Chapter Text
The smells around Ilya are intoxicating.
Top notes fill his senses and engulf his body in a euphoric high the way a buzz of a high-pressure hockey game can only rival.
Although he spends most of his nights out, whether it is his at high-end bars or crowded clubs, Ilya hardly gets the chance to indulge in his scent mixing with others. The mandatory scent patches and suppressants the MLH requires for all players, regardless of designation, has never sat right with the Russian. But, right now, as he steps away from yet another dance partner, a beta woman in a dress that leaves little to Ilya’s already very active imagination, that is the last thought on his mind.
Instead, he relishes in how bodies of nameless individuals press against him, changing routinely like the horses on a carousel. Colorful, distinct and all open to Ilya. But only for the moment.
The alpha knows he’s the kind of person to attract anyone the minute he walks into a room. Drawing people to him like moths to a light. Not scenting him but staying long enough for the notes to linger around and in him. Until he moves onto the next person, the next scent.
Spices, florals, citruses, and earthy tones all paint an explosion of colors in Ilya’s mind. He does not see the faces around him. The dark lights of the club obscuring everybody, from his fellow Raiders to the numerous strangers that invade his space and steal touches, glancing brushes of hands that feel without a second thought.
But, just like the many other faces that pass by without a second thought, as do their scents. There is a lack of distinctive notes that stick out to the alpha. But, he is used to this fact.
Lingering depths of one’s scent is meant only for highly compatible mates, those who can understand one another without uttering a single word and share a momentary glance. Ilya has yet to experience that trigger himself, the click that unlocks the depths of another’s being. But for now, he flippantly dismisses the concern as he throws back another shot, letting the cool alcohol trickle down his throat and burn away his worries.
Ilya just wants to dance and drink.
Hands on his chest, pushing against his arms, fingers trailing down dangerously and thrillingly close to the low waistband of his pants. Some hands even find the courage to trace across his face, up his cheekbones and across his lips. At times he’s grinding his crotch with skillful and rhythmic hips against one person, his mouth finding theirs, and hands placed on his dance partner’s waist, pulling them closer. They follow his lead eagerly.
Good, he likes that.
Other times he’s weaving through the crowds, the beat of the music’s bass thumping deep in his chest. Ilya feels eyes on him, heated and intense as he lounges in a large booth with his teammates.
Not that he’s shy about his confidence, but sometimes, in times like these, he loves to remember that he is probably the world’s luckiest alpha.
Young, rich and highly desired. Even if just for fleeting moments that he could easily forget by the next morning, Ilya chooses to push away those doubts and focus on the here and now. What else could he ask for?
All of these scents surround him, infused into him and his fleeting, buzzy mind. But, the faces never stay.
Only a select few people are the exception to this fact. And, as the prominent scent of balsam floods his senses once he steps inside his Boston house and tears off the scent patch, one of those faces immediately springs to mind. The crisp sweetness to it belongs to someone that Ilya holds dear, enough to call it and the owner familial.
“Sveta!” Ilya greets, his smile wide. He wraps his arms around the woman, who returns his hug with equal enthusiasm.
“Ilyushka,” Svetlana coos to the point of being overly sweet and sacrine, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, burying her nose into his scent gland. Her warm balsam and his bright bergamot blend into a comforting cloud around the pair. She steps away, too soon for Ilya, but the look in her eyes tells him silence and compliance is the best option. He can’t even look away as her hands have already found themselves placed gently yet firmly on his face, long nails teasing at his jawline. Even without words, her slightly bitter scent tells Ilya to choose his words carefully.
“Tell me,” she starts, her sharp gaze focusing like a laser. “Why am I hearing about the captain of the Boston Raiders out every night at different clubs until nearly 3 in the morning?”
“Maybe this captain is very fun and just trying to enjoy his time off before the season starts up.”
Ilya knows it’s the wrong answer when Svetlana immediately responds with a pinch to his cheek before dropping her hands, rolling her eyes with playful exaggeration, and turning to saunter over to his overly-large couch. She plops down, glancing over her shoulder, wordlessly. Ilya joins her without a second thought.
Instead of sitting next to her, however, he all but throws himself on top of her, catching his weight so as to not crush his best friend. Svetlana lets out a surprised squeal, raising her hands to rest on his wide chest, pushing against him.
“Don’t crush me, you идиот!” A burst of balsam assaults Ilya’s senses, overpowering his own scent. If she were any other alpha, Ilya would take this challenge as an insult. For Sveta, however, he can’t help but grin so much his cheeks start to hurt.
Bending down, he plants a wet kiss against her cheek, emphasizing the gesture with a loud ‘mwah!’ before he finally flips off of his friend, adjusting himself on his couch so he lays sideways, resting his head on her lap. Svetlana’s fingers immediately find his hair, combing through the curls. Ilya purrs.
“Why do you want to make me sad, Sveta?” Ilya mumbles in Russian, his body relaxing into the cushions even further. “Take away my fun and joy, force me to stay in and be boring.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything, Ilyushka,” Svetlana replies in the same language, her fingers scratching lightly against his scalps. “As your friend, I want you to be happy. But, as the Boston Raiders PR Manager, I want you to remember you’re not a rookie anymore.”
