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Chapter Text

He went to the door in grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, black hoodie unzipped over bare skin. Hair damp from a shower, still curling at the tips. He held a tub of half-melted ice cream in one hand, licking the spoon as he opened the door - saw who it was - and groaned.

“Of course,” Ilya muttered, stepping aside to let Shane in. “Rozanov is always lucky. Two guests, both beautiful. One shy, one who sucks cock like demon.”

Shane flushed violently, casting a glance at you, already curled up on Ilya’s couch, long legs tucked under you, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. You didn’t bother covering back up. He knew your name already, had heard it once or twice in locker room gossip. Never anything concrete. You weren’t a public part of Ilya’s life but clearly, you weren’t new to it either.

“I didn’t know someone was here,” Shane said, voice caught somewhere between embarrassment and irritation. His gaze kept flickering away from your chest - your breasts obvious under the soft fabric, no bra - and toward Ilya, seeking something, maybe reassurance, maybe a reason to bolt.

Ilya didn’t flinch. “You know the rules, Hollander. I don’t trust someone, they don’t know about you.” His eyes flicked to you, then back. “She is mine. Has been mine. She keeps secret better than fucking priest. She could blackmail me into retirement with what she knows.”

Your lips quirked.

Shane blinked. He hovered near the door like a kicked puppy.

Ilya turned his back and walked back toward the couch. “You staying or running? Ice cream getting warm.”

Eventually, he shut the door.

____________

An hour later, the three of you were sprawled across Ilya’s sunken couch. The TV glowed softly in the dim room, some brutal action movie playing at half volume. Ilya sat between you and Shane, long arms resting across the back of the couch, legs stretched out, completely relaxed. The heat of him radiated. You were tucked under one arm, hand idly stroking his thigh. Shane had kept himself tighter, hands in his lap, posture almost comically proper. But he was loosening. You could see it in the way his knee bumped against Ilya’s now and then. The way he looked at his mouth, at his chest, when he thought no one was watching.

You were watching.

Ilya cracked a handful of pistachios with one hand, tossed the shells toward the empty bowl with aimless accuracy. He said, casual as anything, “She once tied cherry stem with tongue. Inside my mouth. That shit gave me aneurysm.”

You laughed. “You almost choked.”

“Was worth it.”

Shane made a choked sound.

You turned your head lazily, resting your chin on Ilya’s shoulder, your eyes on Shane. “You want to see what else my tongue can do?”

Shane swallowed. Said nothing.

Ilya gave one slow blink. “Well, that was an offer.”

And he spread his legs a little wider.

You slid off the couch, onto the floor in front of him, and looked up. “Want me to show him?”

His mouth curved. That infuriating Rozanov smirk. “Da. Show him.”

You peeled Ilya’s sweats down, letting them gather at his thighs. His cock was already thickening, heavy and warm in your hand. You took your time, fingers stroking up the underside, mouth brushing the crown, breath warm. Then your tongue flattened against the base and dragged all the way up, slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact with Shane.

His lips parted, almost unconsciously.

Ilya said, tone dry as Siberian frost, “You are staring like you’ve never seen blowjob before, Hollander. Or maybe you are just wishing it is your cock.”

Shane turned crimson. “I—I’m not—”

You hummed and the sound vibrated around Ilya’s cock as you slid him deeper into your mouth. You could hear the catch in Shane’s breath, the way he shifted on the couch. Your hand wrapped around the base while you sucked harder, sloppier now, saliva coating your lips, sliding down to your chin.

“Yebat,” Ilya muttered - fuck. “You kill me.”

He let his head fall back, hand tangling in your hair as you started to bob, sucking him deep with every stroke, then pulling back to tease the head, tongue swirling.

Ilya cracked one eye open.

“Hollander.”

Shane jerked like he’d been caught with his hand down his pants. He hadn’t moved but his hands were clenched tight in his lap, and his pupils were blown.

“Come here.”

Shane hesitated. Then stood, moving slowly, like afraid the floor might fall out under him.

Ilya grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, shifting slightly so you had more room. “You want to touch her?” he asked, voice low. “Want to see what she feels like?”

You popped off Ilya’s cock just long enough to murmur, “He can touch me anywhere he wants.”

Ilya hooked his fingers in the hem of your shirt and dragged it up. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hard, flushed from the arousal buzzing in your veins. Ilya cupped one idly in one hand, thumbing over the tip.

“Look at them,” he said, tone like it bored him, but you could feel his cock throb. “She is fucking goddess and she likes you.”

Shane knelt beside you slowly, eyes fixed on your chest. His hand came up hesitantly, then brushed one breast, palm broad and warm.

You smiled, pulling Ilya’s cock back into your mouth with a wet moan, louder now, messier, spurred on by Shane’s heat next to you, his breath hot against your skin. He leaned in, licked over your nipple, tongue tentative but eager.

Ilya grunted. “That’s it. Suck her tits. She loves that shit.”

You moaned around his cock, your body arching, sandwiched between them. Ilya fucked up into your mouth once, slow and shallow, just enough to make your eyes water. You loved when he did that. When he used your mouth like it was his.

Shane was pressed close now, both hands on your breasts, licking and sucking greedily, his cock stiff under his jeans. Ilya let go of your hair just long enough to shove Shane’s hoodie off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and flushed collarbone.

“You hard?” he asked him.

Shane nodded.

“Show me.”

Shane hesitated again but only for a beat. Then he stood, unbuttoned his jeans, shoved them down along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, long and thick, flushed dark at the head.

Ilya let out a low whistle. “Hollander secret weapon.”

Shane gave a breathless laugh.

Ilya grabbed your chin, pulled you off his cock. Your lips were swollen, slick with spit. “You want it?” he asked you, glancing between Shane’s cock and your mouth.

You looked up at Shane. “Yeah,” you said, voice husky. “I want it.”

Ilya crooked a finger. “Suck him. Let me watch you take us both.”

You turned to Shane, catching his gaze with a slow smile. He looked dazed, half-drunk on the heat in the room. You wrapped your lips around his cock, just the tip first, then sinking deeper, letting your spit drip down the shaft. His breath caught.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Fuck.”

Ilya’s hands were on your ass now, kneading, squeezing, tugging your panties down until they pooled around your knees. He leaned forward, his voice hot against your ear.

“Soon I fuck you,” he murmured in his heavily accented English. “But first, you make Hollander lose his mind.”

You grinned around Shane’s cock, moaned on purpose just to feel him twitch. Your pussy was soaked, aching. Ilya knew exactly how long to make you wait. Knew exactly how to turn denial into desperation.

And tonight?

He was going to make sure Shane learned that too.

Your jaw ached just slightly by the time Ilya’s voice cut in again - lazy, thick with arousal. “Enough,” he said. “Let him rest or he will blow too early. I want to see his face when I fuck you.”

You eased off Shane’s cock with a slow slurp, letting your tongue linger, watching the way his thighs trembled. His hand had drifted into your hair at some point, not pulling, just anchoring, as if he didn’t quite trust that he was still here. His cock glistened with your spit, flushed and twitching.

Ilya stood, looming behind you, and nudged your shoulder gently.

“Up.”

You stood, your body buzzing, breasts flushed, thighs slick.

“Bed,” he said. “Both of you. I’m tired of couch.”

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

Shane followed, his hands clumsy as he shoved off the rest of his clothes. You led him through Ilya’s apartment, familiar, confident, the pads of your feet soundless on the hardwood. Ilya moved like a shadow behind you, only catching up when you reached the bedroom. He came up close, palms spreading over your hips from behind, and pressed his cock between your thighs, rubbing the length against your soaked pussy but not entering you yet.

He looked past your shoulder. “You want to fuck her first?” he asked Shane, voice low.

Shane blinked. “I—what?”

Ilya’s mouth brushed your ear. “Or you want to fuck me first?”

Silence.

Then Shane said, voice trembling, “I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Ilya’s grin flashed feral. “We will see.”

Then he pushed you onto the bed.

You landed on your back, knees open, hair splayed across the sheets like a siren laid out for sacrifice. Shane hovered at the edge but his cock gave him away: still hard, still desperate. Ilya was behind him now, hands on his shoulders.

“Lie with her.”

Shane obeyed. You opened your arms and pulled him down, your mouths meeting for the first time; hesitant, hungry, tasting each other slowly. His hand cupped your breast again, now more certain, and you moaned into the kiss.

Ilya moved around the bed, watching. He climbed behind Shane, who was still kneeling between your thighs. He pressed his chest to Shane’s back, cock sliding against his ass, and reached around to fist Shane’s cock in one large, firm hand.

Shane jolted, gasped against your mouth.

“You like that,” Ilya murmured against his neck, lips brushing the damp skin there. “You want to feel more?”

Shane nodded, unable to speak.

Ilya spat into his hand, slicked Shane’s cock, then guided him forward until he was lined up with your entrance. You were dripping, open, ready. Ilya locked eyes with you as he eased Shane inside.

You arched, breath catching. Shane was big and it felt so good having him stretch you, inch by inch.

“Shit,” Shane groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Good boy,” Ilya said behind him, stroking his back. “You feel her? Fucking heaven.”

He guided Shane into a rhythm - slow thrusts, deep - while his own cock pressed against Shane’s ass, not forcing, just pressing. Teasing.

“Can I?” Ilya asked him, voice low and shockingly tender. “You say yes, I make it good.”

Shane lifted his head, looked at you: your face flushed, mouth open, moaning as he filled you. Then he looked over his shoulder at Ilya.

“Yes.”

The sound Ilya made wasn’t a groan. It was a growl. Raw, hungry. He reached for the lube from the nightstand and coated his fingers quickly before sliding them between Shane’s cheeks. One finger at first, then two. Shane tensed but didn’t pull away.

