#ilya x reader

summary: they can’t stop thinking about her, but how many nights can they spend together before it gets complicated?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ if you want it (part one)

♡ if you need it (part three)

♡ you can have it (part four—finale)

♡ the library

tags: reader is referred to as “bunny” but as stated previously there is zero pet play, threesome (m x m x f), shane is a little sexually confused, canonically top!ilya/bottom!shane, oral (m!receiving), a lot of spit, hair pulling, use of “good girl,” fingering, spitting in mouth, biting, p in v and also p in…a?, unprotected sex (this is fiction, pls wrap it before you tap it irl), bit of angst at the end.

ilya can be so mean sometimes, especially when he’s hunched over you with his cock pressing deep in your gummy walls.

you’re not even sure how long you’ve been like this, with teary eyes and your cunt feeling impossibly full. ilya has a hand grasping your chin, calloused fingers pressing into your soft cheeks to pucker your kiss swollen lips together.

“c’mon, tell me what you want.” 

you whimper in response, because ilya knows exactly what you want. his hips have been flush against your for what feels like ages now, the mushroomy head of his cock pressing right up against your cervix. 

“pweash ‘lya mmove,” you attempt to whine out, and ilya laughs at how your words bleed together because of how he’s forcefully puckering your lips. 

“sorry, can you say that again?” 

your eyes prickle with more tears, because you’ve waited long enough already and you’re tired of his teasing. so your hips buck up against his, causing him to press harder against the entrance of your cervix. 

the dull ache of him combined with the small amount of friction is practically euphoric after he’s denied you for so long, but ilya doesn’t let you get away with it. 

his hand lets go of your chin in favor of laying a slap across your cheek. it’s a sharp momentary sting, but it’s enough to pull a soft cry from your lips. 

“bad,” he scolds, like you’re a dog he’s trying to put back into its place. 

his hands grasp at your hips, keeping your hips still and flush against his to keep you from moving again.

“now use your words.” 

hey hoes, we’re finally back with part two to messy! hope y’all like it! :3

contains: dom! ilya, degrading, praise, crying during sex (short mention but idc), making out, mutual orgasm

“so fucking good..” you mumbled under your breath. at this point you kinda forgot how long you and ilya had been on this bed or in this room for that matter

he was deep, and currently abusing your cervix with every thrust. your stomach was on the bed as ilya was right behind you, knocking the breath out of you each time his hips snapped.

“ilya..i-i fuck i can’t” you whimpered out. beginning to feel the pure overstimulation that he was so damn good at giving.

tears began to spill from your eyes as you pawed at his forearms. desperate for anything to cling onto. “what? it’s not good?” he teased. knowing damn well what was actually going on, what he was doing to you. “crybaby..” he murmured right into your ear in his thick accent.

before you could think another thought he was right back there again, bruising your insides. “pretty, so pretty. taking it all” he praised. wanting to see you fall apart, see you break.

“ilya please..i wanna cum please” you pleaded as his thrusts got more sloppy. sensing he was close as well. “cum then. i’m close” he told you. and with his hand sneaking around to rub your clit. that did you over. as you let out a strangled whimper cumming around him.

not long after, ilya came inside. slowing his thrusts and letting out a string of curses in russian. his hands coming up to grab your jaw and slam his lips onto yours. hands trailing down to your waist as he admired the mess you both created.

Ilya and Shane Art <3

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

Iyla Rozanov x female!reader

Summary: You and Ilya have been on and off "casual lovers" for a few years now, always coming back to one another, time and time again. But recently, you two had spent a lot of time together as something more - something a bit too real. So, when it all gets too much for Ilya, you're left trying to get him to admit it means something more.

Warnings: angst, arguing a little? parental issues, and sickness mentioned.

I thought of 6 different songs while writing this (casual by Chappell roan being one lol)

Part 2 >

His place in Boston was always the go-to spot. A safe space to hide from the media and to hide whatever it is that you and Ilya have been for the past 3 years.

He always avoided the topic of what you were. Countless times, he had diverted it to something playful and fun, never asking or admitting that he wanted you as his and not just something casual.

But you still walk into his place like it's a second home, putting your coat up, feeling safe as Ilya stands and watches you.

"You took too long to get here"

A shy smile makes it way to your face along with a blush.

"I'm sorry. Traffic during rush hour. I promise I tried to get here as quick as I could, but -"

The explanation was cut off, as he held the back of your head and brought you into a kiss, fingers tangled in your hair. You melted into it as you always did, because it was familiar. And safe. And addictive.

Ilya pulls back, a smug smile on his perfect face. His eyes dance all over your face before settling on your lips.

"I was worried" He admits, his gaze staying on your lips.

"Worried?"

He hums and nods, hand that was sitting on the back of your head, now settled on your cheek.

"You usually arrive quicker. I thought something was wrong"

Your eyes soften at the admission, but this is where things get complicated.

Because you had assumed the way he cared for you was something more than casual. Even when he kept you a secret from his friends and family, you knew he kept his personal life close and quiet. So, that's why he did it with you... right? To keep this safe, between you two.

