Chapter Text
Heat drenches the narrow hotel room, leaving the thin curtains hanging heavy and limp in the air conditioning’s sickly breath while some late-night Moscow traffic growls four stories below. This is supposed to be neutral territory, a forgettable hotel somewhere between road game and home, anything that could be excused after the final buzzer. Shane Hollander keeps returning anyway, because Ilya Rozanov’s number lights up his phone with a curt “Room 405” and that message hits his bloodstream like a stun gun. The old lies—“We hate each other, we’re just blowing off steam”—taste bitter on his tongue, but he keeps swallowing them.
Now he lies flat on Ilya’s bed, sweat-slick skin sliding against the rumpled sheets, limbs stretched wide open like someone pinned a specimen to a board. Ilya’s strong fingers lock both wrists together and crush them into the mattress above Shane’s head, so tight his pulse kicks against the tendons. Shane’s chest heaves, ribs straining, every breath sauced with the scent of clean sweat and expensive cologne that belongs exclusively to the Russian across him.
Ilya hovers from behind, torso pressing down so Shane’s spine arches and the bed dips beneath their weight. Each thrust punches a guttural “hnnngh” from Shane’s throat, a ragged sound he will never let Ilya hear during daylight hours when cameras snap and they trade snarled insults in two different languages. The slap of Ilya’s hips against Shane’s ass is sharp, wet, something obscene. Their skin shines under the single crooked lamp like polished bronze, and every nerve in Shane’s body buzzes, screaming for more.
He tells himself he’s in control because he set the cadence earlier, because he mouthed along Ilya’s jaw and tugged through that thick dark hair until Ilya growled, because he hissed “Deeper” with a cheap laugh. But somewhere between Ilya’s slow, devastating grind and his hand closing around Shane’s throat, the power tilted. Now it’s just Shane’s gasping obedience and Ilya’s brutal patience.
Shane twists, moaning into the mattress, voice wrecked to a husky thread. “Fuck, Rozanov, harder,” he pants, teeth digging into the pillowcase as he pushes back, greedy as ever. The bed groans under them. Ilya obliges with a low grunt. He slams deep, holds there. Something inside Shane clutches, and heat splinters through him, an oncoming explosion that seems to start somewhere behind his eyes.
“Such a needy little captain,” Ilya drawls close to his ear, accent thick. “Look at you, spread out like offering.”
Shane’s cheeks burn. He hates the bashful flush that steals across him whenever Ilya says things like that, like they are wrists-deep in some secret language built on the ice and the locker room and the shadowed hotel rooms where they keep burning it all down. Ilya licks along the edge of Shane’s ear, teeth scraping gently, and his thrusts slow to a near-stop, just a deliberate roll that leaves Shane shaking.
“S’not… ngh… not like that,” Shane groans, shaking his head, curls dragging across the sheets.
“Da, it is. Being kept like this, held down.” Ilya’s voice is a lazy threat. “You want to come apart for me.”
Shane sneers out of reflex even though the expression collapses into a breathless whimper. “You wish,” he counters, though his body betrays him. His toes curl, muscles pulling tight from calves to shoulders. The bed smells like him now, like them, and his own sweat. He’s been reduced to pure sensation, pulse banging at his wrists under Ilya’s grip.
Then Ilya hooks a hand under Shane’s hip, pulls hard, and drives forward. Shane’s mouth falls open, and the sound that spills out is wrecked, desperate, not English or anything else. His back arches so sharply his spine feels like glass, and the name slips free with all the sailor’s curse words and gutter moans he’s been hurling.
“Daddy—”
It leaves his throat as steam when cold air hits burning metal, a soft, trembling gasp that threads through the air between them and pierces into Ilya’s ear. He doesn’t realize he said it until Ilya’s hips stop dead. Both of them freeze. Their breathing staggers out of sync in the sudden silence.