“Just because I am the captain doesn’t mean I should give up what I like to do,” he says to no one in particular. “I didn’t stop when I became captain, why should I stop now?”
Svetlana lets out a deep sigh, catching Ilya’s attention. The deepening of her scent adds further concern, pinching Ilya’s brow.
“What is it?” He asks, switching over to English and sitting up to look her in the eye. For a moment, she does not meet his gaze, staring ahead. Ilya can see the wheels turning in her mind.
“You didn’t hear this from me, if anyone asks,” Svetlana prefaces, eyes flicking to him. She turns toward him. “But, higher up management and the coaches have been…talking. They want to ‘clean up’ the Raiders’ image, is what I’ve heard.”
“An MLH team talking about creating a ‘clean’ image?” Ilya huffs out in disbelief, half expecting Svetlana to say she was joking. Unfortunately, she is not.
“Personally, I think it’s the tabloids that are bothering them,” Svetlana huffs, crossing her arms in frustration. “Outrageous stories about you and the company you keep, whatever that means.”
“The company I keep? What’s been said?” Ilya sits back, eyebrows shooting to his hairline. He rakes his brain for any memory of treating anyone, Raider or otherwise, in any way that was not proper. He’s always asked for consent. When ‘no’ was brought up, he always stopped to check-in. Personal boundaries are a must for him.
“I know you, Ilya,” she reassures, reaching down to grab his hands. “It’s just speculation on my part. I did not mean to scare you.”
She runs her thumb over his knuckles, caressing the skin with a gentle touch. Ilya brings her hands up, pressing a kiss to her hand. A quiet thank you, accenting with it a release of his scent, calm, appreciative.
A beacon in the storm that is his life.
“So, why this conversation now?” he mutters against her skin, the warmth emanating from her hands almost intoxicating. His eyes flutter closed as he listens to her reply.
“Probably has something to do with one of our new rookies and how he is basically the ‘online version’ of you.”
He lowers her hands, still holding on. His questioning stare meets hers, tired at the thought of the rookie. Ilya knows which one, Matthew LeBlanc. A cocky, surefire rookie straight out of high school and drafted third by the Raiders.
“What the hell does that mean? Online version of me? There is only one Ilya Rozanov.”
“It means,” Sveta lightly laughs at his offense to the thought that anyone could come close to imitating him. “That he is a playboy, at least what some in the comms department have said. Just online instead of in-person.”
“Then, those people are lying liars,” Ilya scoffs. “I do not need to be desperate enough to go online to find someone to fuck. I make people come to me. And with me. You know that, Sveta.”
“Unfortunately,” Sveta sighs with jest, earning a heartbroken gaze from Ilya. The pair wait before breaking out into full laughs, collapsing into each other.
After Sveta finds herself curled into Ilya’s side and his arm around her shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, mind still working at deciphering their conversation.
“So,” he starts, feeling her eyes look up at him as he stares ahead, the dark screen of his large, OLED 8K television reflecting his confusion back to him. “Why does it matter that I like going out when it comes to LeBlanc? How the hell did management come up with that?”
“Because of his social media background check,” Svetlana says with nonchalance. Ilya’s surprised expression goes either unnoticed or dismissed by her. He did not know the Raiders started to monitor their player’s social media. At least, not extensively.
Perhaps he missed that memo. Or, he just forgot someone told him.
“What did they find?”
“Apparently, he’s paid for multiple ‘omega experiences,’” Svetalana sits up, her eyes gleaming like a cat that caught its prey. Ilya, on the other hand, stares back like she spoke in French.
“Omega experience?” He asks, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. “What the fuck is that? Is like buying time for someone to act like a partner?”
“Yes,” Sveta quickly confirms.
Oh, now Ilya is frustrated. Why the hell would anyone think that LeBlanc is anything like him? Even at his worst, Ilya never considered paying for someone’s time and attention.
“Is this an escort service?”
“From what I found, yes and no,” she says, pouting her lips as he rests against the back of the couch. “But, because the higher ups are all old, alpha men, that’s what they hear when a young, conventionally attractive alpha pays for an omega’s time and attention; sex. LeBlanc said he never paid for sex, just for arm candy for shit like events.”
“The next person who compares Matty to me will learn to fucking regret it.” Ilya grumbles, his hackles rising.
His bergamot scent sours the space around the pair. The usually deep, rich sweetness, accented by an undertone of black pepper and juniper swirls into an air of bitter dissatisfaction. Ilya feels his hands curl into tight fists, his mind swimming.
How could the Raiders management, people who Ilya looked to when he arrived in the United States nearly a decade ago, possibly even think that’s how he presents himself. Those older alphas, staring down at him, a self-admitted cash cow for the Boston hockey team, further reduced to more of a problem? More of a bad influence on the young rooks?
Ilya Rozanov, the man who is the person who led Russia to back-to-back wins at the Prospect Cup, the youngest captain ever of the Boston Raiders, and the best player in the MLH, could be seen as nothing more than a liability to the same franchise he dedicated his life to.
The noise in his head starts to escalate, a ringing builds as his vision starts to darken.
A voice, gruff and critical, tells Ilya he is lazy and a disappointment.
