Gerbert

Hurt comfort | male reader

You’d been together for almost two years now. Public, official, navigating the complexity of three professional hockey players in a relationship with a grace that surprised even you.

The media had mostly moved on from the initial frenzy. Your teammates knew. Your families knew. It was just… normal now. As normal as anything could be when your boyfriends played for rival teams and you were scattered across the continent for half the year.

The hardest part wasn’t the distance or the scrutiny.

It was the little moments you missed. The conversations that slipped through the cracks.

Like tonight.

You were in montreal—Shane’s home game against your team. Ilya had flown in to watch, rare mid-season scheduling giving him two days off. The three of you had planned to spend the evening together after the game, but your coach had called a mandatory team meeting that ran late.

By the time you made it to Shane’s apartment, it was past eleven.

You let yourself in with your key, already pulling off your tie. The living room was dark except for the TV playing quietly. Shane and Ilya were on the couch, but something about their posture was wrong. Stiff. Distant.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, draping your jacket over a chair. “Coach wanted to review footage from last week. Took forever.”

“Is fine,” Ilya said, but his voice was flat.

Shane didn’t say anything at all.

You looked between them, trying to read the room. “Did something happen?”

“No.” Shane stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed. Early skate tomorrow.”

He walked past you without stopping, without touching you, and disappeared down the hall.

You blinked. Turned to Ilya. “What—”

“I am also tired.” Ilya stood, his movements careful, controlled. “Long flight. Should sleep.”

“Ilya—”

“Goodnight.” He followed Shane, leaving you standing alone in the dark living room.

You stood there for a long moment, confused and off-balance. They were upset. Clearly. But you couldn’t figure out why.

You replayed the evening in your head. The game had been clean—no dirty hits, no drama. You hadn’t said anything controversial in your post-game interview. The team meeting had just been standard video review.

Maybe they were just tired. It had been a long week for all of you.

You headed to the bedroom, but when you opened the door, Shane was already under the covers facing away from you. Ilya was in the bathroom with the door closed.

The message was clear.

You changed quietly, slipped into bed on your usual side. The space between you and Shane felt like a canyon.

————————————————————————

It continued the next day.

Shane left for his morning skate before you woke up. Ilya was polite but distant over coffee, answering your questions in short sentences before claiming he needed to return some calls.

You went to your own practice confused and unsettled. You kept missing passes, your timing off, your focus scattered.

“You okay?” your captain asked after you flubbed an easy zone entry.

“Fine,” you said automatically.

But you weren’t.

That evening, you tried again. Picked up dinner from the Italian place Shane loved, opened a bottle of the wine Ilya preferred. Set the table carefully.

They came to dinner. They ate. They were polite.

They were slipping away from you, and you didn’t know why.

“Did I do something wrong?” you finally asked, your oblivious voice somehow making the question sound smaller.

Shane’s jaw tightened. “You really don’t know.”

“No.”

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Of course you don’t.”

“Shane—” Ilya put a hand on his wrist.

“No, he should know.” Shane looked at you directly for the first time in two days, and his eyes were hurt. Angry. “Yesterday was our anniversary. Two years since we all agreed to make this official. Since we stopped hiding and decided to be together, actually together.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You forgot,” Shane continued, his voice tight. “Didn’t mention it once. Not a text, not a word. Just showed up late talking about film review like it was any other night.”

“We had dinner planned,” Ilya added quietly. “Reservations. I flew in specifically for this, scheduled around games. We were waiting for you.”

Oh God.

“I cancelled the reservation at ten,” Shane said. “Told them you weren’t coming. And you walked in at eleven asking if something happened like—like it was nothing.”

Your chest felt tight. “I didn’t—I forgot. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“That’s the problem.” Shane pushed back from the table. “You didn’t realize. You never realize. We’re always the ones reaching out, planning things, making effort. And you just… exist. Expecting us to be here whenever you decide to show up.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, but your voice was still flat, emotionless, and you could see how that landed. How it looked like you didn’t care.

“Isn’t it?” Shane’s eyes were bright. “Name the last time you initiated a visit. The last time you planned something for us. The last time you said you missed us without us saying it first.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

You couldn’t.

“We love you,” Ilya said softly. “So much, we love you. But sometimes it feels like—like we love you more than you love us. Like we are more invested.”

“That’s not true,” you said, and finally—finally—something cracked in your voice. “That’s not true, I—”

But they were both looking at you with such hurt in their eyes, such careful distance, and you realized you’d never told them. Never shown them properly. You’d assumed they knew, that your quiet presence was enough, that being there was the same as showing love.

But they needed more than your presence.

They needed your effort. Your words. Your initiative.

And you’d given them nothing but your careful, controlled existence.

“I need some air,” Shane said, grabbing his coat.

“Shane, wait—”

The door closed behind him.

Ilya stood slowly. “I think… I think I will go to hotel tonight. Give everyone space to think.”

“Ilya, please—” You reached for him, but he stepped back.