Shane’s eyes fly wide. Sweat pricks along his scalp, and horror bursts in his gut. The word still seems to hang there, glittering, undeniable. His heart is a panicked hammer against the cage of his ribs.
“T-that’s not—” he stammers, voice tiny, ruined. Shame shrivels him up even while the aftershock of need still vibrates through his core. He thinks about scrambling free, but Ilya’s grip on his wrists only tightens.
Silence stretches, heavy as lead. Then Ilya leans down, slow as if approaching a startled animal. His mouth hovers near Shane’s ear, hot breath licking across the shell, and a small, devastating smirk curves his lips.
“Say it again for me,” he whispers, voice molten velvet.
The command slides down Shane’s spine like an electric current. His lungs seize. He can’t move. There’s too much ice under his skin and too much fire everywhere else. He shakes his head, biting his lip, but Ilya nips the lobe sharply, claws pushing into Shane’s trapped wrists.
“Say it.” Ilya barely breathes it, yet it hits with the force of a slap. His eyes are a predatory blue when they catch the lamplight, intent on Shane’s face, reading every microexpression like he’s studied it for years.
Shane wants to deny it, to snarl some joke, but his tongue is thick, mouth dry. He’s never felt this exposed, not even when he first agreed to let Ilya take him like this. Sweat drips down the side of his face and pools at his neck. His pulse is a frantic flutter. He mumbles, barely audible. “No. It just—slipped.”
Ilya’s smirk deepens, dangerous. His free hand slides along Shane’s side, palm smoothing from ribs to hip, then down between his thighs. He wraps firm fingers around Shane’s cock, which is still flushed and hard, as desperate as ever. The contact spikes Shane’s pleasure, and a choked “God” breaks from him.
“Your body knows better than your mouth,” Ilya murmurs. “Say it again, and I make you feel good for it.” He strokes slow, thumb swiping over the wet tip. “Hold it back, and maybe I keep you wanting.”
Shane’s head falls back; a ragged moan tears out. He writhes under Ilya, hips trying to chase more friction even though Ilya keeps him pinned flat. He can’t get enough. Every nerve demands release. His pride sits there, fragile, but the pressure is too much. Something gives.
“Daddy,” he gasps again, voice cracking the second the word hits the air. It’s even softer than before, trembling, a plea stripped of sarcasm or defense.
The entire energy in Ilya’s body shifts. He drags in a sharp breath, surprise flickering into satisfaction, like an addict getting the hit he needed. “Good boy,” he purrs, and the praise slides along Shane’s bones like satin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. His cheeks burn hotter, yet something at the center of him blooms, dangerous and lush. He hates how the praise makes him melt, hates that Ilya can see the effect. He should fight, bark back—but he’s trembling, fully undone. “Fuck you,” he croaks, but it doesn’t carry weight with Ilya’s hand pumping him and the word still buzzing under his skin.
Ilya chuckles, low and cruel. He draws back, adjusts his angle, and slams back in. Shane cries out, loud and torn, the bedframe banging against the wall. He curses, breath hitching. Ilya sets a pace that knocks the thoughts out of his head, hard and hungry. Each thrust hits deep, like he’s trying to stake a claim at the marrow of Shane’s bones.
“Look at me,” Ilya commands, voice all iron. He releases Shane’s wrists, and for a split second, freedom is there. But Shane doesn’t move except to obey. He lifts his arms, wraps them around Ilya’s shoulders. Their foreheads crash together, sweat mixing, and Ilya’s hand catches the back of his neck, holding him still.
“Tell me what you need.” Ilya’s eyes bore into his, merciless. “Tell me, baby.”
The new endearment shreds what little composure Shane has left. The word “baby” is so intimate, so tender, yet wrapped in Ilya’s baritone it becomes command, firm and protective and unabashedly possessive. Shane thinks of the perfect captain packaged for media day, all crisp suits and bright smiles, and then there’s this: Ilya calling him baby in some dim Moscow room and pounding him into bliss. It uncorks a hidden part of him, one he hides from everyone, even himself.