Just as quickly as the spiral starts, the comforting warmth of balsam washes over him. Svetlana’s body is pressed against his, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her nose nuzzles into his scent gland.
“Are you with me, Ilyushka?” She softly prods in Russian, her curls tickling at his nose as he buries his face into them further, a silent assurance. “I thought I lost you there.”
“Hm,” he simply hums, acknowledging her concern. But, his brain translating the run of words in his brain but failing to comprehend any forms of communication besides the base instincts of his alpha, the rumble of a purr coming deep within his chest as Svetlana pets his curls down in a familiar soothing manner.
“Ilya, as your friend, I want you to be happy,” Svetlana preempts, her face still buried at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, breath hot against his scent gland. “But, the PR manager part of me wants to be there for your image. So, I have an…idea.”
“Do I need to listen to it?” Ilya cannot help but whine, leaning back with reluctance to see Svetlana’s weary stare. A smug grin tugs at his lips. He concedes. “Okay, what is it?”
“For my sake, your best friend Svetlana Vetrova, consider not going out at least a month.”
“What?” Ilya gasps. “You are trying to kill me, Sveta! Me and the rest of the poor population of Boston who will miss me in their lives! This is facism!”
“I’m just suggesting that you take time for yourself,” she counters with a shrug. “It’s a compromise. A month isn’t that long. You can still go out during the day. Management will calm down that their starring center and captain isn’t on the front of the tabloids every day. Win-win.”
“Compromise,” Ilya mutters with a huff. He stands, making his way into the kitchen, Svetlana on his heels as the conversation continues to flow. The only other thought going through his brain is ‘Vodka. My mouth. Now.’
“I do not think you understand that word, Sveta,” he says, grabbing two glasses from his cupboard and a bottle of his better Russian vodka from its dedicated freezer space. “How is taking away what I enjoy doing a compromise?”
He pours the alcohol, the clear liquid cascading over the perfectly square ice cube. He pushes hands one glass to Sveta, cheersing before tossing back a much-needed and welcome drink, the burn of the vodka almost soothing to his otherwise flustered self at this moment.
“You could use the extra time to be productive,” Sveta throws out after taking her own sip. “Get more sleep. Eyebags aren’t attractive on anyone, Ilyushka. Or, you could learn a new hobby.”
“I am already skilled at everything useful,” Ilya replies almost flippantly. “What else is there for me? To die of boredom?”
“I’m sure you can still learn new hobbies. Can you knit?”
“I said ‘everything useful,’ Sveta. I’m not a бабушка (grandmother.)"
Sveta sets her glass aside, strolling over to Ilya on the other side of the large counter. He backs up, until his lower back meets said surface. Despite her smaller stature, she manages to cage the large hockey player in with hands on either side of him, resting on the granite countertop, and an imploring look in her bright green eyes that makes Ilya’s stomach flip.
“Just consider it, for me, please?”
How could he say no to her?
He keeps seeing that name everywhere.
Puckbunny24, or S as he’s referred to in the articles Ilya’s found on the subject. One of the most popular and followed influencers of the ‘Omega Experience.’
Ilya’s had extra time on his hands this past week since his talk with Svetlana, and his curiosity won out. Sue him. Staying in instead of going out to party during the off-season truly tested Ilya’s patience and willpower.
Nothing on the thousands of channels he pays for or the numerous streaming sites interested Ilya. And, there are only so many times he can workout or jerk off before it gets boringly repetitive. So, he opened his laptop and found himself here.
Over twenty tabs fight for space at the top of Ilya’s screen as he scrolls the current article before him. Ever since Sveta mentioned the term, it lived in the back of his mind. A seed she unintentionally planted, fed by his never-ending thoughts and growing into a festering interest planting its roots into the corner of Ilya’s mind.
That is how he found himself here, on the edge of his couch with his laptop before him, bent over the device, engrossed in this article. Already, Ilya knew he would take this secret to his grave. Particularly with the opening sentence, making his usual unflappable demeanor crack, just slightly.
He’s not getting flustered. Russians do not get flustered.
All ‘Bout Ontario
Alphas are Seeking Connection, One Omega is Attracting Them All
Imagine: It’s a Friday night, and you’re home alone. You could have gone out to a bar or club with your friends, probably one of the few singles among a group of couples, but you have plans. Plans that don’t involve said friend, but one person in particular.
So, you pull out your laptop and go where every lonely alpha, beta or omega finds themselves on a Friday night - Fansly.
Despite its marketing trying to push a more ‘advertiser-friendly’ aesthetic with cooking lessons and targeted fitness classes all available behind a monthly subscription model, it does not take a genius like Albert Einstein to see past the face filters and ring lights of its high-gloss glamour. Pull back the curtain and see that the man (or woman, we don’t judge!) behind it offers a more…intimate experience.
Enter Puckbunny24, or S as known by his loyal following. A relative newcomer to the online scene, S exploded onto it with one goal: create a space for omegas to feel empowered and alphas to feel free.
While S primarily focuses on the emotional aspect of seeking companionship, he is not a stranger to appeasing the other level to our hierarchy of needs. The carnal desires of the flesh are what draw his audience in, but the nuances of the mind are what keep them coming back for more.