He leads you to the kitchen, grabbing you a drink, before taking your hand and leading you to the couch.

"Drive was okay, yes?"

You nod, distracted by his hand in yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"Yeah, it was fine. Just busy. I was going to stop to get us food but I was already late"

You settle on the couch, his arm around your shoulder.

"Hm. We can order food later. For now, I want your company"

You sit like this for a while, some hockey game playing in the background, but you don't pay much attention, your gaze flickering between the screen and Ilya's face. He kisses you every so often, arm still heavily settled around you.

It's nice, peaceful. And reminds you why you keep coming back to him, even after so much longing to be called something more than friends or 'casual'

The peace is ruined, though, when Ilya gets a call from his brother, and his demeanour changes.

You knew his relationship with his family was complicated and sensitive to him, and was probably one of the many reasons he could never give you much more or reveal much more of himself. But, no matter what, you made it clear that whatever or whenever he wanted to talk more about it or rely on you, you were always there.

You didn't understand what he was saying on the phone - it was his native language after all, but you picked up the tone quickly. His body language gave it away that whatever Alexei was saying on the phone was pissing him off. He never did speak much about what Alexei called him for constantly, but you assumed it was his sick father.

Another topic he avoided completely. Again, you didn't blame him for it, but wished he would open up for his own mental well-being. To take off a burden on his shoulders and let someone in.

Ilya eventually hangs up the phone and throws it onto the couch, glaring at it as if it had caused him serious offence, before running a hand through his curls, exhaling, and leaning back, his muscles tensing in his arms.

"Everything okay?"

He nods and keeps his gaze averted, his hands wringing together on his lap, jaw tense - giving every signal to you that everything is not okay.

"Is your dad okay?"

He cuts a glance at you.

"Fine, he is fine. I don't want to discuss, okay? I ask you to come here for distraction, not to do therapy session"

It was moments like this that shattered the illusion and brought out all of those doubts in your mind. Because in your mind, you were waiting for the moment for him to allow himself to be cared for, but it was moments like this that made you think you were never going to get there.

You so desperately wanted to be wanted by him, but also selflessly wanted him to say out loud what was breaking him.

But his words made you think, am I just a convenience to him when he needed a distraction? A fix to take his mind off everything else?

"Distraction? What... what does that mean?"

He exhales sharply again, clearly over the conversation already before it's started.

"Yes, distraction. You come over, we have fun, you stay over, I listen to you talk about things and your boring life and complain and then you go home"

You sit up a bit now, heart sunk in your chest and convince yourself not to cry as your doubts slowly become a reality and any hope of something more slowly withers away with every word he says.

More often than not, you opened up to Ilya about your own life. Your struggles with friends since moving to Boston, your parents not approving of your career or any of your decisions... even your anxiety and your own mental struggles.

And now he was throwing it back in your face.

"But... we're - I mean, it's a bit more than that? Like we - I mean more than that, right? To you? This isn't just a casual thing. We have to mean more, Ilya?"

Ilya's face is in his hands now, mumbling something in Russian before standing to his feet.

"We discuss this before, hm? We are nothing more than casual. I don't want a partner or girlfriend or someone pushing for something I cannot give. Is not my fault you thought wrong. It is not my fault you come to me about problems and expect me to fix it"

His body language is defensive, his words sharp, and there's a part of you that knows this is him pushing you away so he doesn't hurt more than he doesn't rely on someone and get too close. Somewhere deep down you are aware this is him putting his guard up and he is too scared to allow himself to be cared for.

But why does it still hurt like he's being honest? Were you really that delusional to think you would end up together?

You had been there for him for years now, listening whenever he decided to open up, being there when he felt most alone and he would do the same for you, when your family didn't care enough or showed up, he would be there.

Friends do that for each other, but there was always more to it than just caring about a friend.

It was the late nights, the hand holding, the kissing, even when it didn't lead to something else. It was the way he would hold you in hotel rooms and ask you to stay. Or the way he would call you first after winning a game. Not Svetlana, not his family. You.

But why did it feel like it all meant nothing to him now?

"You can't... stand there and tell me all of these years meant just casual to you. You can't stand there and say all the times we showed up for one another were just... distractions"

Tears spring to your eyes as he shrugs, putting on his act of not caring about the conversation, not caring about how this hurts you, how much you feel for him...

But what you don't know is when he sees the tears in your eyes, a little part of his heart breaks, and he wants to stop himself from lying and kiss you.

“Like I said… not my fault you got caught up in feelings that I don’t share”

He wished you knew how hard that was to say. To lie when really he feels more than he could ever let on.

With your heart breaking and your pride and confidence shattered, you pick up your overnight bag, avoiding his face all together now.

"I think I should head home"

He falters a little and watches as you pick up your things.

"It's late. Don't be stupid" If you paid enough attention to his tone, you would've caught the slight panic in his voice, but you can't breathe right now and want out of this house and to go home and just fall apart alone.

"Is dark now. It will not be safe to drive alone. Just... I will take couch or -"

Everything feels too much. You decide this can't go on anymore because it hurts too much.

"Can you delete my number?"

