, he did his laundry hazardously but picked out all of his socks and never allowed their laundry to mix. He would use their living room, his coffee machine, and even make pleasant small talk when they ran into each other.
“You are pretty,” Ilya stated frequently, normally standing near the front door putting on his work boots.
“Please stop saying that to me so early in the morning. It’s creepy.” Shane would say back, waiting behind him to put on his running shoes for his early morning run before work.
(Ilya had once been a couple days late on wiring his rent payment to him in which Shane had politely inquired—or rather, pointedly texted him about it during his lunch break.
You are late on rent, Shane had typed.
Ilya had sent back a photo almost immediately. Of himself, fucking shirtless of all things. And, Shane had stared at the picture for around thirty-five minutes, entering a rather exhausting state of slamming his phone down and then looking at the picture again and then later at home, opening their messages again and rolling around in his bed screeching.
You don’t like picture?
I’m not really interested in prostitution. Can you send your half?)
So, he was overall, alright. As good as he could be and Shane wasn’t exactly complaining that the alpha roommate he had found on the internet wasn’t secretly trying to kill him. The problem was his indifference with Shane’s status. Which was, of course, normally the problem with alphas and omegas coexisting in the same area.
Society had advanced, obviously, but Shane was only so progressive when it came to biological realities that could override common sense and free will. Shane has always used suppressants, scent blockers, stabilizers—anything he had clinically pre-approved before and peer-reviewed, and preferably found too difficult to pronounce to ward off anything more than a friendly conversation. Though, Ilya never asked about Shane’s lack of pheromones permeating his own apartment and was surprisingly completely okay with living with an omega and cohabiting so closely. It’s only been around half a year but Shane was starting to suspect the irregularity in this living arrangement was not Ilya but him.
(“I know problem,” Ilya had said once, Shane still recovering from the near heart attack he had experienced when they’d brushed arms in the kitchen accidentally.
Shane had narrowed his eyes, immediately defensive. “You do?”
“Yes. You never lived with anyone before.”
And Shane had paused. Because, well, that was—not the problem whatsoever. Except that reasoning was plausible enough that Shane couldn’t immediately dismantle it without explaining the actual problem, which he absolutely was not going to do in the middle of their breakfast, so instead he’d just stared, suspicious, while Ilya had gone back to eating his cereal, shrugging a little.
“Is oh-Kay,” Ilya had said with finality.
Which meant either: Ilya was the most socially oblivious alpha alive, Ilya was extraordinarily polite, Ilya didn’t care Shane was an omega, or something was deeply, cosmically wrong with Shane specifically and he had inadvertently spent his time being anything but progressive.)
But, all in all it’s peaceful and rather nice to have Ilya around to come home too sometimes when a shift was especially long or when he felt a little too much like a failure. There was another person, another warmth wandering about his apartment, waking up at absurd times like Shane, getting home exhausted from work like Shane and that alone was enough to make him smile. He felt a little less lonely, a little less doomed at his situation because Ilya was there with him too.
-
Then, the peace Shane had just come to terms with after so much time came crumbling down on a Sunday.
“So,” Ilya begins, lounging on the couch, long limbs spread out, almost taking up the entire space. Shane looks up from his book, adjusting his glasses. They had taken to coexisting together on Sundays, silently sitting in each other's company with an occasional side comment.
“So?”
Ilya has this look on his face as his eyes flutter all over Shane. “You don’t have boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
Shane makes a noise putting down his book completely now, “Where’s this coming from?”
“Just curious,” Ilya shrugs, flipping the remote to the TV in his hands, “I have been here six months yet you do not have anyone over, no fucking, no needy ex texting your phone. You are single, yes?”
Shane sniffs in embarrassment, looking around the room trying to find something to focus on, “Yes. I am.”
Ilya looks delighted at the notion and Shane feels slightly insulted, “Ah. You are virgin.”
“I am not—” he coughs, thumping his chest once, “That’s a crazy assumption to make about someone!
Ilya tilts his head. “I am wrong?”
“Yes, you asshole. You’re wrong.”
Ilya scratches his nose, dragging his eyes over Shane’s body once, Shane shifts uncomfortably, feeling his entire body light up. “I am wrong?” Ilya repeats, more carefully this time.
Shane hesitates slightly, the answer is technically yes, but if it means satisfying that unfortunate (omega) part of him with another human being, it’s also technically no. It’s embarrassing to even think about. He pictures Rose’s pretty face, who had been understanding and unbearably sweet when he had fumbled through everything their first time.
(“A problem is something we can fix Shane, and I don’t think I’m doing it for you. That’s perfectly okay! You might need an alpha—“
“I don’t—“
“Or just, biology aside, someone that’s not me, maybe you need to try something new? Someone new?”)
“So I am right,” Ilya says after a few more seconds of them just looking at each other.
“You’re right based on what, exactly?”
Ilya gestures vaguely at him. And, Shane waits patiently, his arms crossed protectively over his chest now as Ilya continues gesturing.
“That is still not an answer.”
“You do not smell like sex,” Ilya says simply.
Shane’s brain goes completely, magnificently blank. “I’m sorry,” he says at last, very quietly, “I don’t smell like what?”
“Sex,” Ilya repeats, unfazed. “People who have sex smell different after. Pheromones, their skin, mouth, air. You do not smell like this. Ever. Actually—“ Ilya makes a show of sniffing around, “This apartment has smelled nothing like you since I moved in.”
Shane’s face burns and his mind is suddenly, horribly aware of everything he’s ever done to smell like nothing since Ilya moved in, the suppressant patch on his thigh, the faint medicinal aftertaste sitting on the back of his tongue, the way his pulse feels too loud under his skin. But, again, Ilya should know this, he’s not an idiot, he should know that even the most unworried omegas still take some sort of precaution.
“I don’t fuck around like you do,” Shane huffs out, something along the lines of jealously lingering loud and ugly in his tone. He tries not to look at Ilya as the picture of him shirtless pops up into his head for some evil reason. “I also don’t want my scent to…bother you. I’m polite, I don’t want it to reek of me in here if I’m living with someone else.”
“I do not care,” Ilya says shortly, “I have lived with assholes that stunk of shit. I work with ugly alphas that stink after three hours on site. Even if you smelled disgusting I would not care. Look at you.”
“Look at me?”
Ilya leans his head back on the couch, throat bobbing as he swallows and Shane follows the motion. His throat is bared, he thinks, fingers twitching to touch the skin there, he trusts me.
“You are very pretty. I tell you this almost everyday, yes? It is hard to believe you do not fuck at least once a month. I am curious.”
Shane feels his stomach twist at the compliment more so than usual, resisting the urge inside of him that prompts him to move closer to Ilya. He wants to protest, to insist, to crawl under the couch or at least behind a cushion but the words stick in his throat. He opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “Well,” His voice cracks. Heat spreads from his ears down to the back of his neck. “I don’t know—” He swallows that down, pulse racing. “I’m just not like that. I guess.”
“Hm,” Ilya says, eyes flicking over to Shane, “I could teach you.”
“Teach me what?” Shane suddenly regrets entertaining this conversation at all. He curls in on himself feeling humiliated, arms wrapping around his knees in an attempt to ground himself.
“How to fuck like an alpha,” Ilya says this nonchalantly, hand causally flicking through the channels of their TV as if he hadn’t altered Shane’s reality with six words.
Shane lets out a noise of disbelief, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. A sour feeling begins in his stomach, oh no, that can’t mean what he thinks it does right? Ilya must be taunting Shane’s secondary gender right? He’s not clueless? Also since when did Shane give off top, alpha, penis in hole signs? This idea was somehow more disturbing than Ilya observing his lack of a sex life.
“Like an alpha?”
“Yes, Hollander. When is the last time you knotted someone? Never?”
Oh no, his brain supplies again unhelpfully. A chill starts to run across his spine, he had known—his gut had fucking told him Ilya had agreed to his oddly specific rules way too easily. Shane swallows, fully panicking because now the trust he had built to live with Ilya alone in his apartment was crumbling.
Ilya had been blissfully unaware of Shane’s status since he moved in.
Oh god.
The pieces all start to fit together. First, Ilya had briefly told him about his rut dates with a wave of his hand, as if they were something nonsensical, I fuck all the time, he had said, it’s no different, it’s not intense like others. And second, in his time of desperation and weakness to Ilya Rozanov being insanely hot all reasoning had left Shane. He had assumed two things, 1: Ilya had no issue being an alpha and living with an omega, 2: Ilya was fucking insane.