You grabbed his face and kissed him again, slow and deep, while Ilya stretched him from behind, whispering filth in Russian.

When Ilya lined himself up and started pushing in, you felt Shane shudder. His cock pulsed inside you as Ilya’s pushed into him, and his moan was strangled and desperate and beautiful.

“Fucking yes,” Ilya hissed, burying himself deep.

They stayed like that for a second - Shane inside you, Ilya inside him - before all three of you started to move.

It was madness. Pure, fluid madness.

Shane fucked into you with deep, trembling thrusts, his breath broken by every grind of Ilya’s hips behind him. Ilya was relentless, rhythm smooth and punishing, his chest slick with sweat as he pressed Shane deeper into you with every stroke.

Your legs wrapped around Shane’s waist, arms over his shoulders, nails digging into his back.

“Fuck, fuck—god, Shane—” you whimpered, your pussy clenching around him, greedier with every thrust.

Shane groaned, caught between sensation and surrender. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Hold it,” Ilya snarled. “Do not come. She is not done.”

Ilya reached around and pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing hard little circles while fucking into Shane harder, faster, the slap of his hips obscene, his voice raw with Russian curses.

“Takaya gryaznaya…moya devushka,” he growled - so dirty, my girl, “Look at her, Hollander. Look how she takes you.”

You were gone, thrashing under them, your orgasm rising like a wave about to crash.

“Please—don’t stop—don’t—”

Your cry ripped out of you, back arching, mouth open, as you came around Shane’s cock, soaking him, your body pulsing in waves. You clutched at him, your thighs shaking.

Ilya groaned. “Fuck, so tight when you come. Hollander, now.”

And Shane did. He gasped, burying his face in your neck as he exploded inside you, his cock throbbing hard, hips jerking helplessly.

Ilya wasn’t far behind.

He grunted, sank deep into Shane one last time and came with a hoarse, guttural, “Yebat, fuck—da, da, so good—”

All three of you stilled, tangled, slick with sweat and come and heat, breath mingling, heartbeats thudding loud in your ears.

Shane collapsed half on top of you, half off: his body boneless. Ilya pulled out slowly, careful and collapsed beside you both, arm thrown over Shane’s back, his hand resting on your thigh.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Ilya muttered, “Good fucking movie night.”

You laughed. Shane groaned.

“I think I blacked out.”

Ilya smirked. “Welcome to Rozanov hospitality.”

___________

You didn’t sleep. None of you did. There was a lull - breathless bodies tangled, Shane curled against your front, Ilya stretched long behind him - but it wasn’t rest. It was tension. The kind that builds again, and again, until you’re aching, twitching, so overstimulated your whole skin feels electric.

Ilya’s hand stroked down your thigh. Then over Shane’s hip. Then to his cock, soft now, but warm, resting against your stomach.

“Up. Come here,” Ilya said, voice low, dark with promise.

You were still gasping from the last orgasm, your thighs slick, your whole body aching but aching for more. Ilya had already shoved a pillow up under his head, lying back on the bed with that heavy-lidded expression he wore when he knew he owned the room. His cock stood proud, flushed, still slick.

You climbed over him, your legs straddling his hips. His hands immediately slid up your thighs, fingers digging into the plush curves just beneath your ass.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Show him. Let him see how good you look when you take cock.”

You reached between your legs and guided him in - wet and easy, your pussy practically weeping for him. The stretch still made your breath hitch, that familiar burn-pleasure as your body opened for him again.

“Moya zvezda,” Ilya groaned deep - my star, “Always so fucking tight. Always hungry.”

You sank down inch by inch, taking him all the way, until your ass met his thighs and his cock was buried to the hilt inside you.

Your head tipped back.

Shane was behind you now: kneeling on the bed, eyes wide, chest flushed. His cock was hard again, thick and dripping.

Ilya saw him. Smirked.

“You see her, Hollander?” he said, voice edged with a growl. “Pussy full. She’s stuffed. But she wants more. Don’t you, malyshka?”

You moaned, grinding your hips in a slow circle on Ilya’s cock, every ridge and vein rubbing just right inside you. “Yes,” you gasped. “Want it. Want you both.”

Ilya’s hands gripped your hips tighter.

“Get the lube,” he ordered Shane. “And take her ass.”

Shane moved fast. You could hear the slick sounds of him coating his cock, could feel the bed shift as he came closer behind you.

“I have her open already,” Ilya said, voice lazy. “Tight little hole but she has taken me before. Go slow.”

Shane’s hands slid over your back, tentative, reverent. Then he spread your cheeks.

You felt the head of his cock press against your ass.

“Breathe,” Ilya murmured, reaching up to cup your tits, thumbs brushing your nipples. “Let him in. Be good.”

You exhaled.

And Shane pushed forward.

The pressure made you cry out, even slick and ready, your body stretching around him with a slow, steady burn. Ilya groaned beneath you, cock twitching inside your pussy as he felt the fullness, the tight squeeze of your body taking another cock.

“Fucking yes,” he snarled. “That’s it. Look at you. Fucking made for this.”

You were panting now, trembling, your body suspended between them - Ilya thick and deep below you, Shane careful but growing bolder behind you.

“Push deeper,” Ilya told him. “She can take it.”

Shane gritted his teeth and did.

You sobbed; pleasure, so much of it, pressure and heat and full. Your pussy clenched around Ilya’s cock and your ass spasmed tight around Shane.

“Oh my god—Ilya—Shane—fuck—”

Ilya was watching your face with sharp, hungry eyes.

“You feel that, malyshka? Feel how stretched you are?” He thrust his hips up just a little, grinding his cock deeper. “You are fucking mine. Now I share you - watch you break.”

Shane moaned. “She’s so tight—Jesus, Rozanov, she’s—”

“You like her ass, huh?” Ilya’s tone was mocking. Filthy. “Of course you do. Is perfect. Soft and greedy around your cock.”

You cried out - your body bucking between them, sweat sliding down your spine, your breasts bouncing with every tiny movement.

“Move,” Ilya snapped. “Together. Fuck her.”

And they did.

They fucked you - hard, deep, in sync. Every time Shane pushed into your ass, Ilya thrust up into your cunt. Their cocks moved like they were meant to share you. You were pinned between them, used and wanted, your body jolting with every motion.

You were gasping, screaming, clawing at Ilya’s chest as the pressure mounted, orgasm rising again far too fast.

Shane was moaning, desperate. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Don’t you dare,” Ilya growled. “Not yet.”

“I—she’s squeezing me—fuck, Rozanov—”

“You wait for her,” Ilya barked. “You wait for her coming on both of us.”

Then his thumb found your clit - wet, swollen, aching - and rubbed it hard.

You shattered. Your orgasm hit like a fucking car crash: your whole body locking up, both holes spasming, thighs trembling, a cry tearing out of your throat so raw it was practically a sob.

They felt it.

Shane lost control; spilled into your ass with a strangled moan, his cock twitching wildly.

Ilya groaned beneath you, thrust up twice, then roared as he came, thick spurts deep in your pussy, hips jerking.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling, stuffed full, leaking.

Ilya’s arms wrapped around you, possessive, solid. Shane dropped forward too, breath catching as he nuzzled your back, his cock slowly softening as he slid free from your ass.

You were shaking. Wrecked. Blissed-out.

And Ilya? Still smirking.

“Better than practice,” he murmured.

Shane laughed breathlessly, lips brushing your shoulder.

You couldn’t speak. Just whimpered. Boneless. Owned.

Ilya stroked your hair back from your face, eyes gleaming. “You want more?”

Your body throbbed at the idea.

He chuckled darkly. “Shower. Now.”

___________

Steam billowed out past the cracked bathroom door, the light warm and golden, soft on your raw skin. The water had already been running for a minute - long enough for the room to fog, to blur the mirror and bead the tiles. Ilya stood in the middle of the shower, letting the water run down his broad chest and over the lines of his thighs, cock heavy, relaxed but still very much present. Steam curled through his curls, clinging to his jaw, glistening off the muscles on his chest.

Shane stepped in next; tentative, careful. He was still flushed, marked from where your nails had dug into his back, where Ilya’s fingers had bruised his hips.

You didn’t join them. Not yet.

You leaned against the doorframe, completely naked, still slick between your thighs, Ilya’s cum already sliding down one leg. You crossed your arms under your chest, letting your breasts lift, your hair damp from sweat. Your body ached everywhere but you weren’t done.

You wanted to watch.

“Go on,” you said softly. “I want to see you touch him.”

Shane hesitated. Looked over his shoulder at you.

Then looked at Ilya.

Ilya gave him a look - lazy, amused, cocky as hell. His arms were braced against the wall behind him, water running down his chest in rivulets. “You heard her.”

Shane swallowed. “I—what do you want me to do?”

Ilya tilted his head. “Start with your mouth.”

Shane dropped to his knees.

Your pussy clenched just watching it: the way he moved slowly, reverently, the way his hands settled on Ilya’s thighs, thumbs stroking over wet skin. Ilya’s cock twitched as Shane leaned in and licked along the underside, slow and soft, tongue flicking just under the head.

Ilya groaned, low and rough.

“That’s it,” you whispered, one hand sliding between your thighs without thinking.

Shane wrapped his lips around the tip, sucking gently at first, then deeper. He moaned around the cock, throat opening, taking more.

Ilya grabbed the back of his head with one hand. “You’re learning,” he muttered. “You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Shane nodded, cock pressed against the wet tile, already hard again.

Ilya’s hand tightened.

“Then stop teasing. I want to feel it.”

And he started to thrust.