Is his success in the Omega Experience field a fluke? Or, is his unique way of approaching the work a carefully laid plan for longevity on a platform made to churn out the young and the restless on a near daily basis?
I had the privilege to sit down with S and talk about his work, his impact on the world of ‘dating’ experiences, and (hopefully!) himself.
Harris: S, it’s so great to meet you!
S: It’s great to be here. Thanks for having me, Harris.
H: First of all, I have to tell you I was surprised you agreed to this interview. From my research, you’re really careful when it comes to disclosing any info about yourself. In fact, this interview is the first one you’re doing in-person if I’m not mistaken.
S nods, completely serious as he folds his hands together on the coffee table we share.
S: It is. Being in the field I am in, it’s important to protect myself and, by extension, my family. Honestly? I agreed to do this interview because of your other pieces, Harris.
This admission made me scramble to pick my jaw off the floor. Even though I do not find myself attracted to other omegas, S, like many other aspects of his life, is the exception. Thousands can attest to this sentiment. So, having an idol of mine recognize my work? Move aside Mr. Peabody, The S Award is all I need.
H: Really?! I have to say I’m honored.
S: Yeah, I loved that article you wrote about the movement in online circles for professional sports teams to be more inclusive regarding secondary genders.
H: God, I was so ecstatic when I got the green light to write that one. The importance of pro-active inclusion in high visibility fields like professional sports instead of retroactive back-step-
Focus, Drover. You have a trend-setter sitting in front of you. This time is for him.
H: Anyway, we can chat about that later. Time to shine the spotlight on the star of this piece.
S: Damn, can’t say I didn’t try. Well, ask away.
H: Don’t worry, I’ll make this as painless as possible. We’ll start off easy. Tell me as much as you want about yourself and what you do.
S: I guess I’m what people would call an ‘influencer.’ You can find me on basically every social media platform. My main content is on, uh…
We’re the only two people in this coffee shop besides the baristas behind the counter. S still lowers his voice.
S: Fansly. I host livestreams, community nights, one-on-one sessions, and post pictures and shorts from time-to-time. It’s all catered around the Omega Experience.
H: Across those platforms you use the same handle, Puckbunny24. What’s the origin of that?
S: Like every good Canadian, I played hockey growing up. So, yeah, I know what the term ‘puck bunny’ means. But, honest answer? My friend talked me into using it as my handle when making my Fansly account. We were both young 20’s and drunk, so of course we thought it was a good idea. Plus, she always calls me her ‘bunny.’ I don’t know where that came from. The number is also a hockey connection.
H: Did you always want to be an influencer?
S: No, no far from it. Before I presented, I actually wanted to be a professional hockey player. I was on track to go pro and everything. Just wanted to get out on the ice, score goals and play with a team. But…let’s say life had different plans for me.
Being the person who researched heavily on the topic of omegas in professional sports (seriously, go read it. Has the S stamp of approval, plus a few awards), I get where he’s coming from. Even 10 years ago, when S would’ve been around the age to go pro, his sudden presentation dashed any hopes of that happening. The stigma around omegas in pro sports still stinks in the air of many locker rooms in 2025 despite organizations like the MLH trying to clean up their image.
Who knows what it would’ve been like almost 10 years ago in that environment?
H: So, instead of shooting pucks you’re shooting content.
S: (laughs) That’s one way to put it. I actually started out on YouTube. A friend of mine encouraged me to post my workout routine, since I’m more bulky than the regular omega male. It was a short video, but my friend connected me with someone who had a camera, good lights and could edit decently well. It got a few thousand views, more than I was expecting.
Said friend, who we’ll call Daisy for the sake of anonymity, is what S calls the ‘brains behind the operation.’
H: I know you still post some workout videos, but I don’t think I’ve seen this video.
S: It’s um, it’s scrubbed from the internet. After I changed career paths. Or trajectory, at least. People commented on how they watched the workouts, but instead of doing them they just fell asleep to my voice. I kinda went down a rabbit hole on why that happens and found that one of the main reasons people do this is to not feel lonely. Especially alphas.
H: Huh, so how does that rabbit hole lead you to being the quote, unquote ‘face’ of the Omega Experience?
The irony being, for those five people who have never heard of Puckbunny24, that S is a faceless content creator. Meaning, he does not show his face or image at all.
S: I got requests for voice recordings. Personalized messages, daily affirmations, stuff like that. I didn’t charge at first, but my friend who helped me get started convinced me to start. At first I did turn down some of the more…the more, uh, raunchy ones. But, as I grew, I figured if I still had the say of what I could and couldn’t do, what would be the harm in, um, being flexible and opening up.
Being the professional I am, I try hard not to choke on the sip of coffee I take at this exact moment.
I fail. Spectacularly.
S: Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out like, well, that. It just did.
H: You’re fine. You just caught me off guard is all.
S: Now I feel like an asshole, making you spill your coffee all over yourself. Sorry.
H: It’s not the first time. When you live with a large dog, it’s almost expected. Back to you, S, from the voice recordings, you go then go into posting videos and live streaming, right?