“I am not angry,” he said, and he looked so tired. “Just sad. And I need to think about what I can accept in relationship. What I deserve.”

“You deserve everything,” you said desperately. “I know I’m not good at this, at showing—but I do love you. Both of you. More than anything.”

“Then show us,” Ilya said simply. “Because right now, it does not feel like it.”

He left.

You sat alone at the table you’d carefully set, surrounded by cold food and good wine, and felt something crack apart inside your chest.

____________________________________________

You didn’t sleep.

You sat in Shane’s apartment—your apartment too, technically, you had a key and clothes here and it was supposed to be home—and tried to figure out how to fix this.

Your first instinct was to text them. Apologize. Explain.

But words had never been your strength. And they’d been hearing your apologies and explanations for two years while nothing changed.

They needed action. Proof. Something real.

So you started planning.

By morning, you had a list. By afternoon, you’d made calls. By evening, you were standing outside Shane’s practice facility, waiting.

He came out with his teammates, laughing at something his captain said. Then he saw you and stopped.

You held up a garment bag. “I got you a new suit. For the charity gala next month. The one you said you needed but didn’t have time to shop for.”

Shane stared at you. “You… remembered that?”

“You mentioned it three weeks ago. Complained that your stylist was too busy.” You offered the bag. “I called her. Told her your measurements and what you like. She put this together. If you don’t like it, we can exchange it, but I thought—”

Shane took the bag slowly. Unzipped it. Inside was a perfectly tailored navy suit, exactly his style.

“I also rescheduled the reservation,” you continued. “For tonight. Same restaurant. They had a cancellation.” You pulled out an envelope. “And these are tickets to that Broadway show Ilya mentioned wanting to see. Three seats, next time we’re all in New York together. I checked our schedules. We have two days there in March.”

Shane’s eyes were wide.

“And I booked a house in Quebec for the summer. All of July. Private, secluded (are you guys seeing what I’m doing here heheh). I already cleared it with our teams—we’re all free that month. I thought we could just… be together. No games, no media. Just us.”

Your voice was still calm, but your hands were shaking slightly.

“I know I forgot our anniversary. I know I’m bad at this—at remembering dates and planning things and saying what I feel. But I—” You had to stop, had to breathe. “You’re not more invested. You’re not loving me more than I love you. I just don’t know how to show it the way you need. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

Shane’s expression was doing something complicated. “You did all this today?”

“I should have done it before. Should have been doing it all along.” You looked at him directly, your doe eyes serious and raw. “You deserve someone who makes effort. Who shows up. Who remembers. I want to be that person. I’m trying to be that person.”

Shane set down the garment bag carefully. Then he crossed the space between you and pulled you into a fierce hug.

“You idiot,” he said, muffled against your shoulder. “You stupid, wonderful idiot.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding tight. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know you are.” He pulled back to look at you. “We should have said something sooner. Should have told you what we needed instead of expecting you to just know.”

“I should have asked.”

“Yeah. You should have.” But he was smiling now, soft and real. “The suit is perfect, by the way.”

“Good.” You touched his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “Is Ilya at the hotel?”

“Yeah. The Marriott downtown.”

“Come on. We need to go get him.”

————————————————————————

Ilya opened his hotel room door in sweatpants and an undershirt, his hair messy. His eyes widened when he saw both of you.

“We are sorry too,” he said immediately. “We should not have—”

You kissed him. Cut off his words with your mouth, gentle and thorough and deliberate.

When you pulled back, his eyes were dazed.

“I booked us a house in Quebec for July,” you said. “Month-long vacation. Just us.”

“You… what?”

“And I got tickets to that show you wanted to see. Hamilton. March.”

“How did you—”

“You mentioned it. Two months ago. You said the music made you feel things.” You took his hand. “I remember everything you tell me. Both of you. I’m just bad at showing that I do.”

Ilya’s eyes were getting bright.

“I love you,” you said, quiet and serious. “Both of you. More than hockey, more than anything. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important. Like you weren’t my priority. You are. You’re everything.”

“Come here,” Ilya said roughly, pulling you into the room. Shane followed, closing the door behind you.

Ilya kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding into your hair. Shane pressed against your back, his lips finding your neck.

“We love you too,” Shane murmured against your skin. “So much. Even when you’re impossible and emotionally constipated.”

“I’m working on it,” you said.

“We know.” Ilya’s hands found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to touch bare skin. “We see you trying. Is enough. You are enough.”

You turned to capture Shane’s mouth, kissing him slowly while Ilya’s hands mapped your ribs, your stomach, the muscles of your back.

“Missed this,” Shane breathed. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. Both of you.”

They guided you to the bed, hands gentle and reverent. Ilya pulled off your shirt while Shane worked on your belt, and they touched you like you were something precious. Something cherished.

“So beautiful,” Ilya murmured, pressing kisses down your chest. “Our pretty boy.”