Ilya stops, and for a moment, you think he actually looks sorry.

"Your number?"

You nod, already blocking his contact as you walk to the front door with shaky hands and a build of rage and embarrassment. You hesitate though. Because it makes it more real what you’re deciding.

He follows you now, watching you walk away from him. His heart races, and he doesn't take his phone out. Only stutters.

"I think we are jumping to things now, yes?"

When you open the door, the rain and cold hair jolts you back down to earth and you head to your car.

Ilya follows you, not bothering to put on shoes or a jacket on as he picks up his pace.

"Just delete my number, okay? Think we can both agree this was a waste of time on both ends, and it's better to end it now before... it hurts more. For me at least " Even though it has already shattered you completely.

"I don't want to delete your number. Just... we can go back inside, okay? You are upset, and it's dark -"

You open the car door, but before you go in, you look at him one last time.

Ilya's heart breaks a little more, if even possible, as he looks at how broken you are too.

"I..." love you so much, this is hurting me

You stop yourself.

Did you really want to say it now? Would it even matter to him anymore? Or would he realise how far gone it is and walk away more easily?

But to Ilya, he doesn't know what you're holding back.

If he did, he would carry you back inside, and he wouldn't hide anymore. He would be honest and he would show you how much he cares.

But he thinks the worst, just like you. Even when you stand in front of him and say these things, he doubts he’s enough.

He doesn't assume he can be loved.

He assumes that love and care come with a price, and if you stayed long enough, he would get too comfortable in your safety, and you would leave.

Or he couldn’t give you the love you want.

But instead of saying it out loud, you close your eyes. Take a breath.

"Goodbye, Rozanov. Good luck with the season"

And then, as tears finally fall and both your hearts break -

"I hope you find your person. And I'm sorry I couldn't be enough for you"

Dom!Ilya Rozanov x Dom!Shane Hollander x Sub!Fem reader

Summary: After the last time yall couldn’t stop thinking about each other, and when you see each others again no one can hold back the lust anymore.

Warnings: MMF, dirty talk, rough sex, p in v/a, oral, after care and sweet talking trough it.

word count: 3k,write me for requests (Minors don’t read this).

The dim glow of the Boston skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite at the Mandarin Oriental, casting long shadows across the king-sized bed. It was a crisp autumn night in 2016, the kind where the city's energy hummed outside but inside, the air crackled with anticipation. You, Y/N, had arrived first, your pulse already quickening from the text exchange earlier that day: Meet us at the hotel. Room 2501. Bring nothing but yourself. The words from Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins' enigmatic Russian forward with his intense stare and unyielding build, had lingered in your mind all afternoon. And Shane Hollander, the team's rugged defenseman, his message following: We're gonna make you forget your own name tonight.

You'd been drawn into their orbit months ago—Ilya's secret glances during games turning into stolen nights, Shane's flirtatious banter evolving into something raw and shared. What began as separate flames had merged into this inferno, a threesome dynamic that pushed boundaries and ignited every hidden desire. Tonight, after a grueling practice, they wanted to unwind, and you were the center of their focus.

The door clicked open, and there they were: Ilya in a fitted black shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, jeans low on his hips, his dark hair tousled. Shane followed, his blond waves damp from a shower, wearing a simple white tee and cargo pants that did little to hide the power in his legs. Their eyes locked on you immediately—you in a silk slip dress that skimmed your thighs, the fabric whispering against your skin as you stood by the window.

Ilya crossed the room first, his hand cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up. 'You've been thinking about this all day,' he said, voice low and accented, thumb brushing your lower lip. It wasn't a question. Shane flanked your other side, his breath warm on your neck. 'We could tell from your texts. Wet already, aren't you?'

You nodded, heat flooding your cheeks, but they didn't rush. Ilya's mouth descended, capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—lips firm, tongue teasing the seam until you parted for him. He tasted like mint and determination, deepening the kiss with a groan that vibrated through you. Shane watched for a moment, then pressed against your back, his hands sliding up your arms to your shoulders, massaging lightly before trailing down to your waist. 'Kiss him like you mean it,' Shane murmured, nipping at your earlobe. 'Show us how much you want this.'

You did, pouring hunger into the kiss, your hands fisting Ilya's shirt as your tongues tangled. Shane's fingers danced along the hem of your dress, inching it up slowly, exposing the lace of your panties. He didn't touch further yet—just ghosted his knuckles over your thighs, building the ache. Ilya's free hand joined, cupping your breast through the silk, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened into a peak. You arched into him, breaking the kiss to gasp. 'More,' you whispered.

'Tell us what you want,' Ilya demanded, his blue eyes boring into yours, hand squeezing your breast harder. Shane chuckled softly from behind, his erection pressing insistently against your ass. 'Yeah, spell it out. We want to hear how bad you need our hands on you, our mouths.'

'I want you to touch me everywhere,' you breathed, voice trembling with need. 'Strip me slow, make me beg.'