Maybe three things: Shane was absolutely crazy to let any of this happen too. Shane attempts to breathe in and out, Ilya must see the look on his face because he turns the TV off immediately, shifting to face Shane completely. He sort of wishes Ilya would’ve stayed facing forward, the eye-contact has his hands trembling.
“You didn’t—you didn’t read the lease agreement did you? Please tell me you did.”
Ilya squints, hand rubbing at his chin like he’s trying to remember something, “I…skimmed. Too many papers, was boring.”
“Rozanov,” Shane says slowly, grasping the hem of his sweater, “I’m not an alpha. You know that right?”
Ilya leans back a little, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “What?” He says flatly.
“You—you didn’t read anything? There’s a summary on the first fucking page!”
Ilya looks around in confusion, “You did not ask me any questions about it so I didn’t think it was important. I thought, oh! Hollander must be so trusting even though he gives me ten page folder, you let me fucking move-in immediately!”
“I needed the rent money!”
“And I did not want to read! So what? What—are you an omega?”
Shane stares at him, unable to respond and Ilya’s expression shifts in recognition, his eyes narrowing a bit, just a small sharpening around the eyes, like a camera lens focusing. “Huh,” he says after a moment.
“Huh?” Shane echoes faintly, horrified.
“Huh,” Ilya repeats, nodding once, as if this confirms a theory only he had been considering. He leans forward to inspect Shane’s entire frame a little closer, elbows on his knees. “That makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Shane asks a little desperately leaning away from Ilya, voice too high to be level, “What the hell makes sense?”
Ilya ignores him in favor of getting up and disappearing into his room, leaving Shane alone for a couple terrifying minutes which allows his mind to start flooding with every possible scenario that could possibly happen. He’s moving out today oh god, Shane thinks, frozen on the couch, he’s going to ask for all his rent back, he’s going to report me to the Bureau of Alpha, Omega, Beta, Gender Specifics, He’s going to take off his shirt and make me take a picture—wait that doesn’t sound too bad…No.
Ilya thankfully comes back (fully dressed) with a folder Shane recognizes because he was the one that put it together. It was the detailed leasing contract he slaved away at right before he had decided to list his roommate advertisement. Ilya sits and flips it open unceremoniously, “I’ll read now,” he announces, as if that could be helpful in any way in their current predicament.
Shane blinks, “It’s a little too late for that, you fucking live here—“
“I want to see what rules I am breaking,” Ilya mutters out unperturbed.
“That’s not—that’s not necessary anymore! You live here!” Shane stresses, reaching out to try to take the folder but Ilya bares his teeth at him, down omega, it says. And Shane flinches, his spine curves inward before he can stop it, body folding back into the couch like something pressed him there. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, the involuntary submission reflex, fantastic. There goes Shane’s secondary gender ruining everything for him again.
“Sorry,” Ilya says, a little dazed. He blinks rapidly, turning back to the folder, “I did not mean—“
“Just read it then. Read the whole fucking paper even though you should’ve done this earlier. Take notes if you want to,” Shane mutters, voice quieter now, all the fight draining out of it before he can hold onto it. His heart is still pounding hard enough to hurt.
“‘Section Four: Scent Neutrality Expectations,’” Ilya reads aloud slowly.
Shane makes a strangled sound. “You don’t have to read it out loud.”
“‘Tenant agrees to refrain from intentional pheromone projection in shared spaces,’” Ilya continues, eyes flicking up. “You think I can turn this on like light switch?”
“I don’t know what you can do,” Shane snaps. “I should’ve double checked if you even signed my copy. This was such a big mistake on my part because—“ Because. Shane saw a perfect and willing alpha with stable income and decided dignity and safety was negotiable on paper. How crazy could he really be?
“I did sign it. For Legal purposes.”
“You just said you skimmed it. How could you sign it without reading anything? Have you ever signed anything legally binding in your life? What is wrong with you?"
Ilya turns a page loudly, ignoring him, his mouth twitches in amusement. “You made chart.”
“It’s a schedule.”
“There are colors.”
“They’re necessary colors!”
“Hm. Everything is necessary for you. The labels on spice, the laundry chart, the dish soap,” Ilya mutters, clearly unconvinced. He keeps reading and his expression doesn’t change much, but something in his posture shifts, he sits up a little straighter as if really trying to understand. “Ah. You included penalties?”
Shane’s tries not to cringe at the term, he was desperate yes, but he had included the necessary rules to protect himself if worse had come to worse. Which now, had proved to be rather useless because it all went to shit either way. ““Reasonable penalties.”
“‘Violation of Accommodation Clause may result in immediate termination of tenancy.’” Ilya looks up, expression blank, “You would evict me.”
“If necessary!”
“You need rent money,” Ilya points out, licking his thumb to flip to the next page.
Shane deflates, averting his eyes. He doesn’t need to see Ilya’s pink tongue do anything at the moment. “Yes.”
“So you would not.”
“If I had to I would,” Shane grits out, “I’m not that stupid.” Despite being incredibly stupid about this entire situation.
Ilya hums again, “And your heat?”
Hearing the word heat, curl around Ilya’s lips has his eyes fixating on a spot on the floor.
“It goes more in depth on the fourth page.”
A few moments of tense silence pass before, “I have to leave? For three weeks? Hollander—“
“It’s a necessary boundary,” Shane says defensively. “It’s normal. People have boundaries. That’s a completely normal thing to write in a legally binding document that your roommate actually reads before he signs it—”
“Then why have roommate? If you will kick them out for basically a month. There is no use in rent there.”
“You just said it yourself! I needed the fucking help—what is one month going to do? You send your part late half of times with fucking selfies! Are omegas not allowed to have roommates anymore? Is my heat too fucking—“
“You like the pictures don’t lie and I am not saying that,” Ilya says a little louder, “Is too long! Is not normal for an omega to be in pain for that long. Is not a week at the longest?”
“I don’t know where you heard that,” Shane bites out, each word placed carefully, tugging at the sleeves of his sweater like he could cover the shame of being the odd one out. He always seems to be too unsocial, too standoffish, too weird, too quiet, too awkward, too fucking gay, too omega to work at a job he had quite literally studied his ass off for. “People are different.” I’m too different and I don’t have an alpha to help me, he leaves unspoken, I can’t make it any better. I’m cursed this way.
This conversation lights up the part of Shane’s brain that memorized statistics about omega employment discrimination and heat-suppression side effects and assault rates and decided the only winning move was to never, ever look like prey, or vulnerable. But, Shane had to be willing to take risks—he chose Ilya because he was there, and willing and yes, maybe Shane selfishly wanted the challenge. He needed to prove to himself that even if he’s an omega he can coexist with an alpha, another secondary gender without getting on his knees and begging for it and he did, he did it successfully. Albeit scared and wary of Ilya at all times, he had learned to live with him.
(But now that Ilya knew his stupid secondary gender—that could all change. And, Shane would be blind and stupid to not say that because Ilya Rozanov was also incredibly attractive and smelled so good he had agreed to housing him. He walked around all too gorgeously with a beautiful musky bourbon-vanilla scent that carried such specific notes a wonderfully intoxicating perfume could be made from it.
Shane sat in his room once, flushed all over his body trying not to inhale the strong, strong angry scent that Ilya had put off when he had left their shared space loudly answering a phone call in Russian in the middle of the night. It had slipped through the crack of his door, something almost like patchouli drifting through the air and Shane had to close his eyes and think of being embarrassingly fired and needing to acquire a roommate to get his boner down.)
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, dragging Shane back into their present unpleasant conversation. “But I do know that omegas are not that different in heat cycles, no?”
“It’s a medical thing,” Shane mumbles out, displeased. “It’s monitored. It’s fine.” It’s incredibly long because something is wrong with me and I have to be fucked right or something.
“Medical,” he parrots.
Shane nods once, bowing his head down. “Yeah. So. Three weeks. Hence the clause. Hence the chart. Hence the colors. Hence you leaving.”
“You think I would be uncomfortable? If I stay here during your heat?” Ilya asks, closing the folder and placing it on the coffee table gently.
“Look,” Shane looks up, totally not imagining Ilya being in the room next to him listening to his helpless pants and cries. He tries to sound collected, aiming for professional and landlord-like because he had already embarrassed himself too much by losing his composure. “It’s just a precaution. The clause is there so nobody gets to be uncomfortable. You leave, I deal with my…thing, you come back, we continue coexisting like two adults with excellent tenant communication because we read and understand papers we give each other.”
