Chapter Text
Being a top NHL defenseman as an omega is no small feat. So why can’t Quinn Hughes enjoy his new superstar forward playing his loyal henchman?
The Wild have surrendered a haul of assets to bring Quinn in, all to bolster their win-now window. Kirill, the team’s superstar alpha winger, taking one look at the dynamic, talented defenseman, three punch turns, two wrist shots and a massive goal later, decides he’d do anything to keep the new omega happy.
When Quinn mentions offhand that he still has boxes in his living room weeks after the trade, Kirill shows up the next day and unpacks the entire living room with him. When Quinn wants to discuss a certain play in a game during a team dinner, Kirill draws up three counterplays on a napkin right on the spot as if the rest of the team isn’t there. Since he learned that Quinn’s feet run cold, Kirill never has a movie night at Quinn’s apartment without pulling the omega’s feet into his lap.
“Quinnie,” Kirill says softly, stepping into Quinn’s apartment after a hard-won home game. He holds out a pharmacy bag. “Here you go. Everything you asked for.” His bright eyes and wind-tousled curls remind Quinn of a friend’s poodle looking up at him like its world hinges on Quinn’s satisfaction with its performance of a trick.
Quinn doesn’t take the bag right away. He leans against the wall, still in his post-game hoodie, and studies Kirill with those sharp, assessing eyes. The alpha’s wood-ocean scent is already permeating the air between them.
“Did anyone see you?” Quinn asks quietly.
Kirill shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so.” He answers, all business.
“You sure? You weren’t worried a fan might recognize you? Taking a photo of the big bad Kirill Kaprizov buying heat supplies for his mystery omega?” Quinn’s gaze is intent, but he fails to keep his voice serious.
“I didn’t think about that,” Kirill admits, a little sheepish, completely missing the teasing tone in Quinn’s voice. His cherubic face softens as he looks at Quinn. “I just wanted to get stuff for you.”
Quinn has grown to love the contrast between the intensity in Kirill’s eyes on the ice and the tenderness in front of him right now. “And if someone in PR asks you?” Quinn already knows how Kirill will answer but asks anyways. Jack has always said that Quinn has a problem of being too insistent.
“I’ll say it’s none of their business.” The genuine indignation in Kirill’s voice for an imagination scenario makes Quinn want to cut his face with both hands.
“Hmmm, but paparazzi could snap a photo of you and…”
“Well, I have to protect our best defenseman - the best defenseman. Your heat is coming soon, no?”
That earnestness hits Quinn right in the chest… and lower. He finally takes the bag, peering inside. A small frown tugs at his lips.
“Something wrong?” Kirill asks immediately, stepping closer.
“The scent blockers are the wrong shape. You only got two tests,” Quinn murmurs. “And these tampons… they’re not the organic cotton kind in a perforated paper box.” He lowers his voice even further. “Petey always got me that brand.”
“Pettersson?” Kirill’s voice drops into a low rumble, the kind that usually only surfaces during heated scrums. His scent shifts, forest and sea turning darker, heavier, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Quinn feels a delicious shiver race down his spine. “Like… when you were in Vancouver?”
“Oh,” Quinn says, feigning mild surprise, as if the detail slipped out by accident. “Well… he was my first alpha.”
Kirill’s hand shoots out, gently but firmly catching Quinn’s wrist. The omega’s bone feels delicate in his big, warm grip. Kirill’s eyes burn with something fierce.
“Tell me the exact brand, for each of them,” he growls, low and possessive. “I’ll go back right now.”
Quinn’s cheeks flush, a mix of pre-heat warmth and the heady rush of Kirill’s thickening pheromones. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispers, stepping closer and watching Kirill’s pupils dilate. “If you help me tonight… I might not even need them.”
What comes next is “desperate, hungry, and perfectly matched” as will be described by Quinn months later, after being relentlessly interrogated by Trevor Zegras during their annual summer boat trip. “From one omega to another, that’s one thorough alpha you’ve found yourself,” Z will marvel.
But right now, Quinn lies draped across the alpha’s broad chest, boneless and satisfied, a small smile playing on his lips as sleep tugs at him. The prospect of a symptomless pre-heat for the first time since he presented delights him. He makes a mental note to act surprised first thing in the morning like he just remembers there’s extra heat supplies in his walk-in closet.
Kirill’s fingers trace letters along his back. “So…” he asks like it pains him, “how does it compare to Vancouver?”
Quinn presses a gentle kiss to the hard plane of Kirill’s pec, right over his racing heart. “So much better,” he murmurs honestly, “especially because I don’t have to go through it alone anymore.”
Kirill’s arm tightens around him. “But I thought Pettersson was your alpha. You said he was your…”
“My first alpha center,” Quinn corrects softly, fighting back a smirk. “He’s a good buddy of mine. That’s all.”
Kirill goes very still. “So you never…”
“Nope.” Quinn nuzzles closer, letting his lake and citrus scent bloom, sweet and soothing. “Now shush. Sleep time.”
He feels more than hears the deep, relieved purr that rolls through Kirill’s chest.