You gasped quietly, watching the way Shane took it, the way Ilya moved with confidence: deep, measured thrusts into his mouth, fucking him like he owned him. His hips rolled forward, his jaw clenched. Shane’s cheeks hollowed, hands gripping Ilya’s thighs to steady himself as spit started to drip down his chin, over Ilya’s balls.

“Look at her,” Ilya said, voice rough. “Look at our girl touching herself while you suck my cock, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes flicked to you. Your legs were parted, two fingers gliding over your clit in slow circles. Your breasts rose and fell with each panting breath.

“She will come just watching you,” Ilya murmured. “She likes watching you be good for me. Don’t you, malyshka?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, Ilya—yes—he looks so fucking hot.”

Ilya shoved deeper. Shane gagged slightly but didn’t pull back.

“That’s it. Take it.”

You moaned, watching Ilya’s cock disappear down Shane’s throat again and again, watching Shane’s tongue swirl, the mess, the heat.

Then Ilya stopped. He pulled Shane off his cock with a wet, filthy pop, cock glistening, twitching with control he was barely keeping.

He jerked his chin. “Come here.”

You stepped into the shower without hesitation, water cascading down your back as you took your place beside Shane. Ilya grabbed your jaw, kissed you hard - wet, open, filthy.

But then he pulled back, eyes gleaming with something darker. Rougher.

“Down,” he ordered, voice sharp. “Both of you. On knees.”

The tile was slick under your knees but you didn’t care. You dropped instantly. The steam wrapped around all three of you but the heat between your legs was hotter: your pussy still aching, dripping down your thighs, cum drying on your inner thighs only to be washed away again by the spray of the shower.

Ilya towered over you both, standing under the full blast of the water, his cock hard again: long, thick, dripping with anticipation. He gripped it loosely at the base, stroking once, slow.

“See this?” he murmured. “This cock fucked both your holes. Now you will suck it clean. Together.”

He stepped closer. And pressed the head against your lips first. You opened willingly, tasting yourself and his lingering salt. Your tongue swirled around the crown, moaning softly as you sucked him in deeper, your cheeks hollowing, drool spilling over your lower lip.

He groaned. “Always so fucking good for me.”

Then he shifted. And fed himself into Shane’s mouth.

Shane opened wide, obedient, eyes fluttering closed as he took Ilya’s cock past his lips, slowly, his throat relaxing with each inch. Ilya sighed, voice like gravel soaked in sin.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Both of you. On your knees. Greedy mouths. Fuck.”

Your hand slid over to Shane’s thigh automatically; warm, wet, muscles trembling. His hand found your waist in the same breath, then slid up to cup your breast, squeezing gently as he sucked on Ilya’s cock.

You shuddered.

The kiss of his fingers on your nipple sent heat straight to your core.

Ilya’s voice cut through the steam. “Touch each other. I want you messy. I want you begging.”

You leaned in and kissed Shane’s neck while he took Ilya deep, your hand sliding around to stroke his cock: it was hard again, achingly so, twitching in your grip.

He gasped around Ilya’s cock. Pulled off just long enough to breathe and then Ilya pushed your head toward him again.

You opened wide, lips slick, taking him again, slower this time; savouring it.

Shane’s fingers slid between your thighs.

You moaned around Ilya’s cock, your body jerking as Shane teased your clit, gentle but relentless. You reached for him again, stroking his cock faster now, fingers slick with water and precum.

The three of you were tangled: tongues, hands, gasps, spit. Water rolled down your face, across your collarbones, dripped from your nipples. Your knees ached on the tile, your jaw throbbed, your pussy throbbed harder.

Ilya looked down on both of you, chest heaving.

“Fuck. You are perfect,” he muttered. “Sharing like you are made for it.”

He thrust into Shane’s mouth again - shallow, careful - then into yours. Alternating.

You could feel Shane’s breath on your cheek every time he moaned. Feel his cock pulsing in your grip. Feel your orgasm coiling just from the act of being used like this, together, worshipping Ilya.

Then Ilya pulled back.

His hand gripped the base of his cock, thick and angry red, veins standing out.

“I will come. You will watch.”

He pumped once, twice, then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back.

Shane turned toward you, his hand still between your thighs, still circling your clit while your hand still jerked him, both of you kneeling side by side, mouths open, eyes locked on Ilya.

His growl was filthy.

“Look at you,” he hissed. “Ready for it. Fuck—take it.”

He came with a groan that echoed in the small space, cock twitching as the first hot rope of cum splattered across your tongue and cheek. Then another, on Shane’s jaw, his lips. Then another, on your breasts, mixing with water and sweat.

You both gasped, trembling, coated in him.

Your fingers tightened on Shane’s cock as his hips jerked: his orgasm hitting sudden and hard, splashing across the tile, his moan cracking in his throat.

You cried out at the same moment, Shane’s hand still teasing your clit; your orgasm slamming into you, full-body, muscles locking, cunt spasming, knees buckling under the weight of it.

You collapsed forward against Shane, your body still twitching.

He caught you.

You kissed his mouth, tasting Ilya on his lips, on yours.

And above you, Ilya laughed softly, dark and pleased.

Steam still wrapped the room in a heavy, humid hush, broken only by the low splatter of the water and your slowed, uneven breathing. The three of you stayed tangled for a long moment on the tile - knees aching, muscles trembling, cum rinsing off your thighs in rivulets - but it didn’t feel like a fall from heat. It felt warm. Stupid. Somehow sweet.

Ilya finally stirred, grabbing your hair gently and muttering, “You are puddle now. You used to be a woman. Now just horny blob.”

You snorted, face still buried against Shane’s neck. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who almost collapsed when he came.”

“Almost?” Ilya scoffed. “I did not collapse. I did not even wobble. Rozanov stands strong.”

“Rozanov made that noise,” Shane said, voice a little hoarse but relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in him before. His hand was still stroking your lower back. “You know the one. That groan? That ‘just-got-my-soul-sucked-out’ sound?”

“That sound,” Ilya said with heavy sarcasm, “is battle cry of champion.”

You giggled, nudging him with your shoulder. “Uh huh. Champion of what? Losing control in thirty seconds flat?”

“Thirty seconds?” he growled, offended. “I last longer than American economy. You take that back.”

Shane was laughing now. Really laughing. The tension that usually coiled in his jaw was gone, his shoulders loose, his smile brighter than the bathroom lights. He looked at you, his thumb brushing a line of water from your cheek. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“I can’t feel my soul,” you replied, then turned to Ilya. “Thanks for breaking us.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, mock-modest. “But is not broken. Just…stretched. Little traumatised.”

Shane leaned back against the wall as Ilya finally reached up and turned off the water. The sudden silence that followed was full of heat, heartbeat-loud but softer now. Real.

“Okay,” Ilya said, standing and pulling you both up with him like he was dragging ragdolls. “We are disgusting. We need to wash.”

He reached for a washcloth and squirted soap into it, tossing another at Shane. “Scrub. Everywhere. If you leave cum on my floor, I kill you.”

You took the one from Ilya’s hand and started gently soaping his chest, amused by how his cock twitched even now, after everything.

“Ilya,” you said. “You literally came on us. And now you’re worried about the floor?”

“Exactly,” he said seriously. “Floor is sacred.”

Shane chuckled again and started cleaning himself off, moving slowly but comfortably now. He didn’t rush to hide his body, didn’t shy away from the casual touches as your hand brushed his while rinsing your thighs, or when Ilya stepped in to help you wash the back of your neck.

It was gentle but not awkward. Intimate, but still full of smirking looks, occasional ass slaps, and Ilya cursing under his breath when the shampoo bottle slipped out of his hands and hit his foot.

“Fuck. I hate this capitalist shit design,” he muttered, rubbing his toe. “Why no grip?”

“Maybe because it’s not made to survive three-person sex showers?” Shane offered.

Ilya gave him a deadpan look. “Then why make it at all.”

You grabbed the shampoo bottle and waved it at him. “We’ll write to the manufacturer. ‘Dear Sir or Madam: your bottle was not three-way certified.’”

Ilya turned to Shane and whispered, “You see what I deal with?”

Shane nodded solemnly. “She’s a menace.”

You slapped both their asses, one after the other. “You love me.”

“Absolutely,” Shane said.

“Only when you shut up,” Ilya muttered, before kissing your wet temple.

The drying off was slower. Tired hands, soft towels, brief kisses and gropes that didn’t go anywhere; not from lack of desire, but because all of you were wrecked. You watched Ilya rub the towel roughly through Shane’s hair, then toss it at him like a coach dealing with a rookie.

“Do not leave your underwear here,” he said. “I do not want to accidentally wear it.”

“It’s navy blue,” Shane deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Ilya said. “Mine are also blue. Russian blue. More powerful.”

You rolled your eyes, wrapping your towel tighter around you. “You two are unbearable.”

“But you still ride us,” Ilya pointed out.

“Because I like the cock, Ilya. Not the commentary.”

“Too bad. Comes together.”

They followed you into the bedroom and you dressed slowly, body aching in the best way. Shane was the first to pull on his jeans, looking down at them like they were the most useless thing in the world.

“I don’t even want to put these on,” he mumbled. “They feel like a punishment.”

Ilya stepped closer, resting a hand on his lower back. “You did good.”

Shane looked up, something raw and real flickering across his face. “Yeah?”

Ilya nodded once. “You listened. You fucked. You make her come. You take orders. You take dick.”

Shane choked out a laugh. “Wow. I’ve never gotten a gold star quite like that before.”

You leaned against the dresser. “You earned it.”

Shane paused, then moved to you, kissed your mouth - warm, slow, grateful. Then turned to Ilya. Another pause. Then he kissed him too. Quick. Firm. And undeniably real.

Ilya didn’t flinch.