They exchanged a glance over your shoulder, a silent agreement passing between them. Shane's hands hooked under the straps of your dress, sliding them down your arms inch by inch, the fabric pooling at your waist. Ilya's mouth followed the path, kissing along your collarbone, then lower to the swell of your breasts. He tugged the dress further, exposing you fully to the cool air, your nipples tightening further. Shane spun you gently to face him, his lips claiming yours now—hotter, more urgent than Ilya's, teeth grazing your lip as he backed you toward the bed.

Ilya pressed in from behind again, his chest to your back, hands roaming your bare sides while Shane's kiss devoured you. 'Feel that?' Ilya growled against your ear, grinding his hardening cock against you. 'That's what you do to us. Hard as fuck just from looking.' Shane's hands cupped your ass, kneading the flesh before slipping between your thighs from the front, fingers tracing the edge of your panties without dipping in. 'These are soaked,' he said, voice rough. 'You been dripping for us?'

'Yes,' you admitted, hips bucking toward his touch. But he pulled back, smirking. 'Not yet. We take our time.' They guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, Ilya kneeling before you to slip the dress off completely, leaving you in just your panties. Shane stood, stripping his shirt slowly, revealing the defined lines of his abs and the trail of hair leading down. Ilya followed suit, his body a masterpiece of lean muscle from years on the ice, scars from games adding to the rugged appeal.

Ilya's hands parted your knees, but instead of diving in, he kissed the inside of your thigh, teeth scraping lightly. 'Spread wider,' he ordered, and you did, exposing the damp spot on your panties. Shane knelt beside him, their shoulders brushing—a casual intimacy that sent a thrill through you. 'Look at her,' Shane said to Ilya, voice laced with hunger. 'Pussy's begging through the fabric.' Ilya's response was a low hum, his breath fanning over you as he leaned in, lips brushing the lace without pressure.

You whimpered, hands reaching for them, but Shane caught your wrists, pinning them to your sides. 'Watch us first. See how we worship this body.' He leaned in from the side, tongue flicking out to trace your inner thigh, mirroring Ilya's path on the other leg. They worked in tandem, kisses and licks inching upward, avoiding your core entirely. Ilya's fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down agonizingly slow, the cool air hitting your bare pussy. 'Fuck, she's glistening,' Ilya rasped, eyes fixed on you.

Shane took the panties the rest of the way off, tossing them aside. Now fully exposed, you felt their gazes like caresses. Ilya parted your folds with two fingers, not entering, just spreading you open. 'So pink and wet. Dripping down your thighs.' Shane's mouth hovered close, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe along your outer lips, tasting the slickness there. You moaned, hips lifting, but Ilya held you down with a firm hand on your hip. 'Stay still. Let us taste every inch.'

They took turns then—Shane's tongue delving shallowly into your entrance, lapping up your arousal with broad strokes, while Ilya sucked gently on your clit, the suction pulling a cry from your throat. 'Tastes like sin,' Shane muttered against you, his stubble scraping deliciously. Ilya pulled back to watch, stroking himself through his jeans. 'Suck her harder. Make her grind on your face.' Shane obeyed, mouth sealing over your clit, tongue flicking rapidly as he hummed vibrations into you.

Your hands fisted the sheets, body trembling as pleasure built layer by layer. Ilya stood, shedding his jeans, his thick cock springing free—veined and heavy. He stroked it lazily while watching Shane work you. 'Look at him eating your pussy like it's his last meal,' Ilya said, voice thick. 'You like that? His tongue fucking into you?' 'Yes—god, yes,' you panted, thighs quivering. Shane added a finger, sliding it in knuckle-deep, curling to brush your inner walls. 'Tight as hell. Gonna feel so good around my cock later.'

But they switched again, drawing out the torment. Ilya took over, two fingers plunging into your pussy now, scissoring to stretch you while his thumb circled your clit. Shane rose to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. 'Suck my fingers,' he commanded, pressing two into your mouth. You did, swirling your tongue around them as Ilya's fingers pumped faster, the wet sounds filling the room. 'That's it—get them wet for your pussy,' Shane growled.

He replaced Ilya's hand with his own slick fingers, three now, thrusting deep and twisting. Ilya knelt again, his mouth joining—tongue lapping at where Shane's fingers stretched you. 'Fuck her with those fingers. Make her soak the bed.' The fullness, the dual sensation of fingers and tongue, had you on the edge. 'I'm close—please,' you begged. 'Not yet,' Ilya said, pulling back. Shane withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, leaving you clenching around nothing.

They stripped fully now, cocks hard and leaking pre-cum. Shane's was long, curved slightly, Ilya's thicker with a pronounced head. They pulled you to your feet, maneuvering you between them. Ilya's cock pressed against your ass, Shane's against your belly as they kissed you alternately—hot, messy exchanges that left you dizzy. 'Feel us?' Shane whispered, grinding forward. 'Both throbbing for you. Gonna fill you up soon.' Ilya's hands roamed your back, dipping to squeeze your ass cheeks, spreading them slightly. 'But first, more teasing.'