Shane’s hands found your face, tilting it up so he could kiss you properly. “Don’t forget us again,” he whispered. “Don’t forget this is important.”

“I won’t,” you promised. “Never again.”

You pulled them both down with you, and spent the next hours showing them without words what you couldn’t always say—that they were wanted, needed, loved beyond measure.

————————————————————————

Later, tangled together in the hotel bed with the city lights filtering through the windows, Ilya traced idle patterns on your shoulder.

“The house in Quebec,” he said. “It has lake?”

“And a dock. You can fish.”

“I do not fish.”

“You mentioned wanting to learn.”

Ilya went quiet. Then: “You really do listen.”

“Always.”

Shane pressed a kiss to your temple. “Set a reminder on your phone. For our anniversary next year.”

“Already done. With a two-week advance warning.”

“Good.” He smiled against your skin. “We’re keeping you, by the way. You’re stuck with us now.”

“Good,” you echoed.

Because you couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

This was home.

They were home.

And you’d spend the rest of your life making sure they knew it.

____________________________________________

THE END

mdni l male reader

The fluorescent lights in the hospital made Shane look worse than he probably was, but that didn’t stop my stomach from twisting every time I looked at the way he held his arm against his chest.

“Six weeks minimum,” the doctor said, not even looking up from his clipboard. “No strenuous activities. That means no hockey, no gym work, and—” He finally glanced at both of us. “No intimate physical activity. Your body needs to heal, Mr. Hollander.”

I watched Shane’s jaw clench, that telltale muscle jumping beneath his skin. “Fine.”

The doctor’s eyebrow raised slightly, clearly not convinced, but he nodded and left us alone. I moved from where I’d been standing by the window, careful not to jostle the bed as I sat on the edge of it.

“Six weeks,” Shane muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Cliff fucking Marlow.”

“It could’ve been worse,” I said quietly, though we both knew how hollow that sounded. His collarbone was broken. His season might be over. And knowing Shane, being benched was its own kind of torture.

Week One

I’d basically moved into Shane’s apartment, not that he’d asked me to. He didn’t have to. The first few days were the hardest—watching him struggle with simple things like putting on a shirt or reaching for anything on a high shelf made my chest ache.

“I can do it myself,” he growled when I appeared with his medication and water for the third time that day.

“I know you can.” I set them down on the coffee table next to where he was sprawled, shirtless because getting shirts on and off was still a nightmare. I tried not to stare at the bruising spreading across his shoulder, purple and yellow and awful. Tried not to notice how the muscle of his good arm flexed when he reached for the glass.

“Then stop hovering.”

“Make me.” The words came out lighter than I felt, and I was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.

That night, lying in bed beside him, I was hyperaware of every breath he took, every slight shift of his body. When I’d tried to pull him closer earlier, he’d hissed in pain, and I’d immediately retreated to my side of the bed like I’d been burned.

“I’m not going to break if you touch me,” Shane said into the darkness.

“Your collarbone would beg to differ.”

I heard rather than saw his eye roll, but he didn’t argue. The space between us felt like miles.

Week Two

Shane was getting better—or at least, more mobile. Which somehow made everything worse. He’d started doing laps around the apartment when he got restless, pacing like a caged animal. I’d catch him doing exercises the physical therapist had shown him, watching the controlled movement of his body, the focus on his face.

I was going insane.

“You want coffee?” I called from the kitchen one morning, desperate for something to do with my hands.

“Yeah.” Shane appeared in the doorway, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. His hair was messy from sleep, dark eyes still a little unfocused. The bruising had faded to a greenish yellow, and I could see the line where his collarbone was healing.

I turned back to the coffee maker before I did something stupid.

“You’re doing it again,” Shane said.

“Doing what?”

“Treating me like I’m made of glass.” He moved closer—close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. “I’m healing, not dying.”

“I know that.” I kept my eyes on the coffee pot. “Three and a half more weeks.”

“Three and a half weeks until what? Until you’ll actually look at me?”

That made me turn. Shane was right there, closer than I’d expected, and I had to tilt my head down slightly to meet his eyes. The height difference had always been something he commented on, usually while I was pressing him into a mattress, and thinking about that now was definitely not helping.

“I look at you,” I said, my voice rougher than intended.

“Not the way you used to.” Something flickered in his expression—frustration, maybe, or challenge. “Not like you want to.”

“Shane—”

“Forget it.” He stepped back, grabbed his coffee mug when I poured it, and retreated to the living room.

I braced my hands on the counter and took a slow breath. Three and a half more weeks. I could survive three and a half more weeks.

Week Three

I couldn’t survive three and a half more weeks.

It was a stupid thing that broke me, in the end. I was putting away dishes, reaching up to put a pot on the high shelf, and my shirt rode up. That was it. That was all it took.

I heard Shane’s sharp intake of breath behind me and turned to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at me with an intensity that made my skin feel too tight.

“Shane?” I lowered my arms slowly. “You okay?”

“No.” He crossed the distance between us in three strides. “I’m really not.”