Shane grabbed his jacket. “I’m heading out. Early morning. Practice.”

“Don’t die,” Ilya said.

“Try not to.”

Shane turned back in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame.

“Hey,” he said. “This was…good. You know. I mean that.”

You smiled. “We know.”

Then he was gone.

And Ilya, still naked, turned to you with a devil’s grin.

“Now you,” he said. “Come here.”

__________

He didn’t drag you back into the shower. He didn’t pull your towel off or push you against the wall or say some obscene thing in Russian just to feel your knees buckle again.

He just took your hand.

Wrapped those big fingers through yours and tugged you back toward the bedroom like it was the most natural thing in the world. Still damp, still bare beneath your towel, hair dripping down your back. He led you silently, the bathroom light fading behind you, the apartment quiet now, city noise hushed outside the windows.

Ilya pulled back the sheets, slid in, and patted the space beside him.

“Bed,” he said.

You crawled in without hesitation. Tucked into his side like a habit: one of those luxurious, selfish ones he indulged in behind closed doors. His arm went around you immediately, bare chest warm under your cheek, his fingers tracing idly along the curve of your hip.

For a while, it was quiet. Just breathing. Skin on skin.

Then, softly:

“He’ll be back.”

You smiled, not lifting your head. “Obviously.”

Ilya’s fingers moved slower. “You like him?”

You nodded. “Not like I like you.”

A huff of air from his nose. That crooked, amused sound he made when he was both satisfied and pretending not to be. “Good answer.”

You tipped your head up slightly, looked at him. “You do, though.”

Ilya didn’t respond immediately. His mouth pulled into a thin line, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

“You gonna lie to me about it?” you asked, gentler.

“No.”

You waited.

Then he exhaled, dragged a hand through his damp hair, and muttered, “Fucking Hollander.”

That alone made you smile. “Such bitterness. So romantic.”

He flicked your thigh. “Don’t start.”

You lifted yourself just enough to press a kiss to his jaw. “Come on. Tell me.”

He rolled his head to look at you then. Not dodging anymore. Just watching you, like he always did when he was working something out in that sharp, snarling mind of his.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he admitted, voice low. “First time? Vancouver. World Juniors. You know that.”

“2010,” you said, nodding. “You were both eighteen.”

His grin was shameless. “He was shaking. So scared. I told him it was just a dare.”

You kissed his collarbone. “Was it?”

“No.”

You smiled. “You knew, even then?”

“I knew he made me angry,” Ilya said, eyes unfocused now. “Fast. Clean. So fucking smug. I hated how much I watched him. Every time he touched the puck, I was watching. Every time he looked at me on the ice, it was like—” He broke off. “It was like he knew what I was thinking.”

“And what were you thinking?”

Ilya turned his head, kissed you, soft this time. Not teasing, not biting. Just warm.

“That I wanted him against the boards,” he murmured against your mouth. “Wanted him under me. Wanted him quiet for once.”

You laughed. “God, you’re such a fucking caveman.”

He shrugged. “Worked.”

You cuddled closer. “So what happened after that?”

“We kept doing it,” Ilya said. “Tournaments. Off-season camps. He flew to Russia once. Said it was to train with skating coach. He just wanted to fuck in hotel bathroom.”

Your eyebrows rose. “That’s kind of romantic.”

“It was so small,” Ilya groaned. “My elbow hit the hand dryer.”

You were giggling now, burying your face in his chest. He ran his fingers through your hair, quiet for a moment, then added, more serious:

“Then we both went pro.”

You nodded. “And the rivalry started.”

“Rivalry was always there. But league made it bigger. Media. Fans. He leaned into it.”

“And you?”

“I hated him,” Ilya said, but it was soft now. Not vicious. “But only because I wanted him so fucking bad.”

He looked down at you again, eyes shadowed now, thoughtful.

“It was not just sex anymore. After Sochi? We didn’t stop talking. Texts. Fucking late-night DMs. He got hurt once, shoulder. And he messaged me first.”

Your heart twisted a little at that. “You love him.”

Ilya didn’t flinch. Just nodded.

“Da,” he said. “I do.”

You kissed the edge of his mouth. “And he loves you.”

He scoffed. “He would rather die than admit it.”

“Maybe. But not forever.”

Ilya didn’t answer that. His hand moved from your hip up to your ribs, sliding under, not to grope, just to touch. Warm skin on skin.

“I can not be out,” he said, like it was fact. Not something he was inviting discussion on. “Neither can he. Not now.”

You didn’t argue. Just curled into him. “I know.”

“And this…” He gestured vaguely. “With you. Is not fake. I do not lie to you. You know that?”

You met his eyes. “I know.”

He kissed you then. Long, slow, thorough.

“I do not say sweet things,” he murmured against your lips. “Not good at them.”

“You once called me your emotional support blowjob,” you reminded him.

“That was sweet.”

You laughed. He smiled, almost sheepish.

“But seriously,” he said, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “This—what we have. You are not just between. Not filler. You are part of it. Of me. You keep me fucking sane.”

Your heart squeezed. “I love you too.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just pulled you tighter against him, his nose brushing your forehead, his breath warm in your hair.

You lay like that for a while. Quiet. His fingers trailing little circles on your skin. Your foot tangled with his under the blanket.

Then, dryly: “Next time, you should suck me most.”

You lifted your head. “Excuse me?”

“I think Hollander is trying to outshine you.”

You smacked his chest.

“I’m serious,” he said. “He is competitive. You were too busy playing with his balls.”

You were wheezing. “Are you jealous of your own threesome?”

“I am strategic,” he said. “I want optimal pleasure. No wasted potential. No edge for Shane.”

You kissed him again to shut him up. He let you. His hands tangled in your hair, mouth gentler this time.

“I’ll suck you more next time,” you whispered. “Right after you beg.”

He grinned against your lips. “You fucking love that.”

You would. But not tonight.

Tonight, you let him hold you. You let him talk. You let him drift into quiet again, safe in your arms, your body tucked into his, heart steady, warm.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow would come.

But tonight, you had him.

Chapter Text

The second you stepped out of the elevator and into the private club, the temperature changed; not in the room but around you. Heads turned. Conversations paused just long enough to register who had just walked in.

Ilya Rozanov in tailored black, all sharp lines and blunt shoulders, and you in a dark green dress that clung in all the right places and left nothing to the imagination from the back. Together, you didn’t look subtle. You looked like a threat.

And Ilya played into it with that deadpan calm, one hand resting possessively low on your waist, his mouth already near your ear.

“Everyone is looking at your ass,” he said, dry as gin.

“They’re looking at you, Rozanov,” you murmured. “I’m just the pretty side dish.”

“I do not share my food,” he replied, eyes scanning the room like he was choosing who to fight first.

You laughed softly, then let your hand slide just far enough up his chest to signal to anyone watching that the answer to ‘are they together?’ was ‘very, very yes.’

Shane Hollander was already there.

You felt him before you saw him: the way your body reacted to his presence, the tension that shot between your shoulder blades like a warning. He was near the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie half-loosened, drink untouched in his hand. He wasn’t mingling. He wasn’t relaxed. He was watching.

His eyes flicked to yours. And then to Ilya’s hand on your waist. And then down.

You didn’t smile. You just tilted your head and let your fingers brush the top of Ilya’s belt.

Shane’s jaw clenched.

You leaned in to whisper in Ilya’s ear. “He’s hard already.”

“Of course,” Ilya murmured. “He knows he is not invited to this part of the night.”

You made the rounds slowly. Handshakes. Laughter. The illusion of ease. Ilya played his role flawlessly, charming in that gruff, doesn’t-give-a-shit Russian way. You played yours: smiling just enough, your dress high enough on the thigh to keep every man glancing twice. Including Shane.

Especially Shane.

He didn’t approach. But he didn’t leave, either.

And when you finally met his gaze again - near the back hallway, where the shadows were deeper - he looked wrecked. Not from jealousy. From want.

You paused long enough to whisper against Ilya’s jaw: “He’s going to come tonight. Watching.”

Ilya smiled, slow and cold. “Only when I say.”

___________

You found him at the bar, alone.

It was late into the night now, the music low, the crowd looser, messier. The energy at the club had shifted: people lingering, laughing too loud, glasses being topped off without a second thought. You moved through it all effortlessly, dress clinging to your hips, hair tousled from Ilya’s earlier touch.

You found Shane with a beer in his hand, elbow on the counter, pretending to listen to some assistant coach from another team drone about a trade. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you approach. He didn’t smile. Didn’t say your name. Just watched.

You took the spot next to him, shoulder brushing his.

The coach turned to you, grinning. “And who might you be?”

“Trouble,” Shane said.

You gave him a half-smile, eyes low. “Only when he’s lucky.”

The coach laughed, said something else but you were already leaning in closer to Shane - close enough that only he could hear.

“Hotel Nacional,” you murmured, voice soft and warm like a secret. “Room 1906.”

Shane’s breath caught. You felt it.

Then you pulled back like you’d said nothing at all. Lifted your glass to your lips. Let your fingers graze his thigh for just a second too long.

And Ilya appeared behind you like gravity had pulled him there. One hand on your hip. One eyebrow raised.

“You done being social?” he asked.

“Mm,” you said, draining your drink and setting the glass down. “For now.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to Shane, then back to you. But he didn’t say anything. Just turned and led the way out, his hand possessive at the small of your back.

You followed him into the night.

And Shane watched you go: every inch of your body, every sway of your hips, until the crowd swallowed you.

Only then did he exhale.

And finish his drink.

___________

You left with Ilya in a black car with tinted windows. His hand was between your legs before the door shut.