Ilya regards this with a slight nod, hand brushing through his curls once before his bright blue eyes stare at Shane with such intensity he has to look away. “Would you,” Ilya asks, voice quieter now, “be uncomfortable if I stay?”
No, Shane’s mind supplies immediately, I’d want you on me, I’d want you to help me, I know my instincts would overpower me and I’d be unable to do anything about it. I’d need you. But how could you ever want me anyway? When you toy with me with your stupid compliments and pictures without even knowing who—what I am?
“Yes,” he breathes out finally, because it’s the easier and safest truth available. “That’s why the condition exists.”
Ilya studies him for a moment longer, unreadable, then reaches for the folder again. Shane almost sighs in relief at the movement, at something practical to look at instead of that gaze. Ilya flips back, scanning, and then tilts the folder slightly toward him.
“Here,” he says, tapping once near the middle of the page. “I am confused on this part.” Ilya angles it towards him and Shane shifts on the couch to lean in before he realizes he’s doing it. The couch dips faintly under the shift and their shoulders nearly brush; Shane can feel the warmth of him even without contact, a steady presence at his side that makes the fine hairs along his arm lift. He focuses on the line Ilya’s pointing to, because it is very important, suddenly, to read.
“‘Notice must be provided no less than seventy-two hours in advance,’” Ilya reads quietly. His finger slides under the sentence as he tracks it. “My rut is not as….scheduled as your heat. It just comes and goes sometime in October.”
“It’s approximate,” Shane mutters wishing Ilya would stop saying heat like that, his eyes staying fixed on the page. The margin is too narrow and the font is too small, he realizes, the air between them is also too warm. “There are signs for alphas too, aren't there?”
Ilya hums. The sound is low, thoughtful. His hand shifts to turn the page, and the edge of the paper grazes Shane’s knuckle. Shane’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t move them away, he tries to keep reading with Ilya as another page turns. Ilya leans a fraction closer to see better, Shane doesn’t notice until he’s already compensating, angling in so their heads don’t bump. Their knees are almost touching now, the space between them narrowed to something thin and charged and impossible to acknowledge without dying on the spot.
“Mm,” Ilya says, softer. “More colors. You are like little kid with markers for the first time.”
“Stop pointing out the colors. It makes it more organized. Asshole,” Shane retorts immediately.
“I see that, Mr. Highlighter.”
Shane scoffs but silence settles again, Shane can hear the faint drag of Ilya’s thumb along the paper edge. He glances at Ilya through his eyelashes, catching the sigh of his focused face. He’s beautiful, almost mesmerizing to look at and he can suddenly hear his own breathing, which is deeply unhelpful. He tells himself to sit back, he does not sit back, he instead keeps staring at Ilya. Ilya turns one more page, his shoulder finally, lightly, touches Shane’s and they both look at each other.
Ilya blinks, once, then again, letting the corner of his mouth twitch slightly upward as if amused at the look on Shane’s face. He probably looks flushed, he feels flushed with his body lighting up at the attention and Ilya’s shoulder pressing against his.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, eyes boring into his, “I can make three weeks into one.”
-
And, Shane really doesn’t know how he got into this position.
His vision is slightly blurry from the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and his brain is no longer rational, instead playing a very pleasant static noise as he tries to pay attention to what's happening at the moment.
“Open,” Ilya commands.
Oh. Right. Shane opens his mouth obediently, sticking his tongue out a little. He’s panting like a dog but he can’t help it, Ilya’s got one hand underneath his shirt squishing his pec and the other gripping his chin. The feeling of being manhandled, of being groped in such a humiliating way has him trembling violently in awe. Shane’s never felt this way before—so wanted, so pliant, there's a noise bubbling in his throat and he realizes with silent horror that he’s purring with his mouth wide open.
And, they haven’t done anything yet, Ilya’s still fully clothed, they’re both fully clothed yet, here under Ilya’s big hands Shane's vision is already fuzzy with sick pleasure. Ilya’s scent clouds his senses, the dominating aroma of musky vanilla and something close to tobacco from Ilya’s breath has slick gushing out of him, soaking his briefs and sweatpants—pushing through his suppressments like it never has before. Did I even take them today? He wonders, but he can’t think and hiccups a little with the way his mouth is open and salivating.
Ilya grins wickedly, catching the slight scent of his pure want from his drool alone, pupils dilating as he looks at Shane. He stares at him and for a moment nothing happens, until Ilya puckers his mouth a little as if gathering his saliva—he leans down to Shane’s panting lips and spits. Shane whines, his back arching at nothing, Ilya’s spit mixed with his own drool nearly choking him as he closes his mouth, eyes rolling back. He feels his cheeks flush harder, everything is too much, it’s all too much as Ilya smooths his hand down from his pec down his stomach, petting his abs, before they’re sliding over his waist to his ass, slipping past the waistband of his briefs to grab at the soft skin—that Shane sometimes has a hard time fitting in jeans—there.
“So wet already,” Ilya groans delightedly, dipping his hand lower, head pushing down into Shane’s neck, licking at his scent gland. He’s never been touched there so purposefully and Shane shudders, nails digging into Ilya’s shoulder.
Bite, Shane thinks wildly and then collects himself. “Don’t,” he breathes out instead. I did take them. Oh god. His suppressants thankfully, still have not quite worn off for the day—dulling the urge to be mated, to be knotted, to be pumped so full of Ilya’s cum he’s dripping him out for days. Although, the idea is still so tantalizing. “We’re both—“ vulnerable? Too far gone? Fucking insane to even be in this position?
“черт возьми, это безумие,” Ilya grinds out, rubbing his cheek along Shane’s neck, scenting him. Ilya’s scent mixing together with Shane’s faint pheromones in his sweat in the already enclosed space has his eyes fluttering. He never imagined that sex—not even sex, but the hands of someone experienced, the skilled calloused fingers of Ilya Rozanov simply touching him could have him so wet his clothes and couch were soaked.
Shane lets his own hands wander, moving from Ilya’s shoulders up to his hair, tugging a curl in between his fingers—something he’s wanted to do the moment Ilya stepped through his front door. He watches mesmerized as the ringlet stretches and coils softly and Ilya presses a wet kiss to his neck and then his cheek.
“So sweet,” Ilya murmurs against his skin, the hand on his ass slipping closer to where Shane needs him the most. “So sweet to me even when I have you like this—get on your back.”
It’s embarrassing really, how fast Shane lets go and lays himself flat on the couch, shirt pushed up to his chin, sweatpants hanging loose around his thighs. His chest heaves with every breath he takes, mind clouding in nothing but anticipation but more, of whatever Ilya could give him. Ilya first pulls off his scent patch on his thigh, a quick glance up at Shane that has him nodding, willing Ilya to do whatever he wants to him. Then he inhales deeply and groans, pulling down Shane’s briefs that stick to his skin due to the sheer amount of slick that had pooled inside of them. Ilya yanks them down further exposing his flushed cock, weeping against his stomach. His pheromones seem to get even stronger, no patch or layer of clothes containing the sweet scent of his desire anymore.
“Tell me,” Ilya breathes in and grits out, jaw visibly clenching and unclenching. His hands spread Shane’s legs wider and Ilya groans at the sight, palming himself through his pants as he stares at Shane’s puckering slick dripping hole intensely. “Tell me I am the only one who is allowed to do this to you.”
Ilya leans forward on the couch, his back muscles rippling underneath his shirt as he settles between Shane’s legs and Shane—Shane could barely bite back his moans, his own hands coming to tweak at his nipples at the sight. He doesn’t want to stroke himself just yet because he might come immediately and embarrassingly just from Ilya’s foreplay. Ilya licks at his ass once, twice and he goes dizzy with mind numbing pleasure, ah. Ilya’s tongue works over him in broad, flat strokes, rough and soft together, and too much. The couch groans underneath their weights when Ilya settles further in, tossing his legs over his shoulders and enveloping Shane’s cock with his hand while he licks at him, tongue pushing deep inside of him.
He draws back but only for a moment, squeezing Shane’s cock, “Tell me.”
“Y—you’re the only one,” Shane hiccups out as Ilya resumes, “The—the first one.” To ever put his tongue deep in Shane’s ass, how romantic.
Ilya pulls back, hand still working on Shane but, mouth turned up into a half snarl. His teeth—Shane realizes in sheer wanton lust—his canines are sharper. Ilya has the fangs alphas dream of having the moment they present and it’s so predictable for the omega, the part of him he likes to shut up frequently, is dazzled by this discovery.