“Don’t— call me that,” he tries to protest, though it comes out as a breathless whine. He claws at Ilya’s shoulders. “S-say something else.”
Ilya just smirks and rocks deeper. “Baby.” He says it again, slower, savoring each syllable. “Take me so well. You are perfect like this.”
Shane keens, high and broken, composure obliterated. “Please,” he begs, voice turning thin, lungs burning. He’s never begged Ilya before, not like this, but everything is smoking, his nerves stripped bare. He clings to Ilya, begging without words. His cock throbs in Ilya’s hand, leaking over their stomachs; he’s on the edge, ready to fall, but every time he thinks Ilya will let him come, the bastard eases up, keeps him simmering.
“You get to come when you ask right,” Ilya purrs. “Say what you want.”
Shane’s entire body is a violin string tuned too tight. He shudders, broken and desperate. He chokes out, “Let me come, please. Daddy, please. I—I need—” His voice dissolves into a hoarse sob of pleasure.
Ilya groans, thrusts deep and holds there. “That’s it,” he growls. “Good boy.”
The praise slams into Shane, and his climax detonates so violently he’s sure he shoulders at least two groans into Ilya’s neck just to stay conscious. “Nghh—fuck—AAAH,” he shrieks, the noise ricocheting off the walls. His entire body convulses. Hot seed streaks across their stomachs. Stars burst behind his eyes, the world bleaching out.
Ilya keeps pumping, chasing his own high. He snarls against Shane’s mouth, tongue pushing inside for a messy kiss, all teeth and breath. He thrusts three more times, each one making Shane gasp, oversensitive. Then he releases, spilling inside, letting out a guttural “Shane” that sounds suspiciously like worship.
They collapse together, shaking. Ilya doesn’t move right away, just breathes hard against Shane’s neck, their chests grinding together with every inhale. Shane’s heart thrums, beautiful and wild. His AC unit rumbles uselessly, the room still humid, smelling like sex and sin and too many confessions.
Time stretches, thick as honey. Finally, Ilya leans back, sliding out slowly. Shane winces and bites his lip, but Ilya soothes him with a hand along his flank. Slim fingers skim the mess across Shane’s stomach, then smear it over his own chest like a badge. The nasty smirk is back—that smirk that started the first time they tried to sell their hate to anyone who’d listen.
“You ruined me,” Shane mutters soft, half mortified, half astonished that he feels good about it. He tries to muster a glare, but all that arrives is a dreamy unfocused look. “Fuck, Ilya.”
“I plan to do worse,” Ilya drawls as he drags Shane further up the bed, hooking the smaller man half atop him. He sits propped against the headboard, leaving Shane stretched across his lap. Huge hands rub along Shane’s thighs, slow, steady, soothing. “You liked every second.”
Shane huffs, tipping his forehead against Ilya’s collarbone, trying to hide his face. He doesn’t shift off, though. Breath finds a calmer rhythm. Their sweat cools, leaving goosebumps. Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s temple, and there is nothing rivalrous about it.
“So we don’t talk about the thing,” Shane says into Ilya’s skin, voice muffled. “You never heard anything.”
“I heard everything,” Ilya corrects smugly. “And next time, you say it sooner so I don’t waste time dragging it out.”
Shane laughs weakly, but it breaks off when Ilya’s hand slides back up to his nape, kneading. “You think there’s going to be a next time after that?”
Ilya arches a brow, his smile turning wicked and soft all at once. “Baby, you will crawl to me for it.”
Heat licks through Shane again. He tilts his head up, meeting Ilya’s eyes squarely. There’s no fight left in him, but the fire burning between them isn’t doused. “Then you better be ready to wait where I can find you,” he says, voice still hoarse, mouth curving sly.
Ilya’s expression softens with genuine affection, something he only lets slip when they’re stripped bare like this. He drags fingers through Shane’s damp locks, smoothing them back. “Always,” he murmurs.