Your back hit the seat. Your legs parted on instinct. And Ilya, still in that starched black shirt, unbuckled his belt with one hand while the other dragged your panties to the side.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered, fingers sliding over your slit. “You like when he watches.”

“I like when you watch him,” you gasped.

That earned you a grin. Two fingers pushed deep inside you, knuckles grinding against your entrance. “That’s because I’m better. Bigger. Meaner.”

“And filthier,” you choked out, hips jerking up.

“Da,” he agreed. “And you? You will come only when I say because I own this pussy and that pretty little mouth.”

You moaned, head thudding back against the leather.

He fucked you with his fingers all the way to the hotel. Made you beg for more. Slapped your clit twice, hard, then pressed his soaked fingers into your mouth when you whined.

When the car pulled to the curb, he tucked himself back into his pants, licked your taste off his knuckles, and said, “Smile for doorman.”

You couldn’t even walk straight.

____________

The hotel room was expensive and high up. The skyline glittered through the glass like a string of diamonds pulled tight.

Ilya had you bent over the bathroom counter before you could catch your breath. Not to fuck you; just to press his fingers inside again, two knuckles deep, while he kissed your back and growled filth into your spine.

“You want to show him?” he asked. “You want to spread your legs on hotel bed, let him kneel between them and I hold your throat?”

You moaned.

He pushed deeper. “You want to come while he begs me to touch?”

You didn’t get to answer.

The knock came.

You froze.

Ilya didn’t.

He slid his fingers out of you, slow and dripping, then licked them clean before walking to the door.

He opened it.

Shane stepped in like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged there. But his eyes betrayed him. They flicked straight to you: dress halfway off, chest heaving, knees trembling.

Ilya said nothing. Just stepped aside.

The room was gold-lit and too warm and smelled like sex already - faint traces of sweat, your perfume clinging to Ilya’s suit, the ache between your thighs sharp from the car ride where he still hadn’t let you come.

You barely had time to blink before Ilya turned on you, spun you toward him and kissed you like he needed to make you forget everyone else had ever touched you.

Your back hit the hotel wall.

His mouth crushed yours - teeth dragging over your lower lip, his thigh slipping between yours, pressing up. You moaned into it, hips grinding down, desperate for friction. His hands pinned yours above your head, that hard body caging you in.

Ilya smiled against your mouth. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Shane stepped further in. Already jacketless, tie gone, shirt unbuttoned halfway. His eyes locked on you first - your dress half-up, leg hooked over Ilya’s thigh - and then shifted to Rozanov.

“I wasn’t sure I should come.”

“Sure?” Ilya scoffed, letting you go, turning toward him. “You come in your pants just watching her at the bar. You are lucky I am in generous mood tonight.”

You pushed off the wall and walked over to Shane slowly, hips swaying. You kissed him before he could say anything: slow and hot and soaked in tension.

Behind you, Ilya kicked his shoes off and started unbuttoning his shirt with that maddening, precise rhythm of his.

“She is not allowed to come,” he warned. “Not until I say. You want to make her beg? Go ahead.”

Your knees nearly gave out at that.

Shane looked at you, eyes darkening.

You took his hand, led him to the edge of the bed and climbed onto it on your hands and knees. The hem of your dress was already shoved up past your hips: no panties now, just slick thighs and need.

“Face down, malyshka,” Ilya ordered. “Let Hollander taste you. Let him earn it.”

You obeyed. Your cheek hit the sheets. Shane knelt behind you, eyes wild now, mouth already parted as he leaned in and kissed the back of your thigh.

Then higher. Then your cunt.

He moaned against it - loud, shameless - and began to lick you slow and thorough, broad strokes of his tongue over your pussy, down to your entrance, back up to circle your clit. You gasped, trembling already.

Ilya undressed behind you, slow on purpose, watching. He walked to the bed stark naked, cock hard and heavy and glistening at the tip.

“You going to do your part, Hollander?” he asked, voice curling in sarcasm. “Or just eat her like bitch in heat?”

Shane paused, just enough to growl back, “She tastes like heaven, Rozanov.”

Ilya smirked. “Let us see if you still say that with a cock up your ass.”

You whimpered; half from shock, half from knowing what that meant.

Shane stiffened but didn’t move away from you. Instead, he doubled down, lips locking around your clit, tongue flicking fast, hands gripping your thighs to hold you still.

Ilya got on the bed behind him, one knee planted between Shane’s legs, hands rough as he pulled his hips up into position. You could barely lift your head, already a mess from the way Shane was devouring you, but when you heard the sound of lube, of Ilya spitting, your whole body tensed with anticipation.

“Relax,” Ilya muttered. “You have had me before. Always so fucking tight, Hollander.”

He lined up behind him and pushed forward, slow but relentless, his cock pressing into Shane’s ass inch by inch.

Shane moaned into your cunt. It felt like a fucking vibration.

You cried out.

Ilya groaned - deep, guttural. “Blyat. That’s it. Take it.”

Once he was buried to the hilt, he didn’t wait.

He started to thrust.

Shane’s tongue stuttered over your clit with every deep push from Ilya. His breath came hot and fast, moaning between licks, your thighs gripping around his head. You were soaked, everything slick: your cunt, Shane’s ass, Ilya’s cock grinding in deep with every snap of his hips.

“Good boy,” Ilya grunted. “That’s right. Eat her. Make her scream.”

You were screaming. Or moaning. Or sobbing. You weren’t even sure. Every movement rocked you forward into Shane’s mouth and back into Ilya’s groan. The rhythm was perfect. The filth of it was perfect.

Ilya leaned down over Shane’s back and growled, “You feel her? How tight she is getting? You will make her come on your tongue while I fuck you open. That is your job tonight.”

You were trembling, fingers digging into the sheets, your orgasm right there.

“Please,” you gasped. “Ilya—I can’t—I need to—”

“Not yet,” he snapped. “Hold it.”

You whined.

He slammed harder into Shane, who yelped into your pussy, then sucked your clit with a vengeance.

Your body shook.

“Not yet,” Ilya warned again, breath ragged.

Then, finally: “Now. Come for me, malyshka.”

You exploded. Your cry tore through the room, legs shaking, cunt pulsing in Shane’s mouth as he kept licking, kept drinking you in like he couldn’t stop.

Behind him, Ilya groaned, thrust once, twice—

“Fuck, Hollander, take it—”

And he came deep, spilling into Shane with a growl like he’d been holding back all fucking night.

They stayed locked together for a moment: Shane’s mouth slack against your inner thigh, Ilya still pulsing inside him.

Then Ilya pulled out slowly, breath shaky, hand gripping Shane’s hip. He looked at you. And smiled.

“You love watching me fuck him.”

You nodded weakly, still trembling.

Ilya flopped onto the bed beside you, dragged you into his chest, pressed his lips to your forehead. Shane climbed up the bed too, silent, eyes dazed, mouth slick with your come.

He curled behind you, one arm sliding over your waist, face pressed to your shoulder.

Ilya looked over you both, half-lidded.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you both on your knees. I do not come until you cry.”

You shivered.

And whispered, “Yes, sir.”

____________

The minibar wasn’t stocked for three - just a handful of sad little bottles that wouldn’t survive a real party - but somehow it was exactly what you needed. Ilya handed you a tiny whiskey with a deadpan “For strength,” and tossed Shane a gin without looking.

Shane caught it. “Wow, generous.”

“I almost gave you peach schnapps,” Ilya said. “Be grateful.”

You sank into the bed, towel barely clinging to your hips, the hotel duvet cool under your skin. Shane was across from you, feet up, one arm draped behind his head. Ilya stood by the window in nothing but his boxer briefs, sipping his own whiskey like a war general contemplating another siege.

Shane muttered, “We’re gonna feel all of this tomorrow.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah but we’ll feel it in the right places.”

Ilya raised his glass. “You both will feel me.”

That got a snort out of Shane.

“Ilya,” you said sweetly. “You’re so romantic.”

“Da. I fuck like poet.”

“You fuck like a mercenary,” Shane said but there was no bite to it. Just warm sarcasm and that dazed post-orgasm smile you rarely got to see.

“Poet, mercenary…” Ilya shrugged. “As long as you moan.”

He drained the bottle and tossed it gently into the trash, then turned toward the bed. His eyes drifted over both of you - Shane still mostly naked, the lines of his hips visible above the sheets, your own body stretched out beside him, bare legs and tired limbs, flush still lingering on your chest.

But it wasn’t possessive tonight. Not quite. It was something more dangerous. Curious.

His voice dropped. “You remember what I said earlier?”

You blinked. “You say a lot of things.”

Ilya’s smirk pulled slow and deliberate. “I said next time…” He walked forward, slow. “…you will both be on your knees.”

Shane sat up slightly, like his spine had just remembered how to be tense.

You propped yourself on your elbow. “You did say that.”

“Thought maybe you forget.”

“Are you kidding?” you said. “I’ve been waiting.”

Ilya stopped at the edge of the bed. Hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs. “Then get up.”

The tension thickened fast.

Shane looked at you, then at Ilya. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. Just swung his legs off the bed and knelt beside it on the carpet.

You followed, slower, letting your towel drop as you moved. You took your place next to Shane, the two of you side by side, bare knees on the soft hotel floor, Ilya standing above you like some carved, sinful god. One of his hands reached down, brushing through your hair, then across Shane’s cheek, knuckles grazing his jaw.

He said nothing for a beat. Just looked at you both like he was already imagining everything he could do with this.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “My favourite view.”

Your thighs clenched. Shane exhaled.

“You want to be good for me again?” Ilya asked.

You nodded immediately.

Shane’s voice was rough. “Yes.”

Ilya’s fingers slipped under your chin, lifted it. Then did the same to Shane.