They laid you on the bed, Ilya climbing over you to suck on your breasts—teeth grazing nipples, tongue soothing the sting. Shane settled between your legs, but instead of entering, he rubbed his cock along your slit, the head nudging your clit with each pass. 'Slide it over her clit,' Ilya instructed from above, his own hand pinching your other nipple. 'Make her hump it.' You did, hips rolling desperately, the friction building heat without penetration. 'Fuck, your cock feels so good like that—rubbing my pussy,' you moaned.

Shane groaned, pre-cum mixing with your wetness. 'Pussy's clenching like it wants to suck me in.' Ilya shifted, his mouth trailing down your body to join Shane at your core. While Shane frotted against you, Ilya licked your clit, then lower to where Shane's cock slid. His tongue flicked over both of you, tasting the combined slickness. 'Suck my balls while you do that,' Shane said to Ilya, voice strained. Ilya did, briefly, mouth enveloping one heavy sac before returning to your clit, the male-male touch adding a forbidden edge that made your arousal spike.

The foreplay stretched on, endless in its intensity. They flipped you to your hands and knees, Shane behind you, cock teasing your entrance without pushing in. Ilya in front, feeding you his length—shallow thrusts into your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks. 'Suck harder—take more,' Ilya grunted, fingers in your hair. Shane's hands spread your ass, thumb circling your tight hole while his cockhead dipped just inside your pussy, then out. 'Gonna fuck this pussy raw later. Stretch it with my dick until you can't walk.'

You moaned around Ilya's cock, the vibrations making him thrust deeper. Shane finally sank in an inch, then pulled out, repeating the tease. 'Tell us how empty you feel,' he demanded. 'So empty—need you deep,' you gasped when Ilya let you up for air. They laughed lowly, the sound dark and promising. Ilya pulled you up for a kiss, tasting himself on your lips, while Shane's fingers replaced his cock—four now, pumping furiously, thumb pressing your clit.

Orgasm crashed over you then, unavoidable, your pussy gushing around Shane's hand as you cried out into Ilya's mouth. They didn't stop, riding it out until you sagged. 'First one down,' Shane said, licking his fingers clean. 'Now we really start.'

Ilya lay back, pulling you onto him reverse, your back to his chest. His cock nudged your entrance, and you sank down slowly, inch by thick inch filling your still-pulsing walls. 'Fuck, so tight after that,' he groaned, hands on your hips. Shane watched, stroking himself. 'Ride him. Show me how you fuck that cock.' You did, rolling your hips, the drag exquisite. Ilya thrust up, meeting you, his hands reaching around to spread your pussy lips, exposing your clit.

Shane knelt on the bed, leaning in to suck your clit while you bounced. 'Tongue on her while she rides,' Ilya said, voice rough. Shane's mouth worked magic, sucking and licking as Ilya's cock pistoned into you. 'Feel that? My dick deep, his tongue on your clit—gonna make you come again.' The words, the sensations, built fast. You ground down harder, Ilya's hands bruising your hips. 'Come on my cock—milk it.' You shattered, walls fluttering around him, juices coating his length.

They switched, Shane taking your pussy now, laying you on your side with Ilya spooning behind. Shane entered slow, his curve hitting new spots. 'Fuck, different angle—hits so deep,' you moaned. Ilya pressed against your back, cock sliding between your ass cheeks, not entering but thrusting along the crease. 'Feel us both rubbing you?' he whispered. Shane fucked steady, hand between your legs to rub your clit. Ilya's fingers joined from behind, pinching your nipples.

'Pound her harder,' Ilya urged. Shane did, hips snapping, the slap of skin loud. 'Your pussy's gripping me like a vice—sucking my cock in.' You came again, screaming, body shaking between them. But they held off, pulling out to reposition.

On your knees now, you alternated sucking them—deep throating Shane while stroking Ilya, then switching. 'Take it all—gag on my dick,' Shane grunted, thrusting into your mouth. Ilya fingered your pussy from behind, four fingers stretching you wide. 'So wet and open now. Ready for both?'

The finale built: Ilya beneath you again, cock in your pussy. Shane behind, lubed and pressing into your ass slowly. 'Relax—take my cock in your ass while he's in your pussy.' The stretch burned then bloomed into pleasure, both filling you completely. They thrust in rhythm, cocks dragging against each other through the thin wall. 'Fuck, feel that? Both our dicks owning you,' Shane growled. Ilya's hands guided your hips. 'Bounce—fuck us both.'

Dirty talk poured out: 'Your holes are made for our cocks—tight and greedy.' 'Come with us inside you—squeeze every drop.' The overload hit, your third orgasm ripping through as they followed, hot cum flooding your pussy and ass, spilling out as they kept thrusting through it.

Collapsed in a tangle of limbs, breaths ragged, the room smelled of sex and satisfaction. Shane was the first to move, easing out of you with a gentle kiss to your shoulder. 'You okay?' he asked softly, his voice stripped of the earlier roughness, now laced with concern. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch feather-light as he scanned your expression. Ilya shifted beneath you, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you steady as he slipped free, a low hum of contentment rumbling in his chest. 'Breathe,' he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing soft, reassuring pecks along your skin.