“What’s wrong? Is it your collarbone—”

“My collarbone is fine.” His good hand came up to my chest, fingers spreading over my shirt. I could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric. “I’m not fine. Do you have any idea what the last three weeks have been like?”

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it. “You’re healing. The doctor said—”

“I know what the doctor said.” Shane’s fingers curled, gripping my shirt. “But you’ve been walking around here looking like this, doing this—” His hand slid down my chest, over my stomach. “And I’ve been good. I’ve followed every rule. But I’m hungry, and I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”

“Shane.” I caught his wrist, but I didn’t pull it away. My thumb found his pulse point, racing as fast as mine. “We can’t. Not yet.”

“I’m not asking for everything.” He stepped closer, and I found myself backed against the counter, the edge pressing into my lower back. “Just let me have something. Please.”

The please broke me.

I slid my hand into his hair, careful of his injury, and lowered my head to kiss him. Shane made a sound low in his throat—relief and hunger and desperation all mixed together—and kissed back like he was starving. His good arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel every plane of his body pressed to mine.

Three weeks. It had only been three weeks, but it felt like years since I’d tasted him, felt the desperate press of his mouth against mine.

I broke the kiss only to trail my lips along his jaw, down to his neck. Shane’s head tilted back, giving me access, and I felt his fingers dig into my hip.

“God, I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.” I nipped at his pulse point, felt him shudder. “Been right here the whole time.”

“Not like this. Not—” His words cut off when I found that sensitive spot just below his ear. “Fuck.”

My hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers slipping just beneath to touch bare skin. Shane was burning up, trembling slightly, and knowing I was the cause sent a thrill through me.

“We should stop,” I murmured against his neck, even as my hands splayed across his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer.

“Don’t.” Shane’s hand fisted in my shirt. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I lifted my head to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and parted. The want on his face was so raw it almost hurt to see.

“Your collarbone—”

“I don’t care about my collarbone.” He kissed me again, harder this time, more demanding. His tongue swept into my mouth and I groaned, my control fraying at the edges.

I walked us backward until Shane’s back hit the wall beside the fridge. He made a small sound—surprise, not pain—and I gentled my touch immediately, one hand coming up to brace against the wall beside his head.

“Okay?” I asked, pulling back just enough to check his face.

“More than okay.” Shane’s good hand slid under my shirt, palm hot against my abs. “Keep going.”

I kissed him again, slower this time but no less intense, mapping out the taste of him I’d been denied for three weeks. Shane’s hand roamed higher, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, and I felt my breath catch when his thumb brushed over my ribs.

“You’re still so careful with me,” Shane said against my mouth. His hand continued its exploration, fingertips dragging across my chest. “Even now.”

“Can’t help it.” I kissed along his jaw, down his throat. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” His fingers found my nipple through the shirt, circled it deliberately, and I gasped. “See? I’m not breaking.”

To prove his point, he arched into me, his hips pressing forward, and I felt the evidence of his desire against my thigh. My self-control, already hanging by a thread, snapped completely.

I captured his mouth again, one hand sliding down his side to grip his hip, holding him against me. Shane made a desperate sound, his hand fisting in my hair now, tugging slightly in that way he knew drove me crazy.

“Bedroom,” he breathed when we broke apart. His chest was heaving, skin flushed. “Now. Please.”

My hand moved from his hip to his thigh, hitching his leg up slightly. The angle made Shane gasp, his eyes fluttering closed.

“You sure?” I asked, my voice barely recognizable. “Doctor said—”

“I don’t give a fuck what the doctor said.” Shane’s eyes opened, blazing with need. “I need you. Right now. I’ll be careful, I promise, but I need you please”

He kissed me again, and this time there was nothing careful about it. His tongue swept against mine, his good arm pulling me closer, and I was drowning in the feel of him, the taste of him, the desperate little sounds he was making.

My hand slid higher up his thigh, fingers digging into the muscle there. Shane’s hips rolled against mine and we both groaned at the friction.

“Fuck,” I muttered, my forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Shane, if we don’t stop now—”

“Then don’t stop.”

“Fuck the doctor,” Shane breathed against your lips, his good hand fumbling at the tie of his sweats. “I need you. Now.”

You helped him, your fingers clumsy with desire, pulling his pants off . His chest was a map of fading bruises, pale skin over defined muscle.

Your hand slid down, over the taut plane of his stomach,

You leaned in, capturing one of his nipples between your lips, swirling your tongue around the peak.

He gasped, his head falling back against your shoulder, a ragged “Fuck,” hissing from between his teeth.

“Yes,” he begged, the word mangled. “Just like that. Please.”

You began to stroke him, a slow, firm rhythm at first, watching his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth digging into his full lower lip. You began to stroke him, a slow, firm rhythm at first, watching his face.

His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth digging into his full lower lip. Every muscle in his neck and shoulders was corded tight with the effort of staying still, of letting you take control.