“I am the first?” Ilya says with those big sharp teeth.
Shane nods frantically, rather dazed, arching further into his touch, “Yes, yes.”
“God,” Ilya rumbles, hand releasing Shane’s cock, smoothing over his thigh to probe at his slick hole, he pushes, teasing. “Let me fuck you now. No—Let me fuck you through your heat. Let me have this asshole—"
Shane’s too lost on the curl of Ilya’s one finger inside of him to think about everything wrong with that statement because really, he should be pulling away, he should’ve stopped this the moment it started because the contract—the contract he spent hours on. Ah, Ilya’s finger is curling right there, right in that spot that Shane had cramped his wrist trying to find once, “But you signed…” Shane sighs out, head lolling uselessly on the couch, he can’t think, his hips are thinking for him. “The terms—“
“You are thinking about that now? I have my finger in your ass,” as if to prove his point he shoves another finger alongside it, Shane writhes, cock dripping obscenely, “Be a good omega and stop thinking, hm? Do you want to be good for me?” Ilya saying that with one hand inside of him and the other lost below his own waistband touching himself has him seeing stars. Shane shudders, voice bordering on a sob, his body rolling fluidly with Ilya’s finger as he adds another. The sound of the squelch of Ilya’s three fingers stretching him is so lewd, and it just edges Shane on further.
And, Omega, Ilya had said, be a good omega. In his most forbidden, and disgusting desires—that had everything to do with his secondary gender and only half to do with his own volition—Shane has always wanted to be good for an alpha. He’s always wanted to be taken like this, to be rendered to nothing but a prime hole to fuck. A good body to bite.
“I—I want to be good for you,” Shane gasps raw and honest, “Please, please I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” Ilya grunts out beautifully. Shane’s fingers twitch, he wants to see he needs to see—
“Yes. Take off your pants,” Shane pleads, trying to keep his eyes open, “I want to see, Iwanttosee—“
Ilya looks wild and so unbelievably cocky, he pulls out of Shane leaving him whining and writhing to take off his shirt and pants. Ilya nearly falls over trying to kick his briefs off, the shared desperation has Shane doing the same however he only gets his sweatpants fully off and briefs around his ankles before Ilya is on him again. He kisses Shane with such intent it has him falling back on the couch’s armrest, tongues curling around together until they're both open mouthed and panting. Ilya holds his hand up to Shane’s mouth and says, “Spit,” and Shane spits immediately, watching in fascination as Ilya strokes his own cock, eyes flickering up and down Shane’s body.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya says leaning back, eyes following where Shane nods obediently, moaning a little as his own hand strokes his cock. He grips himself the way he likes it, thumbing his slit and gathering the come there before twisting his wrist up down in quick fluid motions. Ilya’s breaths grow ragged as he gives Shane another beautiful command to follow a few seconds later, “Finger yourself. Let me see too.” Shane obeys again, one finger, then two, then three all pushing his gushing slick back inside of himself, the wet sounds nearly competing with Ilya’s own slicked stroking. He whines as he fucks himself back on his hand, thoroughly enjoying the perfect sight of Ilya, flushed, sweaty and shirtless jerking himself off to Shane.
He feels both invigorated and embarrassed at the rapt attention, but he can’t bring himself to stop—too high on the fact that they’re both as desperate and needy to watch each other finish. Shane arches into his own fingers, cock splurting out cum as he finally reaches his peak—one so satisfying his eyes squeeze shut on their own accord. Ilya follows him, eyes glued to his face as he pants out his name brokenly, “Shane,” he murmurs, chest heaving.
Ilya, Shane wants to say back.
-
Shane tries to make himself sparse.
He perfects the art of not existing in his own apartment and decides to act like he’s back in college and his apartment is a study room he must book in advance. He mastered silent door-closing, obsessively observing which floorboards tattled with their obnoxious creaks. Shane timed his kitchen visits to the exact minute Ilya’s dead-of-the-night shower usually ran. Once, he drank orange juice for dinner because retrieving a bowl from the cabinet would have required proximity.
Shane has also recently developed a thriving social life.
Hayden and Jackie, previously “people Shane saw sometimes when he was feeling up to it after work,” became “people Shane saw constantly,” which was how he ended up out in a very chilly restaurant in Hayden’s spare sweater and pretending he enjoyed being outdoors after dark like some kind of reckless woodland creature the week before his heat was due. Normally by this time (before Ilya Rozanov) he’d be locked up in his bedroom, nesting pathetically until he drove himself insane.
But of course his recent ability to go out had nothing to do with avoiding eye contact or any contact at all with a certain electrician whom he had fingered himself in front of. Absolutely nothing.
Which was why, when Shane finally did come home and found Ilya at the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing slightly as he dried a glass, Shane’s brain immediately attempted to exit his body through his left ear. He's home early.
Ilya glanced up, grimacing as if he had swallowed something sour and gently set the glass down.
“We can forget about what happened on the couch,” Ilya says calmly.
Shane stopped in his mid-step attempt to flee and his thoughts, which had been moving at a brisk and orderly pace, collided with each other in a catastrophic multi-car pileup. “Sorry?” Shane asks shakily. “What?”
Ilya shrugs, nonchalantly, not a single eyelash or mouth twitch displaying any form of emotion. “It was a mistake. We move on.”
Shane blinks and takes in a deep breath. They were moving on. They were moving on.
“Oh,” Shane breathes out faintly because something unpleasantly hollow opened in his chest. Which was ridiculous of course because he had purposefully been avoiding Ilya. Shane had practically begged for this: Distance, normalcy, emotional neutrality. All the healthy adult things you do after your alpha roommate spits in your mouth. Of course.
“Yes. Good,” Shane adds quickly.
Ilya nods and an awkward silence falls over them again. Shane shifts his weight, moving towards his room before Ilya lets out a little soft, “Wait.” Shane stops immediately and whips his head towards Ilya whose eyes are fixed on Shane’s sweater. Ilya steps closer and sniffs loudly and his nose crinkles in disgust. Shane becomes aware of his own pulse, loud and traitorous in his throat. Ilya inhales again, slower this time, and his nostrils flare just a fraction, his jaw flexes once.
Ilya’s voice is rough when he speaks again, “That sweater smells fucking disgusting.”
Shane is offended on behalf of Hayden, “Jackie would kill you if she heard you say that—Hayden was being nice. It was fucking freezing tonight.” Freezing tonight sounds ridiculous in the middle of the summer but Shane didn’t feel like explaining how the warmth outside had made the restaurant they had gone to a million times colder.
“I could have picked you up,” Ilya says, eyes darting to Hayden’s sweater and then to Shane’s face. Shane briefly imagines being a passenger in Ilya’s funny looking car, that was way too old and way too far low to the ground to have any form of practicality. And, there’s a displeased look on his face that Shane has no idea how to read.
They stand tensely in the kitchen before Shane sighs, turning away to walk to his bedroom, moving on. They are moving on, “Okay. Well. Goodnight.”
“You are not going to take it off?” Ilya follows him, sniffing obnoxiously, “I am serious. It reeks of shit. You must know this.”
“I’m going to take it off—“
“Why not now—“
“What is up with you—you’re too close—“
“Is driving me crazy, take the fucking jacket off—“
“Hayden is mated with pups, he let me borrow it because I was cold and I still needed to walk home. Why would it mean anything—“
“I do not care about that—“
“You do,” Shane snaps, because he can hear the possessive, alpha-like tone Ilya has taken up with him like he has the privilege too, under the irritation. “You obviously do, or you wouldn’t be stalking me down the hallway like a bloodhound.”
“I am not stalking.” Ilya says hotly, pushing into his room anyway.
“You’re still sniffing me, stop it if it bothers you!”
“Take it off!” Ilya reaches out, fingers hooking toward the collar of the sweater like he means to peel it off himself. And, for one stupid second, Shane doesn’t move. He watches the hand coming instead, watches the long fingers, the nice, clean nails, the intent written plainly in the line of Ilya’s mouth—and something hot and electric zips straight down his spine.
Oh, fuck that!
Shane’s hand snaps up and hits Ilya square in the chest, shoving hard. Ilya stumbles back a step, shoulders striking the wall with a dull thud, and Shane follows without thinking, crowding into his space, baring teeth he knows are anything but intimidating. “What the fuck does it matter to you? We were moving on. Remember?”