S: Yeah. Definitely an intimidating experience, not having complete control when it comes to live streaming. Kinda still is. But, I found myself getting more comfortable at the same time. Weird, right?
H: No, I get it. I think it has to do with that loneliness issue you mentioned before.
S: Exactly. I was already live-streaming on Fansly, considering how much of a headache fulfilling all of the voice recordings would be if I had to be on multiple platforms. My content just naturally changed to what it is now. People still come in, hang out, but I interact with them more than when I started. Depending on the day, how it ends could differ.
H: Where does the Omega Experience part of your content come in?
S: Like I said earlier, I noticed that most of the requests I was getting were from alphas. My brain, being what it is, wanted to know why. To put it simply, it turns out a lot of alphas don’t know how to talk to an omega. They still have outdated ideas on how to act and what to expect from an omega partner.
H: And that’s where you come in.
S: Yeah, you’re right. I made a space where alphas can feel like they can learn about supporting omegas and not degrade them. We live in the f***ing 21st century. A person’s secondary gender is not their whole self. Yeah, it’s a big part of them, but it’s not solely that person.
H: In my research on you, I noticed that your content does vary from wholesome to fulsome. How do you choose what to focus on?
S: How I choose what to make that day has never really changed since I started. I listen to my audience, which is what I think has helped my growth. Every content creator knows that your whole career is basically dependent on your audience. That’s also why I have one-on-one calls with subscribers who pay for it. Some lessons are great for a wider audience while others are more suited toward special cases. And, well, the um, the time of year also narrows down what I may post.
H: Ah yes, the nesting video.
S: F*ck, I still can’t believe that one did as well as it did.
H: Apparently a lot of alphas and betas want to learn about why an omega sets up their nest and why it’s so sacred.
S: Apparently. I do want to say that my lessons are more of the broad strokes in the experience. Obviously all omegas aren’t the same. I’m sure you can agree, Harris.
H: 100%. You do offer some amazing insight. If I’m being honest, I came away from some of your posts with a better outlook on my omega.
S: I’m, uh, thanks…really, it’s work I never expected to be doing but glad I’m in it. Even my parents, although they might not know about everything I post, support the coaching aspect of it. Which means-it…it means a lot to me.
H: What can the world expect from Puckbunny24 in the future?
S: God, I still don’t know why she talked me into that username. Do you think it’s too late to change it?
H: Considering the amount of fan merch (both SWF and NSFW) I’ve seen sold on Etsy, I think so. Regardless, how do you see the evolution of your content in, say a year, five years, maybe even ten?
S: Ten years out, I don’t know. But one? Hopefully just helping others. Whether that’s teaching more alphas through the Omega Experience or uplifting other omega creators. I know I’m seen as a ‘bigger’ influencer, but honestly, I’m just like everyone else. A small fish in a big pond. Almost everything would not happen without my team. They work wonders to be able to help me, so it’s the least I could do in return for all their hard work.
H: S, I want to thank you for your time. It was great talking with you.
S: You too, Harris. We should do this again some time. Just, um, without the interview part.
H:(laughs) I’m taking you up on that. Anything else you want to say before we wrap up?
S: Just thanks to my viewers. I couldn’t do this without them. Truly.
For his first in-person interview, S handled it like a pro. To say I left that interview with an extra spring in my step would be an understatement. Not only because it was probably the best Q&A session I ever had with a subject, but also because of S. Through the screen he exudes an air of calm and confidence that lingers with the viewer like a satisfying scenting, even without showing his face. In-person? Take that and multiply it ten-fold. That is the confidence he instills when giving someone his full attention. He may shrug off the idea of being a trail-blazer in his field, but S to me, an omega in an alpha dominant field, he’s ground-breaking.
If you have time on that lonely Friday night, perhaps single and with a working laptop, drop a follow to Puckbunny24. Or, at least consider it.
P.S. thanks to my job for letting me expense my single Fansly month subscription to S. It was for research, I swear.
Link to puckbunny24’s Carrd: puckbunny24.carrd.co
This article is 100% human produced and edited. No generative A.I. was used in the process of writing it. #fuckAI.
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Ilya clicks the link at the bottom of the article. Why not? He has the time.
His eardrums are ringing.
Not like when he is checked against the boards during a game or after leaving a club. This ringing is different, lighter. The sound resonates with his alpha, offering a comforting tone to his otherwise restless mind. A tuning fork hitting the precise note for his orchestral preamble. He ups the volume on his phone, the bright light dimmed as he stares at the screen, probably too close for the medical trainer’s comfort. That voice becomes louder, emphasizing the low and near monotone quality to it. Ilya would dare to call it boring if it had not immediately grabbed his attention when he clicked on the first video.
A whisper in the back of his mind tries to make itself known. One from many years ago.
Ilya silences it.
“This next pose is probably one almost everyone knows; the downward dog,” S’s voice informs as the footage of him flowing through the yoga routine follows along. Ilya’s eyes track the length of S’s toned body, his muscular arms and legs sweaty and on display for thousands to see. However, his face is obscured through what Ilya could only assume is fairly decent editing of the pre-recorded video. S is shot from profile, the shot wide enough to show his full body but cut off his head when he stands to his full height.
