Omiway



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    Shane Hollander loves two things: hockey and his infuriatingly clingy husband.

    When Ilya slams into an unexpected rut on the ice, Shane’s the only one who can get him home before things turn feral.

    What starts as a very intense, very ill-timed rut turns into late-night guilt, broken pride, and an impossible wish for a family Shane will never be able to carry—
    until a specialist, an ultrasound, and a tiny heartbeat say otherwise.

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    27 Dec 2025

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    This season for Shane Hollander is everything - scouts watching, stats climbing, NHL dreams within arm’s reach. He’s disciplined, controlled, built to dominate. But then he goes into an unexpected first heat in the middle of a game. No one notices except Ilya Rozanov, a rival he’s only ever admired through screens and stat sheets, the one man whose scent cuts through Shane’s fever like relief.

    A whispered room number becomes inevitability. Shane arrives shaking, desperate, half-feral with need he doesn’t understand. What follows is hours of relentless waves of heat and hunger, release collapsing into need again, Ilya’s hands and voice the only thing keeping Shane from burning through the mattress.

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    26 Dec 2025

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    "You're supposed to smoke over there." Someone said from behind Ilya.

    Ilya almost dropped his cigarette. His English was shitty, but he had studied that sentence enough times over the years to understand it immediately. He didn't even think about his words much anymore, but it was impossible to avoid them.

    He turned instinctively, and was face to face with Shane fucking Hollander.

    Out of almost seven billion people, of course Ilya's soulmate had to be his fated rival. It was almost poetic. Still, Ilya had enough sense to realize just how bad this was.

    or, Shane says Ilya's soulmate words. Ilya vows to never speak a word to him to keep him from finding out. They fall in love anyway.

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    26 Dec 2025

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    Ilya and Shane soulbond with a handshake in a freezing parking lot in Saskatchewan. It actually doesn’t change very much, until Shane’s concussion drives everything haywire, forcing them into close proximity and an earlier confrontation with all the feelings they’ve been trying to ignore.

    Or: as it turns out, it’s easier than you’d think to be in someone’s head and still not know how they feel.

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    26 Dec 2025

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    He nuzzles against the exposed skin of his neck, inhaling the scent that clings to his suit jacket collar. It’s perfect.

    “...Hollander,” He hears Rozanov say, urgent like it’s not the first time he’s said it. “Shane,” he follows it up with, and that snaps him out of it. He’s never called him that. Shane, reluctantly, lifts his face a little, eyes glazed over as he meets Rozanov’s eyes.

    “What?”

    “You stink,” Rozanov says, concern dripping. “No, you—fuck. You reek. What is—” Ilya’s fingers lift up, tugging at the scent patch, revealing more of the spot beneath it. Even Shane can smell himself at that point. He does reek. Reeks of heat, of Omega, of honey and sweetness, of something that would melt on your tongue.

    Shane reefs himself back. The Omega inside him aches, mourns, whimpers at the loss of contact. It’s needed, though. He scrambles back, hand slapping at his neck to force the peeled patch back down over his scent gland. He backs up till his spine knocks against the bathroom stall.

    “You are in heat at award show? Why would you hide this? Why would you not call out sick? Are you—are you insane? You care this much about trophy?”

    OR Shane goes into heat in Vegas

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    23 Dec 2025