Ilya’s own lips pull back enough to show the edge of his sharper teeth, challenging him, “You smell like someone else,” Ilya hisses, leaning close enough Shane can feel the edge of his teeth against his jaw. “And moving on or not it bothers me. It is irresponsible to go out like this before your heat. Take it off.”
Shane pulls away and grabs the hem of the sweater and yanks it off in one sharp motion, like he’s tearing off a bandage. He balls it in his fist and tosses it at Ilya’s chest.
“Happy?” Ilya catches it and the fabric bunches in his hands. He looks down at it, then back up.
“No,” he says, and because Shane can’t stand the notion of Ilya being upset with him for something so trivial, so stupid, because Shane's want for only Ilya had been so obvious he lunges forward. Closing the remaining inches between them, chests brushing, hands finding Ilya’s shoulders and he captures Ilya’s mouth, kissing him hungrily. It’s sloppy, and heated as Ilya’s hands immediately grip at his waist to pull him closer.
Shane briefly wonders if he could’ve resisted Ilya for any longer. He wonders if he ever truly could have, how many weeks it would have taken for him to be begging Ilya to take him again instead of a mindless hookup. Not long, he reasons.
“Let me just—“ And, Shane can’t stand it anymore, he can’t stand the distance anymore, he drops to his knees, hands frantically unzipping Ilya’s jeans, pushing them down enough to expose his underwear and then his half hard cock.
“Shane, you—“ Ilya sounds winded, his hands smooth Shane’s hair gently, trying to tug him upwards but Shane is determined to get his mouth on something. Shane nearly whines at the sight, the musky scent of Ilya is stronger here so he leans forward and presses his mouth to the head of his cock, allowing his lips to part just enough to taste him. He inhales deeply, and he feels his own cock start to drip in his briefs along with—along with slick running down his ass.
Shane ignores the feeling in favor of dropping his jaw and slowly curls his tongue around the underside. He focuses on slicking up Ilya, watching his teeth and running his tongue along the smooth, firm vein. He hums pleasantly around Ilya’s cock, a buzz running through his body at the thought of being used like this.
“You are prettier like this. So soft,” Ilya sighs out and his hands come down, and cradle Shane’s face to pin his head in place, he can’t help the drool that escapes him, in pure need.
Ilya tightens his hold observing Shane’s obvious pleasure in being held and he begins to carefully and slowly, move his hips, thrusting in and out of Shane’s mouth. He’s dripping in his jeans now, his pheromones are sneaking around his scent patches and his suppressments, permeating the air softly. Shane’s aroma is almost teasing, nothing but a wisp in the room but Ilya inhales sharply, a rumble sounding in his throat. He’s growling, Shane realizes, tongue following the movement of Ilya’s cock, he’s growling, and Shane touches himself against his jeans as Ilya chases his release in his mouth.
Use me, Shane thinks furiously, use me harder.
-
Shane sits across from Ilya on his bed, insanely flushed despite being freshly showered in cold, cold water. He had turned on his fan earlier but that does nothing to cool down the sensation of his pre-heat hitting him violently. Ilya was right, it was incredibly irresponsible of him to go out and even more irresponsible of him to be aroused at the present moment even after he had climaxed just from having Ilya in his mouth.
“No biting. You have to take your own suppressants.”
“Obviously,” Ilya says. Shirtless for some unfounded reason, lounging on Shane’s bed like any of this is normal.
“And no—“ Shane stops himself embarrassed.
“What?”
“I’m—I’m on birth control,” is all he could manage out, nervously fidgeting, “And I’m clean. Obviously. You know that. And if you’re clean…”
Ilya grins, “Ah. No condom? Even better for me. You are full of surprises today.”
“Shut up,” Shane groans, feeling humiliated, “I’m already freaking out about this. You’re not making it any easier.”
“What?” Ilya says, a teasing grin on his face, “What is there to freak out about? I am a generous alpha, I take off work to fuck you everyday. I help you, you help me, maybe you reduce my rent—-“
“In your fucking dreams—“
“—one day. We all win, yes?”
“You are not getting near me if you think I’m going to let you pay any less than you do now, Rozanov.”
Ilya snorts, hand coming out to squish Shane’s cheeks together. Shane rests a hand on his wrist to try to pull him off and Ilya only grins wider at his struggling, “Is so easy to rile you up. Of course not. I pay in full, always.”
“Always late.”
“I send treat with payment too. You complain too much, Mr. Landlord.”
“I am your roommate and I don’t want to see your half naked pictures!” Shane bristles, not a fan of the power imbalance of being a landlord and fucking his tenant. There has to be some fucked up gross scenario that Ilya has started building up in his head, (no—Shane wants to be the tenant if that’s what they’re roleplaying. Ilya should be the landlord).
And, Ilya looks at him through half-lidded eyes. It’s dangerous, really not because it’s aggressive, but because it isn’t. Shane has the distinct, disorienting sensation of being studied and found out at the same time. Found out for what he’s not so sure, but when Ilya speaks, and says, “No, roommate does not work this time. Hm. This week you’ll be my omega.”
Shane wants to listen.
-
The first day of Shane’s heat hit him easier than expected in terms of nesting. He had spent most of his time in Ilya’s room gathering every bit of scented laundry, dirty or clean and piling it on his bed, settling each article until he found it acceptable. His omega was bursting with joy, just at the thought of finally being able to do this not just with his items but with an alpha’s things, to arrange them prettily in any way he wanted.
And then, of course, there was the insatiable urge to be fucked.
Ilya forcefully shoves his finger into in his mouth, cooing when he finds his eye teeth, “Ah—fuck, even this is cute and small.” His thumb rubs over Shane’s canine’s, nothing but short stumps, barely sharpened nowhere near as intimidating and vicious as Ilya’s.
“Asshole—“ Shane tries to say around Ilya’s fingers but he feels his drool trickle down his chin and onto his chest instead, too far gone to care. Suddenly there’s a hand gripping the back of his neck, scruffing him, he’s already pliant but his knees buckle even further, body almost limp on the mattress. It’s humiliating in a sense that it’s delicious. It’s the way his body was made, it’s what Shane has been craving since he presented and curled up on his bathroom floor gushing the slick he’s never wanted.
Take me, take me, take me, use me, he’s whimpering gibberish around Ilya’s fingers. Ilya—who keeps talking, “So wet, Hollander. Soft right here,” he releases Shane’s neck in favor of thumbing at Shane’s rim, nudging his fingertip inside, shoving it right beside where the head of his cock teases entry, not quite inside but enough to have him clenching around something. Ilya’s stretching him so wide already and the burn of Ilya’s added finger has his hands nearly tearing into his pillow, pushing his ass up further into the sensation. He’s moaning so loud he’s so sure the neighbors could clearly hear them.
Ilya draws his fingers out of his mouth, gliding the wet tips over his back. Suddenly Shane’s hips are being gripped on and Ilya bottoms out inside of him roughly. The fat of his cock filling him so deliciously, already nudging against his prostate, twitching relentlessly inside of him as Ilya lets out a long groan drowned out by Shane’s insistent, ah, ah ah’s.
Despite his slick practically pouring out of him, despite his unbelievable wetness, the drag of Ilya’s bare cock inside of him is unimaginably perfect. Every nerve in his body lights up as Ilya experimentally rocks his hips a little and he could cry at the friction. He does cry, Shane feels his eyes well up with tears, pouring down his cheeks, Fuck he was made for this. He was made to take Ilya—his alpha’s cock until he was satisfied, until he knotted him.
“—you okay?” Ilya’s asking, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder blade, the angle shift has him crying out, splurts of cum coming out of his cock already, “Not too much, малыш?”
Shane trembles violently at Ilya’s tone, nearly unable to hold his own weight, he needs more, he needs to be fucked within an inch of his life, “So—so good. Alpha—please, move. Move—“
Ilya tuts, staying still, “Poor omega. Alpha will take care of you, yes? I’ll have to turn you over.” Shane cries out as Ilya pulls out, coaxing him onto his back with his hands gripping his waist, “I know. I’m sorry sweetheart, I wanted to see you like that too, but this is better for you, you can not hold yourself up.” Ilya mutters, lining his cock up with Shane’s dripping hole and pushing in. The sensation nearly undoes him again—how had he gone so long? How had he managed to ever get through a heat alone? Without this—without Ilya pushing in and out slowly before fucking into him earnestly.