They didn't let you crash alone. Shane slid off the bed, grabbing a warm washcloth from the en-suite bathroom—he'd anticipated this, the steam from the recent shower still lingering in the air. Returning, he knelt beside you, parting your legs carefully. 'Let me clean you up,' he said, his tone gentle, eyes meeting yours for permission. You nodded, and he wiped away the evidence of their release with slow, tender strokes, avoiding any pressure on your sensitive spots. The warmth soothed the ache, and he murmured praises the whole time: 'You took us so well. Look at you—still glowing.'

Ilya helped maneuver you into a more comfortable position, pulling you against his chest as Shane worked. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, dipping occasionally to massage the tension from your muscles. 'Rest here,' he whispered, his accent thicker in the quiet aftermath. Once Shane finished, he joined them on the bed, fetching bottled water from the minibar and a soft robe for you. He draped the robe over your shoulders, tying it loosely before handing you the water. 'Drink slow. You've earned it.'

They sandwiched you between them again, but this time it was all comfort—no urgency, just shared warmth. Shane's hand rested on your thigh, thumb circling soothingly, while Ilya combed through your tangled hair with his fingers, untangling knots without pulling. 'Tell us if anything hurts,' Shane said, pressing a kiss to your temple. 'We pushed hard tonight.' You shook your head, sipping the water, feeling the care wrap around you like a blanket. Ilya nodded in agreement, his free hand finding yours, interlacing fingers. 'Next time, we go slower if you want. Or harder. Whatever makes you feel good.'

Conversation drifted to lighter things—their practice earlier, a funny story from the locker room that had them both chuckling softly, careful not to overwhelm you. Shane fetched snacks from room service remnants—fruit and chocolate—feeding you bites with a playful grin. 'Replenish those energies,' he teased gently. Ilya hummed a quiet tune, something from his homeland, the vibration lulling you as exhaustion settled in. They took turns massaging your legs, working out the cramps from the positions, their touches firm yet loving.

Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Female!Reader

Summary: After a joyful Family Day with the Ottawa Centaurs, a devoted hockey player discovers that his wife is pregnant.

The scent of coffee was the first thing that registered in your foggy morning brain. Not the brewing kind, but the ghost of it. The dark, rich aroma that clung to Ilya’s skin like a second signature. He was already awake. You could feel the solid, warm line of his back pressed against your side, his breathing a slow, even rhythm that did nothing to hide his alertness. He’d been waiting for you to stir.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper into the pillow that smelled like his shampoo.

A low chuckle vibrated through him and into you. A large hand found your hip under the duvet, his thumb strocing a slow, possessive arc. “You said that ten minutes ago, 'milaya'. We have schedule. Big day.”

Family Day with the Ottawa Centaurs. The words sparked a secret, fizzy excitement in your chest, one you carefully schooled into sleepy annoyance. “It’s too early for schedules. The puck doesn’t drop for spouses until, like, noon.”

“Is not about puck. Is about showing you off,” he said, rolling over in one fluid, athletic motion. Suddenly, you were pinned under the delicious weight of him, his forearms caging your head, his sleep-mussed golden hair falling into eyes that were already crinkled with a smile. He’d been traded to Ottawa two months ago, but this—this unshakable, overwhelming 'attention', had been a constant since the day you’d met him three years ago, and married him two years ago. Ilya didn’t do things by halves. He played hockey with a controlled, brutal fury, and he loved you with that same single-minded, all-consuming intensity. “Is my favorite day. Take my beautiful wife to rink, make all other guys jealous. Maybe coach’s wife jealous too. Good motivation for me.”

You laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You’re impossible. And clingy.”

“Da,” he agreed, utterly unrepentant. He dipped his head, nuzzling into the sensitive spot below your ear, his voice a warm rumble. “Is my job. Now, up. I make you pancakes. Special day needs special breakfast.”

The morning was a familiar, comfortable dance. You moved around the sleek, modern kitchen of the temporary rental in a blur of domesticity, him in sweatpants slung low on his hips, you in one of his old team hoodies. He was, as promised, overly attentive, stealing kisses as he flipped blueberry pancakes, his hands constantly finding you, a touch to your waist as you passed, his palm resting on the small of your back as you stood at the coffee machine. It was his silent language. 'You are here. You are mine. I am yours.'

“You are quiet today,” he observed, setting a plate stacked comically high in front of you. His blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or warm with affection, held a note of soft scrutiny. “Good quiet? Nervous quiet? You do not like pancake?”

“I love the pancake,” you said, forking a too-big bite. “And I love you. Just… excited. It’s a sweet thing, the team doing all this for families.”

His gaze softened. “Is sweet, yes. But sweeter is you, there with me.” He reached across the table, his fingers lacing with yours, his thumb rubbing over your wedding band. “My home. Always.”

The Centaurs’ practice facility was buzzing with a different kind of energy than game day. Instead of the tense, focused quiet, it was filled with the shrieks of children’s laughter, the clatter of sticks on the bare concrete, and the easy chatter of spouses and partners. You walked in, your hand firmly enveloped in Ilya’s, and were immediately swept into a whirlwind of introductions and friendly chaos.