Pre-cum beaded at his tip, and you smeared it down his length with your thumb, making the glide smoother, wetter.

“Faster,” he choked out.

You obliged, tightening your grip, pumping him with a rhythm that was both punishing and reverent.

Your other hand left his hip, traveled around to cradle the hard curve of his ass, pulling him tighter into your strokes.

He was panting openly now, little broken sounds escaping with each exhale.

“I want…” he started, then groaned as you twisted your wrist on an upstroke. “I want your fingers. Inside. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. Spitting into your palm, you wet your first two fingers thoroughly, then brought your hand back down, bypassing his cock. He spread his legs wider, a silent, urgent invitation. You pressed against his entrance, and he pushed back immediately, taking the first knuckle with a low, guttural moan.

You pushed in deeper, crooking your fingers, searching. When you brushed that spot inside him, his whole body went rigid. A strangled cry tore from his throat, loud in the quiet kitchen. “There! God, right there, don’t stop—”

You scissored your fingers, stretching him, fucking him with them in time with the relentless strokes of your other hand on his cock. It was a clumsy, frantic rhythm, born of two weeks of deprivation. His head lolled on your shoulder, his breath scalding your neck. You could feel the tension coiling in his gut, the muscles of his ass clamping rhythmically around your fingers.

“I’m gonna…” he warned, his voice cracking.

“Come for me,” you murmured into his ear, your own arousal a painful, ignored throb. “Let it go, Shane.”

That was all it took. With a cry that was part sob, part shout, he came. Hot stripes of cum painted your fist, his stomach, the front of your shirt. His body convulsed, held upright only by your body pinning him to the wall and your hand buried inside him. You worked him through it, milking every last pulse from his cock, your fingers still gently stroking that sensitive place inside him until he was whimpering with overstimulation.

He went boneless, sagging against you, his forehead damp against your neck. His breathing was a ragged, torn thing. You slowly withdrew your fingers, and he made a small, bereft sound at the loss. You held him, your own heart hammering against your ribs, the scent of sex and tension thick in the air.

“F-Fucking finally” Shane stuttered out breathless

————————————————————————

hiii guys hope you guys enjoy I’m trying to get a good smooth look and not all over the place let me know if you guys like that and tell me how you guys like the story is it good let me know 😚☺️

I’m thinking reader is new on the team and hiding the fact he’s trans. Ilya catches him stripping for a shower after practice one night and shit spirals bc he thinks reader is hot asf. It should be mentioned in my mind reader is tall, muscular, hairy, and burly lmao

Late nights thin ice

Mdni | ftm reader

You had learned quickly that joining the Boston Raiders meant two things: the pace was brutal, and the locker room was loud in ways that never really stopped. Music, trash talk, the clang of gear—everything felt turned up just a little too high.

You fit in physically. No one questioned that.

At six-foot-something and built solid from years of lifting and skating, you looked like you had been born for this level of hockey. Thick shoulders, heavy legs, dark hair curling along your arms and calves—taking took up space without trying. Coaches liked that. Teammates respected it.

What they didn’t know was how carefully you managed every minute off the ice.

You changed fast. You showered late. You kept your head down.

Being new made it easier. Everyone expected rookies to be quiet.

Ilya Rozanov did not believe in being quiet.

From the first practice, Ilya skated like he owned the rink. Sharp turns, hard checks, no hesitation. His English came out rough and blunt, wrapped in a heavy Russian accent that made every sentence sound like a challenge.

“Again,” Ilya barked during drills. “You slow. Push.”

You pushed.

You guys ended up on the same line more often than not. Ilya noticed everything—where you favored your left side, how you braced before contact, how you never backed down. The attention was intense, almost invasive, but never cruel.

After one scrimmage, Ilya clapped you on the shoulder hard enough to rock him.

“You hit like truck,” he said. “Good.”

That was the closest thing to praise.

The first few weeks passed without incident. You started to relax—just a little. Enough to think maybe this team would be different.

Then came the late practice.

Most of the guys cleared out fast, eager to beat traffic. You stayed behind like always, waiting until the noise drained from the room. You sat on the bench, breathing slowing, heart steadying.

waited

Minutes passed. A door slammed down the hall. Silence.

Good

You stood and started stripping out of your gear, movements steady. Sweat cooled on your skin. body was familiar to you,tall, broad, scarred from years of contact. You reached for the towel, letting your guard drop for just a moment.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Ilya Rozanov stepped inside quietly, intent on grabbing his shower stuff. He paused the second he saw you.

Ilya didn’t react the way most people did. No sharp inhale. No flinch. His eyes flicked over the scene once—quick, observant—then stilled.

He understood immediately he now had a better reason to fuck you stupid

Ilya said nothing just watching you as a tent grows in his pants

Breathing sharply trying not to cum on the spot

He turned just as quietly as he’d entered and walked back out, shutting the door without a sound and a new thing to wet dream about later.

You never noticed.

You noticed it two days later.