The way S bends forward, pushing his hips back and the ever so slight bend to his back makes Ilya’s mind stutter.
“Make sure you focus on keeping your back flat and legs straight with the slightest bend in the knee,” the omega continues as the video plays. His voice is barely straining from holding the bent over position. The mic clipped to his loose tank top catches his steady, deep breaths. “You don’t want to limit any blood circulation by locking your joints.”
Oh, Ilya’s circulation is just fine, if the rushing of blood to his crotch is any indication.
Ever since reading that article a week ago, all Ilya could think about was this omega. Puckbunny24, or S, was an enigma that Ilya was determined to understand. And now, hearing his voice, that desire fanned that spark into a flame.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” S instructs as he does just that. He starts to walk his feet toward his hands, lifting up to what he called a ‘forward fold.’
Ilya’s watched this specific video, Beginner Yoga Flow for Everyone, so many times that he knows it like the back of his hand. He’s never followed along because Ilya does not do yoga. Yoga is boring. Ilya does not do boring. He’s more exciting than someone who follows a beginner yoga course on YouTube. Instead, Ilya watches the video on repeat. Late at night.
Alone.
Before he could go down that spiral, he closes out of the app. Between Twitter, Instagram and YouTube, Ilya’s looked at so much of S’s content he could close his eyes and still see the bulky omega. He could hear his voice, so earnest yet flat, as if trying to hold back a secret while instructing his viewers on how to properly cook the rabbit diet he called ‘food.’
However, after all of his scrolling, Ilya has yet to click on that link. The one to S’s main account. His Fansly.
It’s strange, Ilya figures, that he finds himself hesitating when his thumb hovers over the link. One click and he would be there. Finding what he’d hope to be a treasure trove after his hours of exploration. But, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to just tap.
Normally, he would jump into anything without a second thought. Skating? Yes. Hockey? Of course. Getting to drop gloves during a game? Why the hell not?
But, the simple click of a link shuts his brain off. When caught in this fight or flight situation, he freezes.
Who the hell is he, and what has he done with the Boston Raiders captain Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov?
Rather, what has S done to him?
He contemplates, debates, and obsesses over this link. Despite having found this treasure trove, he still has yet to dig up the crowning jewel; the nesting video.
His alpha demands Ilya find it.
When first mentioned in that article, Ilya’s interest piqued. Ever since then, it has progressed. Enough for Ilya to go to fan forums and subreddits to learn more about Puckbunny24.
Besides his tight body, Ilya has no idea what S looks like. No one does, apparently. Out of the thousands of people who follow his accounts and subscribed to his channel, his face remains a mystery.
His followers have also taken to guessing more than his looks. They also discuss what his scent is, which for Ilya, who grew up learning that asking about a person’s scent is off-limits, surprised him. Unlike Russians, North Americans must be taught to be rude, as these followers continue to openly discuss it. Vanilla, ginger, roses. All stereotypical scents. All scents that Ilya’s gut tells him are wrong. He has no ground to stand on with this theory. A singular buzzing in his brain and itching at his own scent glands are the only indicators.
His coaches have always told him to trust his gut.
But, trusting an organ, whether it’s his brain, heart or other head, has not always led him down the right path.
Which is why he finds himself clicking the link.
Ilya is no stranger to opening websites like OnlyFans or PornHub. Fansly wasn’t any different. How else is he going to pop a knot during long roadies and the coach won’t let the team go out? When the page loads, he sees the black and blue color scheme. As if the site is the porn child between OF and the hub. The clean, near corporate look of the website is innocuous enough to fool a passing glance. But, once Ilya starts to scroll, already logged in - with a burner account like on his other socials - S’s header and icon tell a different story.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans as he takes in the picture at the top of the page. It’s a half body shot of S, lounging on a white blanket in a loose yellow sweater. Ilya does not immediately notice that his face is obscured by a blur due to the sliver of skin that is shown as the sweater rides up. Dark hair is ever so slightly visible.
боже мой (My God) what Ilya would spend to be able to run his nose across his stomach and to feel those long fingers pull at his curls. To move his mouth along that flawless skin, up to S’s thick neck and then down. Lower, past the waistband of those white shorts and to see what the picture cuts off.
This reaction, all of it, over an omega that Ilya just discovered.
He can’t help it. Perhaps he is going crazy. Ilya’s been inside for too long, isolated from the general population. The walls could be talking, wallpaper turning yellow and curling at the edges of his mind. Cottage sickness or whatever the English saying is.
Yet, his alpha yearns for this omega.
At least that is what Ilya tells himself when he is about to scroll through any free content, but realizes that there is none. His frustration grows, a low growl rumbles in his chest as he stares down the blue link that mockingly read ‘Subscribe to see user’s posts.’ Salt is rubbed in the wound as Ilya sees over 3,000 available posts for subscribers. The nail in the coffin is when Ilya notices a ‘weekly special.’
“50% off all tiers for the first month! This week only,” Ilya reads aloud.
A timer next to the special ticks down. Second by second. Less than three days left on it.
$7.50USD for 30 days.
If S wants to hide his best content behind a paywall Ilya will play along. He has the money and time.
