Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Spoils of War, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Aphrodisiacs, Drugged Sex, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alpha Shane, Top Shane, Omega Ilya, bottom Ilya

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-22 Words: 2,423 Chapters: 1/1

second son

Summary

Ilya wants out of Rozanov so bad he can taste it.

Being sacrificed on the literal altar of the Hollanders' weird hedonistic victory ritual doesn't even scare him.

Notes

look i know it's a really involved au for a pwp this short but i have to get this out of my head so i can go back to writing my big bang. thank you for betaing & helping re-write sections, cowboy!

The Hollanders might have won the war, but Rozanovs don't give up that easy. King Grigori sends assassins; Prince Alexei sends Ilya.

Ilya is not an assassin, precisely. He's a second son, cursed with the poor luck to be an omega who looks like his mother. Trained still, of course, to fight and take no prisoners, but without power to do anything but obey.

This time, unlike so much of their lives, what Alexei tells him to do and what Ilya wants to do are close enough that Ilya doesn't even feel annoyed at being offered up as a sacrifice when the accords are signed. Not even when they require that he be their tribute to signify the end of the war, to be draped in jewels and fucked before an audience.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters as much as the fact that Ilya wants out of Rozanov so bad he can taste it.

Being sacrificed on the literal altar of the Hollanders' weird hedonistic victory ritual doesn't even scare him. Not even when they demand that he be cleaned inside and out and send him a priest whose job it is to do that.

He saw little enough of the land during the long journey from his hated homeland, but the Hollander palace is striking in its unfamiliarity. It's less ostentatious than the halls Ilya crept through as a child, thick with overlaid gold and heavy carvings. There are no domes with their narrow peaks pulled up to the sky in bands of candy-bright color on clusters of round towers.

Hollander is built of unadorned white stone, symmetrical and clean. The interior palace isn't without splendor--it's a fucking palace of successful conquerors--but there's a restraint to it that strikes Ilya as faintly funny. He has never known a noble family to have pretensions of taste. He doesn't mind it, little enough though that matters. If nothing else, the stern-faced men and women staring out the portraits are strangers to him rather than eight hundred years of disappointed and disapproving ancestors.

The baths he is led to he assumes to be part of the harem's quarters. They're warm with steam from different pools and the floors are inlaid with tile designs that suggest stories, or perhaps legends, Ilya doesn't know. The attendants who strip off his clothes have gentle hands. Ilya studies them sidelong. He's faintly surprised by what he finds; no split lips or black eyes, no cheeks hollowed from withheld food, no fearful trembling.

Still, the priest looks faintly sorry, as she scrubs.

Ilya doesn't meet her eyes again. He doesn't want sympathy for a decision he's not going to regret for one second. He'd rather be a slave to the Hollanders than the boy who can never be heir--or anything else.

Soon, under the priest's capable hands, he's clean enough to pass muster and it's time to get dressed. The priest rubs him down in something like paint that's so golden it shimmers even in the indoor light. Ilya turns his hand over, admiring the way the shine moves along his skin not unlike actual gold. "It looks so real."

"It is real," the priest says, something like offense in her voice enough that Ilya looks at her face to see if that's what it really is. Her eyes aren't sharp, but her lips are pressed into a line.

"Real gold?" Ilya asks, wondering how they'd even make metal into paint. Not that it matters.

"As real as this," she replies, holding up part of the gold and jewels that Ilya now realizes are actually clothes but without fabric. Instead it's gold plated over steel, the gorgeous warm metal both hammered into complimentary shapes and setting the jewels. The piece she's holding is for the shoulders, hammered gold feather barbs studded with emeralds and sapphires forming full peacock feathers on the shoulders that sweep down his back. "Arms by your sides."

Ilys obeys, and she fastens the shoulder piece onto him. The next piece is round and Ilya cannot imagine where it goes until she instructs him, "arms up," and he realizes that the piece goes around his middle and it's a belly. A pregnant belly made of a net of jewels, complete with a fake belly button and a dark line of emeralds.

That's unambiguous, Ilya thinks, feeling his face color despite everything. He knew a little bit of the ceremony of surrender, from legends, but the clothes were never the part of the legends that got repeated.