At first, you thought you was imagining things. Ilya Rozanov wasn’t exactly known for being predictable—he played hard, spoke bluntly, and didn’t waste time on social cues. But now?

Now Ilya was… weird.

During warm-ups, he skated past you twice without saying a word. No sharp comment. No correction. No “move faster.” When our line met at the boards, Ilya stood just a little too far away, shoulders tense like he wasn’t sure where to put himself.

You frowned.

On the ice, Ilya overpassed. Hesitated. Once, he nearly collided with you during a line change and swore under his breath in Russian, face heating up as he avoided eye contact entirely.

“Sorry,” he muttered, English rougher than usual.

That alone was strange.

After practice, you sat unlacing your skates when a water bottle slid across the floor and bumped into your foot.

You looked up.

Ilya stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You—uh,” Ilya started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “You play… very strong today.”

blinking. “Thanks?”

Ilya nodded too quickly. “Yes. Good.” Then he turned and walked away like he’d said something dangerous.

Staring after him.

What is his problem?

The pattern continued. Ilya avoided the locker room when you were there, then lingered when you weren’t When he did talk, Ilya’s confidence cracked in small, telling ways—words stumbled, accent thickened, eyes flicked away too fast.

Once, during drills, Ilya corrected everyone except you.

When you finally caught him alone by the rink doors, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Did I do something?” You asked.

Ilya froze.

For a moment, you thought Ilya might snap at you. Instead, his ears went red. Actually red.

“No,” Ilya said too fast. “Why you think this?” He avoided your face, knowing that if he looked any longer, his imagination would betray him

“You’re acting… different,” you said carefully.

Ilya stared at the floor. Then at your skates. Anywhere but your face.

“This is stupid,” Ilya muttered, mostly to himself.

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but Ilya straightened suddenly, like he’d snapped a switch off inside his head. Whatever softness had crept into his expression vanished, replaced by the familiar hard focus he wore on the ice.

“Forget it,” Ilya said, voice firm. “Is nothing.”

Before you could respond, a sharp voice echoed down the hallway.

“Rozanov.”

Coach stood near the rink doors, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Ilya. A word.”

Ilya nodded once. “Coming.”

He didn’t look back at you as he skated off, already back in work mode. No explanation. No follow-up. Just distance, deliberate and clean, like a line change done right.

You stood there for a second longer, then shook it off. Whatever that had been, it was clearly over.

Practice ended late.

You stayed even later.

It was habit by now—waiting until the locker room emptied, until the laughter and noise drained away and only the hum of the lights remained. One by one, the lockers slammed shut. Footsteps faded. A door clicked closed down the hall.

Silence.

You sat on the bench, unlacing the skates slowly. body ached in the good way—earned, familiar. You peeled off the gear

( I kinda changed the pov here so it’s easier to write so sorry if it get confusing)

I peeled off my soaked jersey, then the compression top. The cool air hit my sweaty skin, a minor bliss

I toed off my skates, peeled down my socks, then my hockey pants. I was down to my jockstrap, my thick thighs trembling with fatigue, when I heard the quiet click of a lock.

I froze.

From the coach’s office at the far end of the room, Ilya emerged. Captain. Enforcer. Six-foot-four of solid Russian muscle, his pale blue eyes sharp even in the dim light. He had stayed late to review tapes, he said.

He stopped dead. His eyes, which had been scanning a clipboard, snapped up and locked onto me. Not my face. My chest. My bare, hairy chest, my heaving stomach, the line of hair leading down into the white fabric of my jock.

I saw the moment his brain short-circuited. The slow, dawning recalculation. The jockstrap did little to hide the soft swell of my cunt, the different shape of me.

moved, a panicked jerk to cover myself.

“Don’t.”

The single word was a command. He dropped the clipboard. It clattered on the tile, the sound shockingly loud.

He took a step forward, then another. He wasn’t disgusted. He was… intent. His gaze was a physical heat, raking over me.

“All this time,” he murmured, his accent thickening. He was close now, close enough for me to smell the hard work on his skin, the primal, salty musk of him.

“You are a beautiful fucking secret,.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. Shame warred with a sudden, shocking bolt of pure want. His eyes saw me, the real me, and they burned with hunger.

“Ilya, I—” My voice cracked.

He closed the final distance. One massive hand came up, not to strike, but to cup my jaw, his thumb rough against my lips.

“Shhh. The showers Now Before someone comes back.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a current I was swept into. He grabbed my wrist, his grip unbreakable, and pulled me, naked and exposed, through the empty locker room and into the vast, tiled shower room.

He kicked the main valve on, and a cascade of hot water erupted from a dozen showerheads, filling the space with a steamy haze.

He backed me against the wettest, slickest wall, his body caging me in.

He was still mostly dressed in his practice gear, his damp undershirt clinging to every ridge of his torso. He didn’t speak.

He just looked, his eyes drinking in the sight of my naked body—the muscular build, the hairy thighs, the undeniable truth of me between them.