“Then open your mouths,” he said, voice like smoke and steel. “Do not come until I say.”

Your knees ached, just barely, but it didn’t matter. Not with the way Ilya looked at you both: like you were already ruined and he was just deciding how many ways to do it again. The room was dim, city lights glowing in from behind him, casting his silhouette like something out of a fever dream. Strong shoulders. Cock heavy and proud. That smirk curling just a little higher on one side, sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous.

You opened your mouth.

So did Shane.

And Ilya - God - he groaned.

“You are so pretty like this,” he muttered. “Slut on one side, angel on the other. On your knees for me. This is fucking art.”

His hand wrapped around his cock, slow and deliberate, thumb rubbing the head until precum welled there. He didn’t stroke himself. Just held it.

Made you wait. Then his fingers found your chin again, turned your face up toward him.

“You first,” he said, low.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, tongue swirling slowly. You didn’t take him deep, not yet, just sucked soft and warm, teasing. He groaned again, head falling back for half a second, eyes closing like he could feel the worship in your mouth.

“Blyat, that’s it,” he muttered. “Good girl. Always so fucking sweet for me.”

He didn’t fuck your mouth. Not yet. He enjoyed this. Watching you. Watching Shane. And then, with one hand gently on the back of your head, he pulled free.

Not rough. Just a command.

“Now him,” he said.

You moved aside. Shane leaned in without a word.

You watched him take Ilya’s cock into his mouth, slower, deeper. His lips were red, wet, cheeks already flushing. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself to grab on.

Ilya hissed through his teeth. “Rozanov’s fucking champion,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Sucks like he need it.”

He reached down, fisted a hand in Shane’s hair, and gave one shallow thrust. Shane took it. Groaned around it. Held it.

You were panting just watching them. One hand had drifted to your own thigh, your fingers tracing circles there like you could feel every inch of that cock in your mouth.

Ilya noticed.

“Not yet,” he said, sharp. “I want you first.”

He pulled Shane off with a wet pop. Both your mouths were glistening.

He looked at you both. “Get on the bed.”

You scrambled up. Shane followed, quiet now, his eyes dark and glazed. Ilya stood at the foot, watching you crawl up the mattress like a predator tracking prey.

“On your elbows, sweetheart,” he said to you. “Ass up.”

You obeyed.

“And you—” his voice dropped, addressing Shane, “—under her. Face up. I want you licking that pussy until she’s shaking.”

Shane’s breath caught but he moved. Laid on his back beneath you, your knees on either side of his head, his hands gripping your thighs.

His tongue found you immediately.

You gasped, body jerking.

“Fuuuck—”

And then, Ilya. You felt him behind you, felt the head of his cock sliding over your hole, slick already, hard again, ready to ruin.

He didn’t tease this time. He pushed in fast.

You screamed into the mattress as Shane moaned under you, his mouth locked on your clit, tongue never stopping.

“Fuck, tight as ever,” Ilya groaned behind you, his hips snapping forward.

The rhythm started fast. Hard.

Every time Ilya thrust into your cunt, Shane’s tongue was there to catch the motion, lips dragging over your clit in time with the way your hips rocked.

You were fucked, held between two men who were desperate for you, who knew your body and each other’s every sound.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya ordered.

You reached down, fingers shaking, found your clit just above where Shane’s mouth was working you and added pressure. It was too much. Perfect. Almost cruel.

Ilya groaned louder.

“You are fucking perfect like this,” he snarled. “Split open. My cock deep, his mouth full. I should take a picture.”

“Please—please, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” he snapped.

You whimpered.

He slowed. Grinded. Cock deep inside, hitting every swollen spot.

“You feel him moaning into you?” he growled. “You hear the fucking mess we make of you?”

You nodded, panting, trembling.

And then Shane - gasping against you - murmured, “I can’t hold it—Rozanov—fuck—”

Ilya slammed in once, deep enough to make your vision blur.

“You are not allowed to come unless she does,” he growled.

“Then let her—let her fucking—”

Ilya reached over, fingers joining yours, rubbing your clit hard.

“Come for me,” he hissed. “So I can fill this pussy while he tastes it.”

You broke. Your body convulsed, thighs clenching around Shane’s head, your cunt gripping Ilya’s cock as he groaned, lost it, slammed forward—

And came deep, spurting hard, filling you so full it dripped immediately down over Shane’s lips.

He licked you through it. Eyes closed. Completely gone. And then he came too - hands fisting in the sheets, hips lifting, untouched, undone.

The room went silent. Except for panting. And the slow, satisfied chuckle from Ilya as he pulled out, his hands smoothing over your back.

“My fucking favourite sport,” he muttered. “Obedience.”

You collapsed onto Shane. He didn’t even complain. You felt him smile into your thigh.

Ilya stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, one hand still splayed warm and possessive on your lower back, the other braced on the mattress as he caught his breath. Then he shifted - slow, deliberate - and finally looked at Shane.

Really looked at him.

Shane was still half-sprawled, dazed, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes unfocused like he’d been hit by a truck and was trying to remember his own name. There was a faint, incredulous laugh stuck in his throat, like he didn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Ilya did.

His mouth curved, slow and smug, the kind of smile that belonged on a podium.

“Look at that,” he said, voice rich with satisfaction. “Didn’t even fucking touch you.”

Shane blinked. “I—” He cut himself off, then huffed out a breathless laugh. “That’s not—don’t—”

Ilya leaned back against the headboard, utterly relaxed now, arms folding behind his head like he’d just finished a workout he was very proud of. “No hands. No mouth. Just my cock in her and your mouth doing its job.” He glanced down at you, affectionate, then back to Shane. “And you lose your mind anyway.”

Shane dragged a hand down his face. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” Ilya said mildly, “you came.”

You shifted, propping yourself up on an elbow, looking between them. “He’s got a point, Hollander.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Shane groaned.

Ilya snorted. “Too late. I am encouraged.” He leaned forward just enough to nudge Shane’s knee with his own. “World-class athlete. Cannot even hold it together when I decide he is done.”

Shane looked up at him then, eyes clearer now, something soft and resigned there under the sarcasm. “You’re impossible.”

Ilya’s expression softened just a fraction - so quick you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him as well as you did. He reached out and gave Shane’s knee a brief, grounding squeeze.

“Da,” he said. “But I am very effective.”

You laughed, the tension finally easing, and Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“God,” he muttered. “I need a shower. And maybe therapy.”

Ilya settled back again, utterly pleased. “You will be fine. I remind you later.”

And the way he said later made it very clear: this was a victory he planned to savour.

__________

Steam curled around your ankles, warm and thick, the scent of hotel soap still clinging to your skin as you stood wrapped in a towel in the bathroom doorway, water dripping from your thighs. You hadn’t dried your hair: hadn’t wanted to miss anything. Because their voices carried through the door.

Low. Quiet. Intimate.

You pressed your shoulder lightly to the frame, just out of sight, and listened.

Shane was the one speaking first. His voice was softer than usual, the usual defensive edge muted - like he’d let it drop, just for this. “You’re different with her.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.

Then: “She is not afraid of me.”

That made you blink. Not because it was untrue, but because of the weight in it.

Shane’s voice came again, almost a whisper. “Neither am I.”

Another pause. Then Ilya said, “No. You are. But not in the way that matters.”

You heard the sound of movement; maybe Shane sitting up on the bed, maybe Ilya shifting his weight beside him.

“I’m not trying to ruin it,” Shane said. “Whatever you two have. It’s…it’s good.”

“Is not ruined,” Ilya replied. “You being here does not take anything away.”

That silence again. Then Ilya added, tone unreadable: “It adds something I did not expect.”

You swallowed hard. Heat rising in your chest again but this time not from sex. From them. From hearing them like this - bare, not just in body but in words.

“I’m still figuring this out,” Shane said. “You know that.”

“I know,” Ilya said. “I am watching you try.”

There was a quiet exhale, half a laugh, half surrender.

Then: “Fuck you.”

Ilya chuckled. “Later.”

You smiled.

They didn’t notice the door open. Not until you stepped back out into the bedroom, towel snug around your chest, hair wet and sticking to your shoulders. They were both on the bed: Shane cross-legged near the foot, Ilya lounging against the pillows like he owned the damn hotel.

Two empty drink bottles on the nightstand. The little table near the window now carried a silver tray with room service - club sandwiches, fries, open containers of dipping sauce, a half-drunk bottle of sparkling water.

Ilya noticed you first, eyes trailing down your legs like he was considering round three.

“About time,” he said. “Food is getting cold.”

“Could’ve joined me in the shower.”

“Wouldn’t be clean after.”

Shane let out a soft huff and patted the space between them on the bed. “You smell like soap.”

You crossed the room, dropped your towel just out of reach to make Ilya’s jaw tighten, and slipped under the sheet. Shane passed you a plate, the edges still warm.

“You two order me food now?” you teased. “This is starting to feel like a relationship.”

“I only feed people I fuck,” Ilya said, deadpan.

“You fuck a lot of people, Rozanov.”

“Da. But I do not let them stay for fries.”

You grinned and reached for one. Shane handed you a dipping sauce without a word, just a look: eyes still sleepy, soft, a little sore. You both leaned against the headboard now, shoulders brushing.

Ilya sat cross-legged across from you, a fry between his teeth. He looked between you both, not smug anymore, just quiet. Contemplative.

“You good?” you asked, chewing slowly.

He shrugged, then said, “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Shane muttered.

Ilya ignored him. “You think anyone at the party knows?”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “That we’re all a little obsessed with each other and can’t keep our hands to ourselves? Probably not.”

You smirked. “I was very well-behaved.”

“I wasn’t,” Ilya said. “I spent two hours imagining this one bent over hotel balcony.”