The part that got repeated, of course, was the fucking. That the loser offered up a sacrifice to be publicly fucked.

It was known that Hollander accepted omegas much more than anywhere--especially Rozanov. Ilya had never put two and two together, that they wanted the sacrifice to be an omega because they wanted to get them pregnant. They wanted him to do the thing that was the shameful secret that meant Ilya would never be a real heir in Rozanov.

Fuck.

Panic should be absolutely gripping Ilya by the balls, but he realizes that he feels warm and faintly... horny? He looks down at his cock, naked but for the gold paint everywhere, and half hard despite everything that's happening.

The realization unfolds slowly: This is drugs. Ilya's been drugged. "What's...." talking is a lot harder that Ilya thought it would be. He struggles for words. "Paint. Drugs."

The priest smiles. "Something to help."

"Oh," Ilya says, powerless to do anything but slide his feet into the jeweled shoes and then close his eyes as they blindfold him.

He could fight it, if he wanted.

Ilya doesn't want to fight it. He gives in, and the drugs pull him in deep. The blindfold makes it easy, and he starts to wonder if that's why they do it, but then the priest is telling him to follow her and it takes all the concentration ilya has to trust her quiet instructions. "Four steps forward. You're at the top of the stairs now, there are eight stairss." She even counts as they go down: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Good. Ten steps forward. Ten steps forward."

It's very easy to stop hearing the specific instructions and to just let his body follow orders. He wants to, it gives him a warm feeling that makes his cock harder and his cunt wetter.

Ilya can smell his own omega scent, standing with her fingers on his arm, waiting. It's been a long time since he could; of course he was not allowed to have heats, as the King's son. Not since the first.

There's muffled sound from nearby--trumpets, cheers--which startle Ilya, and the priest shushes him comfortingly. "That's just the introduction. Formalities. We'll be called on in a few minutes, after Queen Yuna gives her victory speech."

He could pay attention, if he wanted. Ilya does not want to. So he closes his eyes tight behind the blindfold and tumbles into the world of the sensations of his own body.

It is not the first time Ilya has been drugged, but the feeling is still incredibly strange. He's aware of every single thing that touches his skin even down to the small hairs that rise with every susurration of air. The gold paint is slick, almost humid, like the haze of steam from a bath. Sweat gathers in the hollows of his body, at his throat and temples, beneath his arms, between his legs. Drops trickle down his spine like someone drawing their long nail down his back and he shudders.

The heavy gems of his ceremonial garb hang heavy and strange. It's not like armor at all, for all that he can find no other comparison as his brain melts into the heavy languor of the drugs. The weight of the absurd belly shifts his center of balance, gently tipping his pelvis forward as if he were already heavy with Shane Hollander's child. Ilya laughs a little and expects to be shushed or struck, but isn't. It's all so fucking ridiculous, but Ilya will gladly act out this pantomime if it means he never has to return to his father's house.

The scents around him start to thicken. He's used to the fetid stink of endless alphas jockeying for power, not content to hold just the world in their hands. Hollander is a richer and more layered thing, alphas and omegas and betas all together and it's surprisingly warm and heavy and inviting. Ilya opens his mouth, uncaring that scent can't be tasted; someone near him laughs fondly.

The heat in Ilya continues to bloom and rise and then the sharp tang of desire comes. He smells it all around him, beside and behind and in front of him, syrup-thick, saturating the air. Ilya is familiar with want that stinks with the copper tang of spilled blood and careless violence. Hollander's desire is like a thousand warm hands slipping over his skin to find the sensitive places that make Ilya moan like a whore.

He thinks, clearly, that he'd rather be a whore in this land than a prince in his own.

Ilya realizes that he's huffing his own scent, inhaling deeply and holding it. He tries to make himself exhale, but instead he inhales more and it's so good. Ilya's going to show up on that altar absolutely dripping and he isn't sure that he cares anymore.

He's on fire with need.