Then his hands were on me. One tangled in the wet hair at the nape of my neck, forcing my head to the side.

The other went to the fly of his shorts, yanking them open. He freed his cock, already thick and heavy and flushed.

He didn’t prep me, didn’t ask. He just spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and guided his fat, blunt head to my entrance.

I cried out, a sharp, ragged sound, as he pushed in.

It was a stretch, a delicious, burning fullness. My cunt, untouched by anyone but myself for years, clenched around the sudden, brutal invasion.

He hissed, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Tighter than I dreamed.”

And then he began to move. Hard, deep strokes that stole my breath.

His hand left my hair and snaked around my throat, applying pressure, not to choke, but to possess. To control.

He pulled my head back, arching my spine, and in the struggle, my face turned.

It found the hot, damp hollow of his armpit. He was still in his undershirt, but the sleeve was short, and the damp, dark curls were right there. He felt it—my nose pressing in, my hot breath hitting his skin.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming punishing, each one jolting me forward, mashing my face deeper into his pungent heat.

“Smell me. Smell the game on me. You wanted this. I saw you watching me on the ice. Watching me sweat.”

He was right. I had. His musk had been a secret, shameful trigger for me for weeks.

His other hand delved between our bodies, his fingers finding my swollen t-dick.

He circled it, once, twice, then pinched it roughly between his thumb and forefinger, jerking it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was catastrophic.

The deep, filling grind of his cock inside me, stretching me raw.

The sharp, electric pleasure-pain on my most sensitive nerve. And the scent—God, the scent—filling my head, my lungs, branding me as his. It was filthy. It was perfect.

“You gonna come, моя любовь?” he snarled in my ear, his breath hot.

“You gonna come all over my cock while you smell where I’ve been working for you? Do it. Come for your Captain.”

————————————————————————

AHHHH thank you so much

Guys I literally thought I was going to be like chopped and not have anyone read my writing

And I’m almost done with the story the second you sent it I started working on it

And sorry if the grammar and spelling and everything is perfect I been in honors English all my life so it’s a bad habit that won’t go away lol thankssss

POSTING ALL MY DRAFTS

Mdni | male reader

The ice gleamed under the arena lights, and Shane Hollander was locked in on the puck. Montreal was down one point, but he wasn’t about to let it slip. Then came the hits.

Ilya Rozanov leaned into him just hard enough to make Shane stumble, whispering, “Careful, Shane… don’t want you getting hurt, da?” in that thick Russian accent that always made his chest tighten. Shane jerked his head, cheeks warming, but tried to stay focused.

Not to be outdone, the you skated up from the other side, bumping shoulders with Shane, grinning, and murmuring, “You’re making this way too easy for us.” Shane growled under his breath, trying to act annoyed, but the flush in his face betrayed him. Every time he turned, there they were—taunting, teasing, leaning in just enough to make him feel off balance, both on and off the ice.

By the third period, Montreal had clawed its way ahead, and Shane’s team was finally winning. The buzzer sounded, the arena erupted, but Shane barely noticed the cheers. All he could think about was the way Ilya smirked at him, your teasing grin, and how impossible they both were. The buzzer went off and the arena lost its mind.

You coasted to a stop next to Ilya, staring up at the scoreboard like maybe if you blinked hard enough it would change. It didn’t. Shane Hollander’s team had taken it—by one, of course, because he was annoying like that.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

Ilya let out a breath that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “We let him think he is hero tonight.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself and immediately clamped your mouth shut, biting the inside of your cheek. Coach was already skating toward the bench, face set in that do not joke right now expression.

Across the ice, Shane was peeling off his helmet, flushed and smug and absolutely looking at you. Not just you—you and Ilya. His grin tilted when he caught you watching, like he could see straight through the disappointment and into the chaos brewing underneath.

He lifted his stick in a tiny salute.

You rolled your eyes. Ilya leaned in, whispering, “I want to trip him.”

“After coach leaves,” you whispered back.

The bench was a minefield. Coach launched into his speech—discipline, missed chances, learning experiences—and you nodded along seriously even though this was literally a friendly match, hands clasped, eyes forward. From the outside, you probably looked devastated.

Inside? You were seconds from losing it.

Ilya’s knee bumped yours under the bench. On purpose.

You inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing as you fought a grin. He pretended to adjust his gloves, mouth pulled into a very respectable frown—except his eyes were absolutely sparkling.

“Keep straight face,” he murmured. “You are terrible liar.”

“You literally started it,” you hissed, lips barely moving.

Coach turned suddenly. “Something funny?”

Both of you snapped upright.

“No, Coach,” you said at the same time, voices painfully sincere.

Ilya even added, “Very upsetting loss.”

That was it. You had to press your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop from laughing.

From across the rink, Shane watched the whole thing like it was premium entertainment. He leaned against the boards, arms loose, gaze locked on the two of you like he’d just won twice—once on the scoreboard, once right here. When you dared to glance back, he raised his brows and mouthed, Behave.