You threw a fry at him. He caught it in his mouth.

Shane blinked. “Okay, that was hot.”

Ilya gave him a look, chewing. “Everything I do is hot.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned in and kissed his shoulder anyway.

The meal faded into slow bites and shared drinks, fingers grazing, small touches that didn’t need to be explained. You sat between them - your place, now - and the silence was heavy but not awkward. Just tired. Content.

Eventually, Shane stood. He pulled on his pants. Then his shirt. Left the tie on the chair. He walked to the door, hand on the handle, then paused.

Turned back.

You expected one of his usual quips, some sarcastic final word.

But instead he just looked at you. Then Ilya.

And said, “Thanks.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Shane’s mouth twisted. “For not making me feel like the third.”

Ilya sat forward on the bed, bracing his arms on his knees. “You were never the third. You just showed up a little late.”

Shane held his gaze for a beat. Then nodded. And left.

The door clicked shut.

You let out a slow breath. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Rozanov.”

Ilya grunted. “He says thank you once and suddenly I am romantic.”

You shifted closer, curling against him under the sheet, your hand tracing circles on his chest.

“I like it.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You smiled against his skin.

“Who would believe me?”

Chapter Text

You got the text as you were boarding.

ROZANOV
Flight on my tab. Hotel if you want it. But go straight to this address.

Attachment:
📍[Location] 36 rue de la Montagne, Montreal, QC
Note: Don’t knock

And that was it. No greeting, no “miss you.” Not even a time.

You landed in snow-dusted Montreal after dark, the air already colder than you were used to, the sky a dusky blue above sharp city streets. You skipped the hotel. You didn’t need to ask what Ilya meant - you’d been flown out like this before. Not often. Not for just sex. But sometimes, when something had been building for too long - some game, some rivalry, some tension neither of them could burn off on the ice - you’d get the message.

And you always came running.

A cab dropped you at a narrow grey building - low-lit, quiet, half a block from the river. You recognised it from Shane’s Instagram once: he’d posted a blurry shot of some post-win wine, a view of the bridge, trying to look casual in his own apartment.

You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and stepped inside.

It hit you the second the door clicked behind you.

The sound first. The rhythm of it. Skin on skin. Low, breathless swearing. The couch faced away from the entry but you knew that voice: rough, forced through gritted teeth.

“Fuck—Rozanov—harder—”

And then Ilya’s, darker, amused even while panting. “Shut up. You want neighbours to hear how much you like getting ruined?”

You didn’t move. Not yet. You just stood there, coat still on, bag still in hand, heartbeat thrumming through your entire body like it knew before you did: you were about to witness something very rare, very real.

Ilya fucking Shane was nothing new.

You’d seen it before, had them both inside you while they kissed over your shoulder, had Shane pressed under Ilya’s weight with your fingers in his mouth. But this?

Them without you? That was a new kind of heat.

You set your bag down quietly and slipped off your coat. Padded across the wood floor, slow and soundless, until you could see over the couch.

Shane was face-down, stretched long across the cushions, arms braced. Sweat slicked his back, hair sticking to his forehead. Ilya was behind him, fully dressed except for his unzipped pants, as if he hadn’t even stopped to change before bending Shane over the couch.

And he was slamming into him. Hard. Deep. Relentless.

Shane was moaning like it was the only thing he could do, hips jerking back to meet every thrust, his knuckles white on the cushions.

“Come on,” Ilya was muttering, one hand gripping his hip, the other tangled in his hair. “You can take it. You always take it.”

And Shane, god, Shane was begging now. “Don’t stop, fuck, Rozanov, please, please—”

You watched. Just stood there, coat forgotten, skin heating fast, thighs pressing together.

Then Ilya looked up.

Saw you.

And grinned, like a wolf catching a scent it already knew. He didn’t pause. Didn’t slow. Just jerked Shane’s head back by his hair and said, loud enough for you to hear:

“Guess who came to watch you fall apart?”

Shane froze for a second. Just long enough for his eyes to open, glassy and red-rimmed. He looked over his shoulder.

Saw you.

And came.

No touch. No warning. Just a broken cry as he jerked forward and spilled across the couch, whole body convulsing.

Ilya moaned low. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled out, still hard, cock glistening.

He met your eyes across Shane’s back and said:

“Now come here. I want him to watch me fuck you next.”

__________

The game still rang in Ilya’s bones.

You could tell by the way he moved: sharp, clipped, all that coiled violence he never quite shook loose after a loss. Montreal had won tonight. Shane’s team. The Bell Centre had been loud, merciless.

Ilya had you pressed back against the edge of the couch, your legs hooked around him, your dress shoved up, his mouth at your throat: slow, deliberate, claiming. Not rushed. Not angry. Punishingly calm.

Behind you, Shane stood frozen a few feet away.

Hands at his sides. Breathing too fast.

“Look at him,” Ilya murmured into your ear, accent thickening. “Big win tonight. Whole city cheering his name.” His teeth scraped lightly against your skin. “And he still cannot fucking move.”

You gasped softly, fingers curling into Ilya’s shoulders.

Your pulse thudded. You could feel the restraint radiating off Shane; how badly he wanted to step closer, to touch, to be anywhere but watching.

Ilya knew it. That was the point.

“You do not get to touch,” Ilya went on, voice even. “Not her. Not me. Not even yourself.” He shifted his grip on you, slow and unmistakable, just enough to make your breath hitch. “You get to watch what you don’t get now.”

Shane’s voice was rough. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily. “And you beat me.”

He leaned in and kissed you again - deep, unhurried - his hands firm, confident, making a show of how well he knew your body, how easily you responded to him. You weren’t performing, not really, but you didn’t hide either. Every soft sound you made landed square in Shane’s chest.

“You like seeing this?” Ilya asked him. “Seeing how good she is for me?”

Shane didn’t answer right away.

Ilya didn’t rush him.

“Say it,” he said softly. “Or you stay right where you are.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to you: your hands in Ilya’s hair, your body open and warm and wanted. Then back to Ilya.

“I like it,” he said quietly.

Ilya hummed. “Not enough.”

Another pause. He could have stopped it there. He didn’t.

“I want you to say it,” Ilya said. “Why you are really standing there instead of walking out.”

The room felt smaller. Tighter.

Shane exhaled, shaky. “Because I want you. And I want her. And I don’t know how to want both without blowing up my life.”

You felt Ilya still for half a heartbeat.Then his grip on you softened; not gone, just…different.

“Good,” he said. “That’s honest.”

Shane’s voice cracked just slightly. “I care about you. About both of you.”

Silence.

Then Ilya laughed, not cruelly. Almost fond.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough, Hollander.”

He pressed his forehead briefly to yours, a quiet moment just for you, then looked back at Shane with something that wasn’t mockery anymore.

“Now,” Ilya said, voice dropping, “you can come closer.”

Shane didn’t move at first, like he didn’t trust permission when he heard it.Then he did.

Slow. Careful.

And when Ilya finally reached out - when he finally let Shane’s presence matter - it felt earned. Not because of the game. Not because of the rivalry.

Because he’d said it out loud.

And Ilya, victorious in the only way that really counted, smiled like he’d won anyway.

Shane stepped in close. Not tentative anymore, shaking, sure, but there. And Ilya let him.

You stayed exactly where you were, perched on the edge of the couch, legs spread open, your dress still bunched at your waist, skin flushed, breath high. Ilya’s hand was on your thigh, possessive and warm. Shane’s eyes dropped there as he approached, mouth parted slightly, as if still stunned that he was allowed.

“Rozanov,” he said softly, eyes flicking between you both.

“Touch her,” Ilya said, voice low. “But do not fucking forget who she came here for.”

Shane didn’t answer, just dropped to his knees. You gasped as his mouth found your thigh first. A kiss. Then another. Slow, open-mouthed, reverent. His hands slid up, fingertips ghosting over your skin. When he finally touched your cunt, it was with a kind of wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to be this close to something so wet, so warm, so used already.

You let your head fall back. “Fuck, Shane…”

Ilya grunted, standing now, towering above both of you. He’d stepped fully out of his pants, cock still hard, flushed dark with arousal. He ran a hand through your hair and then tugged gently, angling your head up.

“You suck me,” he said, voice like smoke. “While he eats you.”

Your legs nearly gave out right there. You shifted, letting Shane spread you wider, his mouth latching onto your clit, tongue moving slow at first, then faster as your moans spilled out. Ilya stepped closer, lined up with your mouth and pressed the head of his cock to your lips.

You opened.

The sound you made around him as Shane groaned into you was half-moan, half-choked sob. Ilya rocked forward slowly, fucking your mouth with steady, shallow thrusts, his hands in your hair, watching the way your jaw worked, the way tears slipped from the corners of your eyes when he got deep enough to blur the line between pleasure and surrender.

“Blyat, you look good like this,” he growled. “Two mouths. Both mine.”

Shane was moaning against you now, tongue flicking, his hips grinding subtly against the couch. He couldn’t touch himself - he knew the rule - but he was rutting slightly, desperate for contact.

Ilya noticed.

“Still needy, Hollander?” he asked, stroking your hair as he fucked your mouth. “You just told me you love us and now you are humping floor like mutt?”

Shane didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

You were dripping, soaked, bucking against his face with every flick of his tongue. Your moans made it worse: every time you whimpered around Ilya’s cock, Shane pressed deeper into you.

Ilya pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop. “Up,” he said to Shane. “Get on the couch.”

Shane obeyed, flushed, lips slick, eyes dazed. He settled against the cushions, cock standing hard and neglected.

Ilya helped you stand, kissed you messy - like he needed to taste Shane on your mouth - and then turned you toward the couch.