What are these drugs? Ilya wants to be on them every day for the rest of his life, and also be sober immediately. But the part of him that wants to be sober is brief and fades quickly, replaced by the knowledge that Ilya's actually no longer able to hold still. He's subtly pressing his thighs together, rubbing, desperate for the sensation of anything to do with his cunt.

Ilya tries to stop, and instead he presses his thighs together tight and ends up whimpering softly.

Fuck, it feels so good.

Doesn't matter that he's blindfolded and in public, all Ilya can do is stand there and make desperate little noises under his breath.

The hand suddenly his arm is cold. Ilya hisses out a breath and flinches away automatically.

"We're on," the priest says. "Ten steps. Ten Steps." She steers him to the right. "Six steps. You're at the stairs. Blindfold coming off now."

Ilya's darkness turns to light. The arousal dripping through him goes from banked to completely alight. Ilya moans.

"Up the stairs," the priest says, and gives him a little push forward.

Ilya keeps going. Up the stairs, aware of nothing but the twin stars of need and arousal burning all through him, especially his cunt.

There's a man on the dais with Ilya. Shane Hollander. Alpha. Heir. Naked, but for a fur cape hanging over his shoulders.

Ilya bites his lip, eyes focused on the man's cock. His cunt clenches around nothing and he whimpers, high and needy, when Shane touches Ilya's arm the same place that the priest did.

"Do you submit?" Hollander asks, loud enough to be heard by the crowd, but directed at Ilya. Ilya knows the crowd is there, but he can't hear them so much as feel them.

"Yes," Ilya breathes. It's what he's here for, and it feels in some way like he was made for this moment, made for the way that Shane helps him up onto the altar. The shape of it leaves little to mystery--Ilya's here to bend over, jewels of the belly and the rest of the clothes fitting into the altar in a way that holds him in place, even the shoes locked in as he kneels.

Naked, kneeling on the altar would be hell itself because it's full of holes. Wearing the jewels, he fits into it like a puzzle piece and is held perfectly in position for their perverse ritual.

Exposed.

Another time, Ilya would mind. Right now, all he can feel is that this is the right position. This is the way he should be fucked, the way he should be claimed. The way that submitting works. He can't even hold still properly, writhing and whimpering and moaning because he wants this so fucking bad that it might break him if he doesn't get it.

Behind him, Shane's cock leads the way. He presses in hard and fast and it's exactly what Ilya wants; he moans loud and long, until he is breathless and panting. Shane holds still, despite it, and Ilya's cunt tries to grab his cock and pull it in deeper but he's saying some fucking--fucking prayer while Ilya's about to fucking die because he won't move.

"Please," Ilya begs, barely above a whisper.

Shane doesn't move. Ilya's cunt clenches and clenches.

"Please," Ilya says again, intending only to say it louder, but he ends up keening it, trying to push back against Hollander desperately.

"He begs!" Shane declares, and then his hands are on Ilya's back and he's moving, oh fuck he's moving, he's moving.

Ilya comes. He screams.

Hollander fucks him through it. He bends over Ilya, and the feeling of his nose against the back of Ilya's neck sends such a thrill through Ilya that Ilya comes again, shuddering, and Hollander moans softly against Ilya's skin.

"More," Hollander whispers, and pulls out, thrusting in, and again, and again.

Ilya's eyes roll back; he groans, low and long, as his legs shake with the number of times he's come and how close he is again. "Just--just fucking bite me," Ilya grinds out, hoping no one but Hollander can hear but not really caring. He's going to shake out of his body if Hollander doesn't claim him.

"No," Hollander whispers against Ilya's skin. He kisses the back of Ilya's neck instead, and licks, and sucks.

And he fucks his stupid fucking cock inside of Ilya and out again and inside and Ilya doesn't even have the energy to scream anymore. He just pants breathlessly, body so full of pleasure his mind can barely process it.

Ilya is going to die. Or live. Or both.

"Please!"

Hollander makes a choked noise and then sinks his teeth into the back of Ilya's neck: a claiming bite.

Ilya comes. Hollander knots, and pushes all the way in so the knot blooms inside of Ilya. He groans, arching his back against the knife of pain/pleasure.

The altar beneath them shifts, and slowly starts to descend beneath the stage.