His ears are ringing and head is buzzing. He feels drunk despite not drinking a drop of alcohol tonight. His heart hammers against his ribcage with so much force Ilya thought it might burst out of his chest.
Before he could reconsider, Ilya clicks subscribe. His payment goes through.
The timeline opens up.
He scrolls.
Ilya loses track of time.
Inhale. Exhale. In. Out.
Ilya’s lungs burn as he rounds the final turn on his normal running path. He’s far beyond feeling the euphoria of his runner’s high. Rather, he’s at the point where he just wants this damn jog to be over. His feet hurt, his knees are starting to get that familiar ache and his whole body is covered in a sweat like an early morning dew settling upon the grass.
And Ilya loves every second of it.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
This feeling means conditioning. For Ilya, it’s picking up the intensity of his workouts. The sets are just to maintain muscle and stamina, but to prepare. It’s a reminder that in a little over two weeks pre-season training will begin.
Despite his carefree lifestyle, this tiny morsel of routine feeds a part of Ilya that hungers for stability.
He slows down when his jog comes to an end. His Adidas sneakers, high quality and well worn, shuffle across the pavement of the trail as Ilya cuts off his long stride. He’s about to pause his music when his phone alerts him to a notification. A wide smirk engulfs his face as he pulls out his phone.
S 🐰
@puckbunny24
Going live at 10pm EST over on 💙! Come tell me how much you missed me? 😘
4.3K Retweets 398 Quote Tweets 6.7K Likes
Tick. Tock.
He’s already set a timer for tonight. S’s is anything but unpredictable. From what Ilya’s gathered, S is a man of habit. A livestream every Wednesday, Friday and every other Saturday at 10pm EST. There is some discussion at first, letting the lonely souls trickle in to see the pretty omega and perhaps learn a lesson or two. Rapt with attention from the start of the timer to the end.
Tick.
Tock.
And oh, Ilya was already preparing to watch every second of S’s live. This show will be the first one he’s going to catch but definitely not the last. Because of the upcoming pre-season, Ilya hasn’t had time to watch previous streams in their entirety. But there must be a god, because he’s had plenty of highlights to indulge in.
He’s about to tap on the notification and leave a like when his phone starts to buzz with a chain of texts from the man who is the personification of Boston and his alternate captain; Cliff Marleau.
Cliff Bar 🐻
Ilya: depends i am a very desirable person Marly
Ilya: What do you want?
Ilya: 🌞😈
Ilya: that all?
Ilya: this could’ve been an email.
Ilya: don’t know if you heard but Sveta is keeping me inside like a toy in a dollhouse
Ilya: gonna have to be 5 feet apart if you dont want people getting the wrong idea 😉😉
Ilya:😙 maybe throw in a lil kiss to sweeten the deal 😙
Ilya:when you say it like that how can i refuse
Ilya:let me know when and where
Ilya:you’re paying
Ilya:better pick a place you can afford. See you tonight marly 😉
Ilya: 😍🥰😘
Within seconds Cliff sends Ilya the information. It’s one of Marly’s favorite spots, a lunch spot with decent drinks. Ilya lightly scoffs and shakes his head as he looks over the website. It screams of a spot that Cliff has taken plenty of first (and last) dates to. He turns back, starting to head home to get ready for his ‘date.’
Later that day, as the summer sun beats down on the concrete sidewalk and more faceless strangers pass by Ilya, he meets up with Cliff. The other man waves, greeting his captain with a steady grasp and half-hearted hug.
“Roz, haven’t seen you in a minute,” Cliff says, stepping back to take in the Russian. “How’ve you been?”
“Bored as hell,” Ilya replies with a dramatic sigh, accenting it with a roll of his eyes. He follows Cliff into the restaurant as he continues. “Imagine, me, Ilya Rozanov, being bored. What weird world are we in?”
“A very strange one,” Cliff chuckles as he glances over the menu, Ilya doing the same. The choices are very American, Sandwiches, salads and fried foods. All items that Ilya would gladly eat on any given day, but today his stomach turns at the ticking timer in his pocket. The countdown on his phone to 10pm. He feels his scent gland pulse at the thought. If not for the patch securely attached to it, Cliff would get a whiff of the impatience and anxiety that afflicted Ilya.
“Remind me,” Cliff starts, breaking through Ilya’s inner dialogue. “Why are you acting like my old man post-hip replacement instead of the Rozy we all know and love?”
“Sveta told me that management wants me to ‘clean up my image,’” he informs a stupefied Cliff. The forward’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Stay inside, be a crab and not have fun.”
“A crab?”
"да (Yes), like with the house on its back? Changes it when it outgrows its current one?”
“Roz, dude, I think you mean a hermit.”
“Hermit crab, да (yes)!”
“You don’t need the cra-never mind,” Cliff stops, rubbing his hand down his face. “What did Svetlana say to make you a hermit? Did she threaten to cut your jewels off? Or worse, your hair?”
“My balls are perfectly fine, thanks for asking Marly,” Ilya smirks at Cliff’s playful gag.
The conversation comes to a lull as their waitress approaches and takes their orders. A tuna melt and Coke for Ilya. For Cliff, being the east coast boy with saltwater in his veins, a lobster roll and a Moxie. Ilya rolls his eyes at his alternate captain, for both the order and how his gaze follows the attractive waitress as she retreats.