“Oh—yes, yes, yes—“ He cries out, arching into Ilya’s hands. Ilya mutters in Russian as his fingertips move everywhere on Shane’s already sensitive body. His hands are squishing his pecs and rolling his nipples in between his fingers, pinning his wrists above his head until his nose comes to settle right next to his swollen scent gland. Ilya licks at his neck, dragging his teeth along his unmarked mating spot as if to tease the idea again.
Shane is too far gone to care about that anymore, he’s too busy fucking himself back down on Ilya’s cock, meeting every thrust sloppily, “More,” he pleads breathlessly to Ilya, who’s pressing kisses along his jaw, hands gripping at his wrists even harder.
“More what?”
Shane can’t respond, he throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut—he’s almost there, he needs this first orgasm more than he needs air.
“Your alpha asked a question,” Ilya growls out insistently, biting at Shane’s jaw—those sharp canines nearly tearing through the skin. Shane violently shudders, crying out, just a little more.
“More—faster, harder, alpha please—I’m so close I can’t—“
And Ilya, Ilya follows instructions well despite being the one in power, fucking faster, in and out, in and out, the head of Ilya’s cock inflating as it catches on his rim when he tries for full strokes. Shane gasps at the feeling and Ilya’s gripping his wrists so forcefully he’s sure his fingers will leave imprints for days, good, he thinks, drool dripping down his mouth that Ilya eagerly licks up, let me feel it.
“Knot me,” he whimpers out, arching so deeply his spine aches at the sudden overuse, “Knot me, knot me—“ and Shane is so focused on Ilya’s beautiful guttural groans and the slight inflating drag of his girth that he doesn’t notice that the pressure building inside of him isn’t just from Ilya’s cock not giving his prostate a rest, it’s the throws of his heat finally being cooled zapping through his veins like electricity. It’s a wonderful sensation he’s never felt on his own before.
Shane only manages to let out a small squeak before he’s intensely cumming, cock completely untouched—something that’s never come out of him before, squirts in between them, soaking his and Ilya’s torso. Ilya lets go of his wrist to gather the wetness on Shane’s tip in between them, sucking his fingers into his mouth with a moan.
“Fuck—you are perfect. So pretty, ты такая красивая, my omega. ‘S like you were made for me,” Ilya says, jaw slack marveling at the sight. Shane must look wrecked, he feels wrecked as he twitches and shakes in overstimulation. The head of his length is still spitting out little wisps of liquid as Ilya wraps his hand around his overly sensitive cock and keeps thrusting. It only takes a few more thrusts until Ilya bites down on the skin of his shoulder and comes inside of him, thick and hot, and everything Shane’s ever needed—the base of his cock bulges and Ilya knots him. It punches a huge breath out of him and a few stray tears fall from his eyes as he relaxes in the temporary blissful feeling of the cravings of his heat-addled mind being finally satisfied.
Ilya collapses on top of him with a tired grunt, gently maneuvering Shane’s legs to fit between them comfortably as they stay interlinked together. Shane shudders a little, experimentingly shifting on Ilya’s knot. He feels so full, so perfect, so fucked out he nearly closes his eyes then but Ilya lets out a little hum. Shane’s eyes flutter open to see Ilya staring at him, he presses a soft kiss to his mouth.
“Good?”
“Mm. Good,” Shane says a little breathlessly.
“Open your mouth,” Ilya shifts up a little, his hips nudging his knot against Shane’s sore prostate. He whines a little, obeying Ilya’s command while burying his hands into his soft curly hair.
Ilya leans over and spits on his tongue but he doesn’t pull away this time, he kisses Shane, licks up into his mouth until they’re both practically drooling. The noise is obscene, ringing out through the quiet room, wet and so messy and everything Shane's ever needed. It has him discovering something new about himself because, despite being disgusted by the idea of Ilya smoking a cigarette, he briefly wonders what it would be like to share the tobacco tainted saliva from Ilya’s mouth as he smokes, to swallow it down his throat. He moans a little as Ilya gently sucks on his lip.
“You will be the death of me, Hollander,” Ilya says softly as he pulls away, a string of spit connecting them together still, “After my knot goes away—“ he says, mouth near Shane’s ear, “—You will eat. Hydrate. Then we do whatever you want.”
It’s too much for Shane to have Ilya here in his arms laying on his chest, inside of him, as they have this conversation. Ilya’s hands are drawing smooth circles on his hips, massaging the inner skin of his thighs, it has the familiar sensation of want, craving, and desperation coming back—his heat slowly building up the fever as they lie there.
“Whatever I want?” He says quietly, biting back a small whine. Whatever he wants in an hour is probably going to be another round, he wants to be pounded into the mattress next—he wants Ilya’s big hand at the back of his neck forcing him to obey, forcing him to present himself and splay his legs open. Shane shivers at the image, cheeks flushing again, he vows to have the strength to hold himself up this time.
“It’s your heat,” Ilya murmurs now scenting his neck, dousing him in his pretty pheromones, blissfully unaware of Shane’s dirty desires. “I want to please you. It’s my job as your alpha.”
Ilya doesn’t say, an alpha, he says your alpha. And, his heat-addled brain absorbs the comment, stores it away to dream about later when they go back to awkwardly hovering all over each other. Sharing glances in the kitchen and pretending the other doesn’t notice. Shane sighs a little nostalgic for them laying together like this already and Ilya glances at him curiously.
(One week into living together Ilya had rapped his knuckles on Shane’s door and asked if he had wanted to go out with him and a few of his work friends on a Sunday. This was before they had established their unspoken routine of spending that one short free day together. Ilya had watched the way Shane had dragged his eyes up and down Ilya’s body, taking in his outfit, his styled hair. Since their first meeting he had not seen Ilya in anything other than work clothes, and a glimpse of him entering the bathroom in his pajamas.
“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”
Ilya wiggles a bag Shane had not noticed him holding before, too busy taking in the wonderful, muscled body in front of him. That black shirt, those black pants, the crucifix, god, even Ilya’s collarbones. “I pack clothes here.”
“You’re crazy,” Shane had responded, turning his back to him, “Have fun. Try not to sleep on the job.”
“I will not have too much fun, I will be missing you.” The casual flirting was starting to become somewhat unbearable.
“Okay sure. Hey. Close my door—asshole! Come back and close my door!”)
Shane blinks the memory away, choosing to stay silent at Ilya’s choice of words. Here he was with his knot in his ass like this could ever be considered any type of normal thinking of the words, I’ll be missing you. Yes Ilya, it’s my turn to be missing you.
But, he supposed he could cope a bit later. He could enjoy the less excruciating experience of what was his heat.
-
Somewhat less excruciating, as he still found nesting to be incredibly embarrassing as he insisted they rearrange it differently every time. Shane is on his fifth time refolding one of Ilya’s shirts before he hears a slight snort behind him. “Oh god,” Shane groans out, shaking his slightly damp hair and burning his face into the sleeves of Ilya’s scented hoodie. “I said don’t look at me.” He tries to shoot a glare at Ilya but unfortunately his body betrays him, slick dripping out of him just from looking at Ilya.
Ilya laughs from behind him, still half naked in just his briefs. He looks like a god, shining in the warm light of his bedroom, beautiful and tall. However, what comes out of his mouth ruins the image, “You are needy. Is normal. Is impossible to not be wet for me,” Ilya shrugs, “I fuck good.”
“It’s not—“ me, Shane wants to say, but it is, it’s the way his body both physically and mentally has always wanted to be. He shifts around the bed deciding to ignore Ilya, moving pillows around until he’s completely satisfied. “Heats make me stupid. Whatever I do or say now isn’t fucking normal,” he grumbles out eventually. He looks at Ilya who’s standing watching him amusedly trying to curse his ass for getting wet again. “Okay you, sit here.”
Ilya snorts and obeys, settling down on the bed until he’s leaning against the headboard. Shane crawls to him quickly though he tries to make his movements seem less desperate than he feels. Shane settles himself in Ilya’s lap, hands resting tentatively on his shoulders. “Hi.” He says, suddenly shy.
“Hi sweetheart.” Ilya responds, just as soft, eyes bright with an emotion Shane doesn’t want to read too deeply into. His hands smooth up and down Shane’s back, digging into his back dimples bringing him closer. His nose brushes Ilya’s. His soft slightly damp curly hair touches Shane’s forehead, and the light catches on the pretty moles on Ilya’s face, some hidden on his eyes a little by his eyelashes, others prominent near his lip. Shane feels his breath start to get a little short again, bringing his nose down and nuzzling Ilya’s scent gland, scenting him. He accidentally bumps Ilya’s crucifix, and pulls back to fix it gently.