You saw the Ilya the world rarely did. The fierce, trash-talking “Tsar” on ice melted away into a giant, gentle goofball. He high-fived toddlers, pretended to be stunned when a five-year-old in a tiny Centaurs jersey “deked” around his legs, and beamed with unabashed pride every time he introduced you. “This is my wife,” he’d say, the words thick with a reverence that still made your heart skip. His arm was a permanent fixture around your shoulders, tucking you into his side as if someone might try to steal you away.

The events were hilarious and heartfelt. There was a “shooting accuracy” contest for partners, where you embarrassingly missed the net entirely, and Ilya cheered as if you’d just won the Stanley Cup. Then came the main event: the Piggyback Race.

“Is tradition,” Ilya declared, dropping into a squat in front of you on the center ice logo. “Get on.”

“Ilya, you played a sixty-minute game two nights ago! Your back—”

“My back is strong. Strong like bear. Your bear. Now, up. We win this.”

You climbed on, locking your arms around his broad neck, your legs around his waist. He hooked his arms under your knees, standing with ease as if you weighed nothing. Around you, other players were hoisting their giggling partners, kids, even a very unimpressed-looking golden retriever.

The whistle blew. What followed was less a race and more a chaotic, stumbling, laughing spectacle. Ilya, competitive to his core, took off with a determined grunt. He weaved around a stumbling defenseman, cut inside a winger whose passenger was shrieking with delight, his skates (with guards on) providing surprising traction. You buried your face in his neck, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, holding on as he charged for the finish line.

He came in a close second to the team’s speedster, a young guy named Liam who was carrying his petite wife. Ilya set you down gently, his chest heaving, but his face was alight with pure joy. He spun you around, not caring who saw, and planted a loud, smacking kiss on your lips. “See? Second place! Almost champion. Next year, we train.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you gasped, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes.

“For you? Always.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of sweetness. He played a gentle, clearly-goalied game of shinny with a group of kids, letting them steal the puck and score on him, his dramatic falls making them scream with laughter. You watched from the stands, your hand unconsciously resting on your still-flat stomach, a secret smile playing on your lips. 'He’s going to be an incredible father', you thought, the certainty of it a warm, solid ball in your chest.

The ride home was quiet, the kind of comfortable silence that only exists between two deeply connected people. The winter sun was setting, painting the Ottawa sky in streaks of orange and purple. Ilya drove one-handed, his other hand resting on your thigh, his thumb making absent, soothing circles.

“Today was perfect,” he said softly, glancing at you. “You are perfect.”

“You’re biased.”

“Da. And I am right.”

At home, the cozy fatigue of a day filled with fresh air and emotion settled over you both. You ordered takeout, ate it on the couch tangled together under a blanket, watching a mindless movie. His clinginess was in full force; an arm around you, your feet in his lap, his chin resting on the top of your head. It wasn’t smothering. It was grounding. It was Ilya.

Later, as you got ready for bed, the nervous excitement from the morning returned, amplified a thousand times. The secret you’d been carrying for three days felt like a living thing in your chest, fluttering against your ribs. You’d taken the test on a whim, a sudden suspicion that had turned into two pink lines and a world that had tilted on its axis. You’d waited, wanting the perfect moment. Family Day, seeing him with those kids… it had felt like a sign.

You brushed your teeth beside him, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He spat out his toothpaste and immediately wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Tired, 'solnyshko'?”

“A little,” you said, your voice muffled by your toothbrush. “Happy tired.”

In bed, he pulled you into him, your back to his front, his body curling around yours like a parenthesis. He kissed your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. “Spokoynoy nochi, lyubov moya,” he whispered. Love of my life.

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

You waited. You waited until his breathing deepened and evened out into the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep. You waited until the arm slung over your waist relaxed its hold. Then, with the careful precision of a heart surgeon, you slipped out from under his arm.

The floor was cool under your bare feet. You padded silently to the walk-in closet, to the small, zipped compartment in your weekend bag where you’d hidden it. The plastic stick felt momentous in your hand. You crept back into the darkened bedroom, past the sleeping form of your husband, and into the kitchen.

The moonlight streaming through the window was enough. You opened the cupboard above the coffee maker, where his favorite oversized mug lived. You placed the pregnancy test carefully on the shelf, right in front of that mug, the digital display facing out. Two simple, life-altering words in the faint blue light: 'Pregnant. 3+'.

You stood there for a moment, your hand over your mouth, a wild mix of terror and elation swirling inside you. Then you crept back to bed, sliding in carefully, your body thrumming with adrenaline. Ilya, in his sleep, instinctively reached for you, pulling you close again with a soft, contented sigh. You lay awake for a long time, listening to his heart beat against your back, wondering how that rhythm would change tomorrow.

Morning came, as it always did, with Ilya. You were already pretending to be asleep when he stirred. He kissed your temple, then untangled himself with a groan. You heard his bare feet pad across the floor, heading for the kitchen, for his sacred pre-workout coffee ritual.

Silence.

Then, a sharp, choked gasp.

Then, utter, profound silence.

Your heart hammered against your sternum. You held your breath.