You flipped him off behind your water bottle.

Ilya saw and nearly choked.

By the time coach finally skated off, you both lost it—shoulders shaking, quiet laughter spilling out as soon as it was safe. Ilya ducked his head, still smiling.

“Next time,” he said, “we win. And then we stare at him.”

You glanced back at the ice, where Shane was heading toward the tunnel, still glancing over his shoulder like he knew exactly what was coming.

“Deal,” you said. “But he’s definitely enjoying this way too much.”

Later, alone in the locker room, Shane’s phone buzzed. Of course.

Jane: “You two are impossible. Whispering, bumping, distracting me all game… I can’t believe it.”

Lilly: “Da. But still you won 😏 Focused and flustered. That’s rare.”

You: “Seriously, Hollander. That final goal? Sexy af. You looked so good out there.”

Shane groaned, tightening his grip on his phone. Sexy? That wasn’t a word he ever used for himself.

Jane: “I wasn’t doing that for you. I was focused.”

Lily: “Focused, yes. But also distracted. We saw you looking at me during the third. Admit it 😏”

You: “yes I was kinda starring at you the whole game but don’t lie. You’re blushing, jane 😫”

Shane rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face.

Jane: “You’re both insane..”

Lilly: “We will not stop. You are fun to distract”

Jane: “fuck off”

Lilly: “speaking of fuck😈”

You: “Also,we fuck you later huh. For the way you play today da You in or too good for fun?”

Shane paused. Too good for fun was basically his default, but… he couldn’t resist.(Shane is not our strongest soldier guys we know this )

Jane: “Fine. We can. But I’m picking who’s fucking me first I’m not letting that happen again.”

Stating his mind before they pull the same stunt as last time overriding his senses with a bewildering effect on him stuffing all his holes as he endured every thrust quite Loudly.”

Lilly: “We’ll let you think you’re in charge”

You: “Bet. Can’t wait”

Shane leaned back, letting out a slow breath, finally allowing himself to smile. The game had been chaotic, the teasing relentless, and the win sweet—but the real victory was realizing he liked being caught between them, and maybe… just maybe, he didn’t want it any other way.

————————————————————————

Power bottom! ilya rozanov just absolutely destroying your dick riding out all his frustration mumbling and cursing in Russian about the new player on the team while your hands are on his ass trying to tell him to slow down

"Блин! This guy, he drives me crazy. Я ему говорю - simple thing, simple, and he just смотрит like cow"

ilya mumbles grinding his ass hard against your poor cock hands tangled in your hair running through it like it's his personal doll

"Hey, hey, take a breath. Maybe he didn't understand what you meant"

Ilya jerks his head up, eyes fixed on you, stunned

"Didn't understand? Come on. I explain in English, in Russian, almost in French. Ничего! Zero reaction." Suddenly, his movements turn sharp and uncontrolled against your dick."

You laughed, attempting to distract yourself from the punishment your cock was enduring.

"Okay, but yelling won't help" trying to reason with the angry blonde

"Ughh-b-baby please slow down" you warn in a breathy whisper tears, swelling up, blurring your vision feeling overwhelmed

Smiling, ilya ignoring you, decides to take his chances and ride you faster and harder than before.

ilya tilts his head, unimpressed.

“Or what, huh? Что ты сделаешь?”

Or sub! Shane Hollander with reader who plays for the new york admirals comes back home after 2 weeks and Shane’s finally gets a taste of him

Shane jolted awake to the creak of the door.

There you were, back from two weeks with the New York Admirals, hockey bag slung over your shoulder, and that impossible grin he could never resist.

“Oh… you’re back,” he said, heart racing for a reason that had nothing to do with sleep.

“Yeah,” you said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Miss me?” Your voice had that teasing edge that made it impossible not to grin back… or maybe blush.

Shane swallowed, trying to sound casual. “Uh… maybe a little. But really, could you have picked a better time to show up?”

You smirked, stepping closer. “What, your the one who woke up right before my shower? I thought I’d… you know, make it interesting.”

Shane felt heat creep up his neck as he started tugging on the towel around your waist. “Interesting isn’t exactly the word I’d use…”

“Hmm,” you murmured, eyes twinkling, “I think it’s perfect.”

For a moment, the awkwardness hung in the air… and then the tension, electric and unavoidable, making Shane wonder if two weeks apart had been far too long.

“Get in the shower Shane” your voice dropping a couple levels as your eye strip off his clothes your gaze dark and fulled with hunger

A groan ripped from his chest as he complied, desperate to shed his clothes

“I was going to think about you” you muttered slowly “while fucking my hand in the shower”

“Fuck… stop.” His gaze never left yours as a trembling hand lifted to his cock, fingertips tracing the glistening trails of water that slid over his skin, slow and deliberate."

“You reached out, hand grazing his hip, and whispered, ‘’spread your legs'"

Wait guys first post kinda nervous…. What do I need to work onnn