“Sorry,” Shane finds himself saying, pressing a kiss onto Ilya’s jaw. He's not quite sure what he’s apologizing for but he shifts on Ilya’s lap, a slow desire curling at the pit of his stomach. Cock now hardening at the beautiful musky smell of Ilya surrounding him. He sticks his head back onto Ilya’s neck, mouthing at the beautifully unmarked—unmated part of Ilya’s neck. If he were to just bite, if he were to stick his teeth there they would be together forever. Ilya would be his alpha, no more ugly scents mixing with his every time he walks in. He would be mine, he would be—Shane feels a light pull on the back of his head; it’s Ilya’s hand, with a firm grip on his hair.
“Shane,” Ilya says in warning, and Shane jolts with the sudden use of his name. Shane comes back to himself with a little embarrassing noise, drawing his arms back completely and looks down.
“Sorry—sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”
Ilya puts his fingers on his chin, bringing his face back up. Ilya looks pained, lips slightly parted as his eyes run across his freckles. “Fuck. I would let you do anything to me,” Ilya murmurs, “When you look like this, when you smell like this. Is dangerous. You have good ideas—without suppressants I would have—“
Shane doesn’t know what he would do if Ilya continued so he presses his lips on Ilya's, muffling him. Shane can’t deal with it, he can’t let himself get too lost in his head. He doesn’t want to know about the implications of their relationship, he doesn’t want to know what comes after this or what could be because it’s nothing. Shane is out of his mind on his heat and Ilya is convenient and here and willing (just like he’d been from the moment Shane had posted that roommate listing). He lets himself get distracted by his growing need, whimpering out Ilya’s name—grinding down on his lap.
Ilya gives it all to him, lets Shane take what he needs without a preamble and when Ilya growls out a “—Let me taste you.”
Shane lets him take what he needs too.
“Oh!” Shane mewls, toes curling behind Ilya’s head. “Please—”
Ilya holds his knees apart, sucking hard at Shane’s hole. The noises coming from his mouth are loud wet, smacking slurps that have Shane whining loudly and high in his throat, thighs tightening, as Ilya’s laps harder, stroking his tongue up Shane’s perineum.
“Like that, like that,” Shane begs, feeling like he’s crumbling to pieces between Ilya’s fingers. He shook all over, tight wet pleasure coiling in his gut. And Ilya pulls away before he could reach the end, grinning wickedly at Shane’s frustration, no!
Ilya puts a gentle hand down on Shane’s neck, stilling his desperate writhing. “I know what you need, omega. Let’s see how many you can cum, yes?”
-
“You are avoiding me,” Ilya says the next morning, standing so close to Shane in the kitchen he might as well be inside his probiotic smoothie.
Let me drink you up, Shane thinks about saying, and he would if he was normal and could flirt and charm people as effortlessly as Ilya can. No, instead he makes their weird predicament even weirder by trying to bite and mate Ilya. Maybe that’s why he had peeled himself off of Ilya, careful not to wake him and showered his perfect scent off desperately and hid out in his own bedroom, internally panicking about the entire situation until his heat came over him and he couldn’t take it anymore.
His body shook so hard from the sudden separation from his alpha, no—from Ilya that he needed at least a whiff of his scent. Just a small inhale so he had wobbled into the kitchen admittedly a little hungry and completing his task of smelling the lingering pheromones in the air. Ilya had caught his scent immediately from his bedroom, ripping open the door and marching up right next to him. He looked more confused than anything, to see Shane forcing himself to be alone rather than pressed up next to Ilya.
And, Shane can feel the flush on his cheeks, he probably looks pathetic—panting and shaking as he tries to pour his smoothie in its designated cup. “No. We—we’ve been attached at the hip for three days. I’m not avoiding you right now.” Right now, Shane says because he doesn’t think he’s being too convincing and can’t bring himself to lie. I am here because I am scared about how much I need you. Is that insane to say?
“Sure. Let me do this,” Ilya says, sounding exasperated with him, prying the blender and cup out of his shaky fingers, “You have to understand that you can not be alone. You need someone with you—“
That alone has Shane bristling, gripping onto the counter as a cramp racks through his entire body. They’ve fucked so many times, not that he’s complaining, it’s been absolute ecstasy and he’s sort of worried that he might be addicted to Ilya and his dick, but why isn’t it enough? Why is his biology against him? Why is he constantly vulnerable with want? He wants to be mated, he realizes in the height of his panic, he wants it with Ilya so bad. It’s tearing him apart that his own body is begging for it. Typical of Shane to ruin something he’s only had for such a short amount of time, typical of him to get attached to the first person that had given him the satisfaction he had been searching for.
“I’ve done this alone for my entire life,” he grits out angrily, “I know what I can and can’t do.”
“So easily bothered, Hollander. I am just saying. Let yourself relax on your heat for fucks sake," but you called me Shane yesterday? “Here. Drink.”
Shane takes it with shaky hands, gulping every last drop of it. He nearly breaks the cup on the counter trying to put it down. Ilya moves forward as if to touch him but Shane pulls away, “Just—give me a fucking second.”
“Oh?” Ilya says, tone warning, “You are mad at me for giving you what you need?”
“No—“ Shane relents and clutches at his hurting stomach, whining, “Okay—okay fine.”
“Fine?” Ilya asks, advancing on him, grabbing his face. “You should not ah—keep me on my toes. You don’t want it? You think you are too good for me now that I have sucked you and fucked you? Is that why you leave and act like a brat?”
Shane attempts to shake his head in Ilya’s firm grip—not enough to hurt but it keeps him still. “No. No—please. Please, just, do something.”
“Apologize,” Ilya says, backing him up against the counter, pinning him in place. Shane is trembling violently, slick pouring out of him like it had been since his heat started. For some cruel unbelievable reason, it feels like more now—now that Ilya had started manhandling him with real heat behind his words. Shane likes the idea of being commanded, he’s almost intimidated by Ilya’s broad, broad frame, bare torso pressing against him and he wants to be so scared he’s pleading for his life. What is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry,” He pleads, placing his hands on Ilya’s arms, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Ilya coos, mouth puckering into a beautiful ‘o’ shape, “Not good enough. Say, ‘I’m sorry Ilya,’” He nudges Shane’s head a little hard. Shane needs him to do it again, harder. The fever is starting to get unbearable, he’s sweating so profusely he’s entirely sure he looks and smells gross—but with the way a sharp, shiny, canine peeks out of Ilya’s mouth, Shane reasons he smells more needy than anything. “Say it. Be a good omega, hm? A good pup.”
Pup, Shane continues to discover new things about himself, Ilya is opening up so many new fantastic doors for him. He’s arching into Ilya now, trying to get friction off of anything, “I’m sorry—“
“Say it right,” Those big fingers squish at his chin, it hurts so good, the pressure sending a signal straight to his aching cock.
“I’m sorry Ilya—Please, come on!” Shane hiccups, face hot from embarrassment. His toes are curling against the floor from just Ilya’s grip, and his humiliation is rewarded when Ilya grabs him by the waist and spins them around, pushing Shane’s stomach first against the kitchen counter. He folds Shane flat on the counter, held down by his firm hands and he settles unmoving, ass offered up. Shane jolts when he feels Ilya pull down his shorts and unceremoniously squeeze his cock past the tiny wet ring of muscle that makes up his hole until his throbbing cockhead had slid inside. Shane’s slick made it easier to slide in of course, but the stretch still had him bracing his hands on the counter, letting out pathetic hiccuped mm’s.
Ilya draws back experimentally, a small strain beginning at the base of his spine as he arches further into Ilya’s hands and tries to open wider to welcome Ilya in. Humming contentedly, Ilya pushes his tip in again, teasing in and out. “Next time you leave our bed, I will let you suffer. Alone.”
“Our bed,” Shane mumbles back, liking the sound of those words, he’s too gone floating on pure pleasure and the feeling of the counter digging into his stomach. He couldn’t care less about the uncomfortable position as Ilya decides to finally shove his cock inside of him, rutting into him without any full strokes. He’s practically humping him, big hands gripping his waist, taunting the idea of really fucking him. Shane has tears gathering in the corner of his eyes from being unsatisfied and somewhat satisfied at the same time, it’s enough but not and his reasoning is being handed over to his crazed heated hormones as he decides to quit his pleading whines and just provoke Ilya. Shane wants that hand gripping his chin again, he wants him angry, he wants him rough. He wants his omega to be subdued.