The footsteps that returned were not the sleepy shuffle of minutes before. They were slow, deliberate, heavy. They stopped at the side of the bed.

You opened your eyes.

Ilya was standing there, frozen. In one hand, he held his coffee mug. In the other, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white, was the plastic test. His face was pale, all the color drained from it. His eyes, wide and stunned, were fixed on the little digital readout. He looked from it, to you, and back again, as if unable to process the connection.

“Ilya?” you whispered, pushing yourself up on your elbows.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. A tremor ran through his hand.

Suddenly, he took a ragged, shuddering breath, as if he’d been drowning. The mug clattered onto the nightstand, forgotten. He sank to his knees beside the bed, the movement so sudden and graceless it was utterly unlike him. He reached for you, his large hands framing your face, his touch unbearably gentle.

“This…” His voice was a broken, raw thing, scraped from the depths of him. He tried again, his eyes searching yours, swimming with a vulnerability you’d only ever seen glimpses of. “This is true? This is… ours?”

You could only nod, a tear escaping and tracing a hot path down your cheek. “It’s true. I’m pregnant. We’re… we’re going to have a baby.”

The words hung in the sunlit air between you.

A sound escaped him—a half-sob, half-laugh, a release of pure, unadulterated emotion. The shock on his face shattered, melting into an expression of such staggering, awe-struck joy that it stole the air from your lungs. His eyes shone, glistening with unshed tears.

“Bozhe moy,” he breathed, a reverent prayer. “My God.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaky on your skin. His thumbs stroked your cheeks, wiping away your tears. “You… you give me this? You make me this?”

“We made this,” you corrected softly, your own tears flowing freely now.

He pulled back just enough to look at the test again, as if needing reconfirmation. The joy seemed to expand within him, filling him up until he was vibrating with it. A brilliant, breathtaking smile broke across his face, the kind that reached his eyes and lit him up from the inside.

“A baby,” he whispered, the word a wonder in his mouth. Then, louder, with dawning, fierce possession. “Our baby.” His hands slid from your face, down your arms, coming to rest with infinite tenderness on your stomach, over the hoodie you still wore. He splayed his fingers wide, as if trying to cover and protect every possible inch. He looked up at you, his blue eyes blazing with a love so intense it was almost frightening. “Here? Our child is here?”

You covered his hands with yours, nodding, laughing through the tears. “Yes. Right here.”

That was all it took. He surged up, closing the distance between you, and captured your lips with his.

It wasn’t like any kiss you’d ever shared. It was not the playful, demanding kisses of your early days, nor the deep, passionate ones of your private moments. This kiss was a vow. It was gratitude, worship, wonder, and a promise so vast it felt eternal. It was soft and searching and desperate all at once. He kissed you like he was drinking you in, like he was trying to fuse his soul to yours, to you and the tiny, secret life you now shared. You could taste the salt of his tears, or maybe yours, and the overwhelming sweetness of a future rewritten.

When he finally broke away, both of you were breathless. He didn’t go far, just rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, his nose brushing yours.

“I love you,” he said, the words thick and fervent. “I love you so much it hurts. And I will love this baby… I will love them more than anything in this world. I will be… I will be good father. I will be best father.” He said it like a pledge, to you, to the universe, to the life growing inside you.

“I know you will,” you said, your voice trembling. “I saw you yesterday. You already are.”

He kissed you again, softer this time, a seal on the promise. Then he moved, shifting to sit on the bed and pulling you into his lap, cradling you against his chest as if you were made of the most fragile glass. One hand stayed splayed on your stomach, a permanent anchor.

“How long?” he asked, his voice a rumble in his chest under your ear.

“Just a few weeks. I found out three days ago. I wanted to tell you somewhere… special. Yesterday felt right.”

“Family Day,” he murmured, understanding dawning. “You saw me with children and you knew.”

“I’ve always known,” you corrected. “But yesterday, I 'saw' it.”

He held you for a long time, in the quiet morning light, saying nothing. Just breathing with you, his hand a warm, steady weight on your abdomen. The world outside, the trade, the new team, the pressure of the season, it all fell away. There was only this. This room. This man. This new, terrifying, wonderful beginning.

Finally, he stirred. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “No coffee for you today,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Only tea. Healthy things. And no more piggyback races until… maybe forever.”

You laughed, the sound watery and bright. “I think that’s a fair rule.”

“Is first of many rules,” he declared, his tone shifting into playful, overprotective seriousness. “Rule one: no lifting heavy things. Rule two: many naps. Rule three: only best, most expensive pickles. I will get them. I will find them.”

You turned in his arms to look at him, to trace the happy lines at the corners of his eyes, to commit this exact version of him, soft, awestruck, fiercely joyful—to memory. “You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

“Da,” he said, without a hint of shame. He beamed at you, that brilliant, heart-stopping smile that was yours and yours alone. “Is my new job. I am hockey player, and husband, and now…” He paused, the wonder washing over his face again. “Now, I am papa.”

He said the word as if testing it, as if tasting the most exquisite thing. Then he leaned in, kissing you once more, a sweet, lingering press of lips that held the warmth of the sun and the promise of every tomorrow.