“What happened to Annie?” Ilya interrupts Cliff’s gawking. “Or was it Jessica?”
The dark roast coffee scent spiked with a slightly bitter note at Ilya’s chirp. And, he knew it wasn’t because of a barista’s mistake. Rather, the alpha across from him finally tears his eyes away from the waitress and back to the Russian. Under his scent patch, Ilya could envision Marleau’s gland turning pink at the barb, but quickly dissolving like the foaming ocean waves that lap at the beach shores.
“Dude,” Cliff stares Ilya down. “At least I know their names. When was the last time you even took a one night stand out to lunch?”
Ilya huffs out a sigh, not granting Cliff the satisfaction of an answer by immediately occupying his mouth with his soda as soon as it hits their table.
“Check and mate,” Cliff smugly fills in, leaning back into the faux leather booth, the squeaking of the material grating on Ilya’s ears like his teammates voice in this moment. He decides to fill the empty noise, watching the condensation of his plastic cup full of sugary, delectable soda dribble to the wooden table beneath, a wet circle forming a miniature moat. His
“What did you want to talk about, Marly?”
“Like I said before, why does management want you to become Boston’s Golden Boy all of the sudden?” Cliff leans forward, propping his chin on his loose fist, brow furrowing. “I know the MLH is trying to rehab its image but asking a team like the Raiders to lead that? What the hell is Crowell smoking? Trying to tell the team with the highest percentage of active alphas to ‘play nice’ is like telling an omega to not go into heat. Not gonna happen.”
“Sveta mentioned that one of the rooks kicked this off when they did a social media sweep,” Ilya mutters, ignoring the thorny bristling in his chest at Cliff’s words.
Inhale. Exhale.
He thinks about telling Marleau to stop, not say that shit about omegas, but the voice in his mind halts that dissension. A strict, ice-cold voice accompanied by the phantom smell of amber and bourbon sends a sharp shiver down his spine.
Thankfully, their food arrives, distracting Cliff with the buttery aroma of lobster and shiny surface of the mass-produced bun. Both men dig in, Ilya savoring the crunch of his tuna melt.
Savoring the warmth of the overly salted sandwich.
“Shit,” Cliff says through a full mouth, wiping away the mayonnaise at the corners of his mouth with his finger before licking it off. “The hell did they find? Are they doing that with the whole team?”
Ilya pauses, slowly and methodically chewing his food. The textures of the toasted bread, melted cheese and warmed tuna all combining into a wet mush inside his mouth. He glances to the side, avoiding Cliff’s inquisitive gaze by finding interest in the water spots of an old, laminated dessert menu. Knowing that pre-season is starting soon, he shouldn’t be eyeing that Boston cream pie slice with such gluttony. But, the beckoning siren call of vanilla and chocolate paired perfectly with moist sponge cake is tempting.
He tries to dampen the want with a long sip of his Coke.
“Don’t know,” Ilya finally responds, adopting his nonchalant demeanor he often found himself falling into. A comfort, or even neutral zone where he can glide along like on the ice, not having to look over his shoulder or think ten steps ahead in less than a second.
A place to breathe.
“Aw, c’mon Roz, you and Svetlana talk all the time,” Cliff groans, throwing his head back in a dramatic manner. “You’re telling me you haven’t heard a thing?”
“Nothing,” Ilya affirms, seeing Sveta in his mind’s eye and her sharp gaze. “She did mention how management thinks Matty might be like me but that’s bullshit. There is no ‘next Ilya Rozanov.’”
“Damn right,” Cliff says, a wide grin and nod to punctuate his agreement. “The one and only Russian Terminator and Menace on Ice.”
“Don’t forget Boston’s Best Lay,” adds Ilya. “Maybe that is why Sveta actually wanted me to become a hermit crab. She knew that I couldn’t keep going out every night. My poor dick would fall off.”
“T.M.I. Roz.”
Ilya slides his phone out of his pocket as Cliff scarfs down the rest of his lobster rolls, seeing that timer click down another second. Just as it had throughout their conversation. Less than eight hours until he gets to experience his first S livestream.
If only Marly knew.
Tick. Tock.
If only Ilya let him know.
He pockets his phone, pushing his empty plate away. He prepares to leave.
“Anything else you wanted to talk about, Marly?”
“Have somewhere to be, Roz? We both know you’re not going out tonight. That leash Svetlana’s got you on is tight.”
“No, no,” Ilya shakes his head. “No leash. I'm just a busy man.”
“Busy doing what?” Cliff asks, squinting with curiosity and a modicum of accusation. “You don’t even know what you’re having for dinner most nights.”
“It’s a top secret ‘Raiders Captain Only’ thing,” Ilya responds with a wink as he slides his jacket on. “You said you’d pay. Thanks, Marly. I’ll only have you do one less bag skate for the first practice.”
With that, Ilya slides out of the booth. He chooses to ignore Cliff’s gaping mouth turned exasperated smirk. Ilya can feel his alternate captain’s eyes roll at his exit.
The door closes behind him with a soft ‘click.’ Ilya takes one more glance at his phone.
The timer continues to tick down.