“If you don’t start fucking me right now,” he says, voice wrecked, “I’ll leave you alone again and find another alpha who will—”
The growl that Ilya lets out reverberates through the kitchen and a rough hand suddenly pushing on the back of his neck squishes his cheek further onto the counter. It hurts so good, it's uncomfortable but so good. Shane preens at the contact, moaning embarrassingly loud. “You want to provoke me?” Ilya grinds out, “Я сделаю тебя своей прямо сейчас.”
“Yes,” Shane agrees stupidly, uncaring of what Ilya is rasping out in Russian behind him, he’s too busy chanting out his mantra of yes, and alpha, and don’t stop, he can’t care about trying to decipher what any of those words could possibly mean. And he can’t take it anymore, the sensation of Ilya’s cock and the pressure of being bent over and pressed down and tamed has him reaching his climax violently, dragging out a loud, embarrassingly high-pitched moan. He shudders with the feeling, still pushing back on Ilya’s cock. Ilya pulls out of him abruptly, and a warm feeling on his back tells him that Ilya had cum on him, not in him.
“No—” He whines out pathetically, trying not the melt onto the floor because his legs were starting to give out. “No come inside. Knot me.”
“Wow,” he hears Ilya whisper behind him, squishing the skin of his ass a little. Ilya shushes him gently, laughing a little in disbelief, coaxing him upright and turning him around to carry him towards the bathroom. Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck, scenting him so fiercely he hurts his nose a little on Ilya’s shoulder. “Later sweetheart,” Ilya says softly, “Let’s sit in the bath for a little, yes?”
-
Shane grimaces a little, fully dressed for once, sitting in his nest on Ilya’s bed watching him get dressed to go outside and smoke, of all things. Yes, Shane had forced himself to detach from Ilya for a few hours to prove that he wasn’t as stupid as he thought he was on his heat (he was) but when Ilya was the one leaving it stung a little more. His pheromones must indicate the sour feeling settling at the pit of his stomach because Ilya snaps his head towards him, cigarette pack in hand.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Shane mutters in lieu of a reason for his unpleasant scent, reaching out to adjust a pillow next to him.
“And you,” Ilya replies evenly, tapping the cigarette pack against his palm, “Can handle the space, no? I will be very quick.”
“Very quick,” Shane repeats underneath his breath, he decides to ignore Ilya’s presence. He feels flushed suddenly, embarrassed at his nagging because, really, he had no right to treat Ilya like anything more than a very giving super casual roommate turned heat-partner.
“If it bothers you, you must use your words, Shane.”
Shane, there it is again. It’s not the first time Ilya has used it today, it’s not even the first time Ilya has said it outside of sex but the use of his name has him submitting. He can follow instructions, he can listen, Shane can be good. He shifts a little uncomfortably, body getting a bit too warm. Ilya must see the effect he has on him because he twists the cigarette pack in his hand, eyebrows raised and expectant.
Shane decides to cross his arms, immediately aware that this makes him look defensive and therefore guilty of something. “It smells bad.”
“You like my smell,” Ilya retorts immediately.
“Just go,” Shane says, starting to feel a little desperate, already accepting Ilya’s absence in return for the reward he would get for waiting.
The cigarette pack turns once between Ilya’s fingers, cardboard rasping softly. “You are giving permission,” he says, not unkindly.
“Oh my god Rozanov,” Shane says suddenly fed up with the entire thing that he, himself had made an issue, “Just fucking go.”
The hint of a smirk touched Ilya’s mouth, restrained but unmistakably pleased with himself. “You are certain,” Ilya says in the tone that he usually uses to get on Shane’s last fucking nerve, “you want me to go?”
Shane throws himself back on the bed, grabbing a pillow and covering the blush on his face. He’s half hard in his shorts already just from Ilya being fucking annoying and he’s not above begging anymore, too far gone into embarrassing himself around Ilya. “Why are you still here,” Shane groans but it comes out more like a high-pitched breathy whine.
Ilya snorts and surprises Shane by crawling onto the bed and laying next to him. His fingers drift toward Shane’s ribs, slow and thoughtful, stopping just shy of contact—like he wanted the reaction more than the touch. Shane lifts up the pillow and glares at Ilya who looks absolutely delighted at the expression. “When you are alone, how do you touch yourself?”
“What?” Where was this coming from?
“When you spend your heats alone, how do you spend all three weeks satisfying yourself? If I,” Ilya says, pulling the pillow from Shane’s grip, “were to leave you alone right now, how would you do it?”
“No,” Shane finds himself breathing out, reaching for Ilya who pulls just out of reach, “No—don’t leave.”
Ilya hums, tilting his head as if contemplating, “I will not if you give me a show. You have dildo?”
“Obviously,” Shane snaps still trying to wiggle closer to Ilya who keeps dodging him, “Every fucking omega has—”
“Is that all you use?”
“Ilya,” Shane whimpers, “You’re being mean.”
“I want to know, Shane. Show me and I will give you what you need. I will knot you.”
The promise of Ilya’s knot has his mind a little hazy, tongue loose and betraying him as his eyes start to drift to the pillow Ilya is still holding, “No I,” He starts, “Use the pillow. Sometimes.”
“The pillow?” Ilya asks, a little winded, a wild look on his face. “Show me,” he demands, shoving the pillow into Shane’s lap and shifting up the bed until he’s seated against the headboard.
Shane pauses for a second, uncertain and of course shy despite Ilya being inside of him quite literally every second of the day. He decides to think about the prize after, the feeling of being filled up until he can’t think straight anymore and knotted. He undresses first, folding his clothes neatly before placing them aside Ilya who stares at his dripping cock with a huge smile.
“Shut up,” Shane mutters.
“I have not said anything. Go on.”
Shane sits up straight and finally settles back on the pillow and he lets one hand grip the pillow and the other settle behind him. He tries to find a smooth rhythm trying to get his body to move in a way that feels pleasant but also looks…good, for Ilya's attentive stare. He widens his legs a little more and starts to ride the pillow properly, cock erect and rubbing against the soft fabric, the friction so needed Shane is already throwing his head back and panting, trying to keep his eyes open. He wants to see Ilya see him, he wants to watch Ilya with his gaze still fixed on him, eyes moving all over his body, looking down at his cock and then his waist before coming up to almost settle on his face.
Shane just wants to be good, to do everything Ilya asks—because if he’s good enough, if he does it all perfectly—which isn’t hard, since he wants to, since it’s exactly what he wants, and then maybe, maybe he’ll finally get what he’s been craving. Ilya’s strong scent just spurs him on even further and now he's rutting desperately against the pillow breathing out Ilya’s name in tiny pathetic mewls.
“Okay—” Ilya says strained, taking off his pants, “Come here. Come here.” Shane is too far gone to feel embarrassed about how fast he finds himself in Ilya’s lap shaking underneath his hands. He noses along Ilya’s neck, licking desperately as Ilya flips them over in one smooth motion, one hand already finding his ass and then a finger slips inside of him.
“Knot me,” Shane begs, arms wrapped around Ilya’s neck pulling him so close Ilya can’t find the room to actually do that but he doesn’t care—he just wants Ilya to keep looking at him, to see how fervent his wants are. “Knot me, give it to me—”
“Я знаю,” Ilya whispers against his skin, clearly as eager as Shane as he decides to draw his fingers out and line himself up with Shane’s twitching hole instead, “I know.” And he really does know because Ilya starts to thrust, the sound of skin-on-skin followed by Shane’s loud moans and their scents molding together beautifully with sex and sweat thick in the air.
Ilya fucks him with such intensity it borders on frantic but every nerve in Shane’s body is alive as his short canines dig into his lips trying to stop the endless noises that ebb out of him. His thoughts blur as Ilya’s cock hits that sweet spot, inflating, teasing the idea of a perfect knot. Shane manages to tilt his head to glance at Ilya’s face, wanting to see his own pleasure written across those pretty blue eyes.
There’s something different about Ilya’s scent, some form of intent, there that has Shane wondering about what could be…Ilya grips his cock suddenly and he’s only stroked once, twice, before his orgasm rushes out of him so intensely that it blindsides him. A low vibrating hum sounds in Ilya’s chest as he keeps going, face now buried right near Shane’s scent gland—canines peeking out and rubbing against the unmated juncture of his neck.
And, against all better judgment, Ilya nestled deeply inside of him as his cum fills Shane up and his knot inflates, opens his mouth and bites.