“You ride him,” he told you. “Face me. I want to see you come apart.”

You climbed onto Shane’s lap, guided his cock to your entrance and sank down in one long, slow movement that had all of you moaning at once.

Shane’s hands gripped your hips. You braced yourself on his chest. You moved slow, dragging every inch of him through your soaked pussy, squeezing just right.

Ilya watched. And then he stepped in behind you.

You felt his cock slide between your cheeks. Felt the pressure at your ass.

You gasped. “Yes—please—”

He didn’t speak. Just pressed in, stretching you open, filling you from behind inch by inch until you were fully stuffed: Shane deep in your pussy, Ilya grinding into your ass, their hands both on you now, pulling you apart, sharing you.

You were wrecked. And they were just getting started.

Ilya started to move first: slow, hard thrusts that pushed you down onto Shane even deeper. Shane whimpered, cock twitching inside you as your walls clenched tight.

“You feel that?” Ilya growled into your neck. “You feel him shaking already? Poor Hollander’s gonna lose it again without even being touched.”

You cried out, “Ilya, fuck—I can’t—too much—”

“Yes you can,” he bit out, fucking into you harder now. “You can take both of us. You are mine, remember?”

Shane moaned, voice breaking. “She’s—she’s perfect—fuck—”

You were gasping, your whole body shaking, both holes stretched, slick, used, your orgasm rising so fast it was terrifying.

Ilya’s voice dropped low. “Come for me, malyshka. Let him feel it.”

You came with a scream, clenched around Shane’s cock so hard it dragged him over the edge with you, his moan strangled and raw as he spilled inside you.

Ilya didn’t stop.

He fucked through it - deep, punishing strokes - and then finally snarled, “Take it—take it—” and came with a shudder, filling your ass with hot, pulsing warmth until you were full from both ends.

You collapsed forward, barely conscious, body twitching, breath caught.

Ilya pulled out slowly, then leaned in and kissed your shoulder.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You are both fucking perfect.”

And Shane - head tipped back, eyes blown wide - said hoarsely:

“I fucking love you guys.”

Ilya snorted. “Good. Because we are not done.”

Shane was still panting beneath you, his chest rising hard and fast, his cock twitching inside your soaked, overstimulated cunt even after he’d emptied himself. Your body was molten, limp against his, your thighs slick with both of them. Ilya knelt behind you, one hand still possessively gripping your hip, the other stroking lazy, slow circles up your spine like he was calming a horse after a brutal, beautiful ride.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, lips soft but voice firm.

“Up,” he said. “Just for a second.”

You groaned, but obeyed, lifting yourself off Shane slowly, your body clenching with the loss, the mess of it all smearing between your legs.

“Lie back,” Ilya told Shane. “Flat.”

Shane blinked. “What—?”

Ilya shoved his chest with two fingers. “You heard me.”

Shane fell back with a grunt, arms spread, cock half-hard again despite everything. You were still straddling his thighs, dazed, flushed, dripping.

Ilya turned your face toward him and kissed you deep, slow and messy, his tongue curling behind your teeth, his hand firm at your jaw.

Then he pulled away and said:

“He wants to taste you again. I’m going to make sure he earns it this time.”

You shivered. Shane’s breath caught.

Ilya’s hand slid down your back. “Crawl up, baby. Sit on his face. He wants it.”

You moved without thought, skin humming, your hands planted on the couch above Shane’s shoulders as you straddled his mouth. He looked wrecked - hair mussed, lips parted, pupils wide - but when you lowered yourself to his mouth, he moaned like it was salvation. His tongue found you instantly, licking deep, sucking at your clit with the kind of hungry reverence that only came from being denied too long.

And then, you felt movement.

Ilya slid off the couch and dropped to his knees between Shane’s open legs, hands gripping his thighs. Shane jolted under you but Ilya’s voice came low and sharp:

“Stay still. You are going to make her come again.”

You barely had time to register it before Ilya leaned in. And took Shane in his mouth.

Shane’s entire body arched under you. His moan vibrated through you.

“Oh my—fuck—” he gasped between licks, muffled and wrecked.

You nearly collapsed forward.

Ilya didn’t give either of you time to recover. His mouth was expert: slow and precise, swallowing Shane deep and then pulling back with a slick pop only to drag his tongue up the underside again. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was fucking dominant.

You ground down harder on Shane’s face. His tongue lapped at you desperately, the taste of his own cum and your mixed together as a heady cocktail, lost between your thighs as Ilya hollowed his cheeks around him and grunted like he owned this - like every inch of Shane’s body was his to take.

Your fingers dug into Shane’s hair. “Don’t stop—oh god, Hollander—fuck—please—”

Ilya pulled off just enough to say:

“He cannot stop. You are both mine.”

Then he went back down.

Shane’s tongue stuttered, your thighs clenched tighter, and your orgasm hit hard. You cried out, spine arched, cunt grinding against Shane’s mouth as your climax tore through you like a fever.

You felt Shane twitch beneath you. Felt him groan. He was close again. Helpless.

And Ilya knew it. He pulled off with a wet sound and said, breath ragged but smug:

“Beg me for it, Hollander. If you want to come again, you say it.”

Shane choked out a breathless, wrecked, “Please.”

Ilya gripped his cock tight and stroked once, hard. “Say it.”

“I want to come,” Shane gasped. “Fuck—I want it, I want you—please, Rozanov—”

Ilya growled. “Then come in my mouth.”

And Shane did.

You felt it.

His whole body shuddered, mouth going slack under you as his cock spilled across Ilya’s tongue and Ilya took it all, swallowing around him, holding him down through every twitch and groan and sob.

You collapsed backward, spent and shaking.

Ilya pulled back slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at both of you with that glint of pure, satisfied wickedness.

Then he said, “Now. We rest. Before I fuck both of you again.”

___________

It was warm inside, a little too warm: radiators clanking with Montreal winter heat, the air soft and dry. The apartment smelled like coffee and laundry and something faintly citrusy, like Shane had wiped the counters right before you got there.

Which he had. You could tell.

There were two wine glasses on the coffee table. A full bottle, unopened. A folded blanket draped with too much care over the back of the couch, like he’d second-guessed himself about ten times and settled on “casual domestic” at the last second. The lights were low but not mood lighting. Just soft.

And Ilya?

Ilya was flat on Shane’s couch like he’d been born there, legs spread wide, long body taking up every inch of it. Hoodie up over his head. Socks on. His phone tossed face-down on the rug like it had personally offended him.

“I hope you know,” he said, not looking up, “this couch is terrible. Worse than Toronto.”

“It’s my couch,” Shane muttered from the kitchen. “You don’t even live here.”

“Which is why is worse.”

You laughed under your breath, wandering toward the open kitchen where Shane was rearranging snacks that didn’t need rearranging: cheese and olives, crackers in a pattern, a little bowl of grapes that had clearly been rinsed and dried by hand.

“You’re fussing,” you said, smiling.

Shane glanced up. Blushed a little, ears going pink.

“I’m just—”

“You’re sweet.”

That stopped him cold. He blinked, a piece of cheese stuck halfway to the cutting board. “What?”

You leaned against the counter. “You’re sweet,” you repeated, gently. “You want it to be nice. That’s…nice.”

He looked like he was about to deflect. You saw it forming: the quip, the sarcasm, the retreat. But then he paused. Swallowed it down. And stepped closer.

His hand found yours on the counter, hesitating for a second, then lacing his fingers through.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he. He just looked at you for a long moment, eyes soft, breath slow. Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t hard. Wasn’t fast. Wasn’t hungry. It was sweet, just like you said. Just a press of his lips to yours, slow and warm and full of things he hadn’t said yet. His hand tightened in yours. He lingered.

When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed.

And from the couch, unmoving, hoodie still shadowing his face, Ilya said:

“…fuck me.”

You turned slightly, blinking.

Shane looked over too, ears red again, but this time for a different reason.

Ilya still hadn’t moved. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had just collapsed in on him.

“That,” he said slowly, “was the hottest thing I have seen in my life.”

Shane let out a breathy laugh. “It was just a kiss, Rozanov.”

“No,” Ilya said. “That was you. Wanting her. Without fucking. Like boyfriend. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“Then I need to die here.”

You laughed and leaned your head against Shane’s shoulder.

He didn’t pull away.

Ilya peeked one eye open from under his hood, looking at both of you curled up near the counter.

He grinned, slow and feral. “You two keep doing shit like that, I am going to ask for key.”

Shane snorted. “It’s not your apartment.”

“Exactly. Is how bad I want in.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling.

And Shane? He leaned down and kissed you again. Not for show. Not for Ilya. Just because he wanted to.

_________

The couch wasn’t built for Ilya’s size, but he made it work: legs stretched out across the whole length, one arm tucked behind his head like a lounging jungle cat, the other lazily draped around your waist as you nestled into his side. He was warm, shirtless again under the soft grey sweats slung low on his hips, skin still smelling faintly like clean cotton and sex and whatever overpriced detergent Shane used on his sheets.

You were wearing Ilya’s T-shirt - black, oversized, practically a dress on you - and just a pair of plain black panties underneath. Your legs were stretched across his, bare skin brushing his thigh, your feet cold from the hardwood floors and tucked under his calves for heat.

Shane was in the kitchen, not far. You could hear the quiet clatter of pans, the hum of him talking to himself as he stirred something that smelt amazing. Occasionally, he sang a few bars under his breath; nothing loud but enough to make your chest ache a little.

Because it felt…real. Homey.

Ilya shifted slightly beneath you, the arm around your waist sliding down to your hip, fingers tracing absent-minded shapes there.

“So,” he murmured, voice low and a little raspy, “how was your morning?”

You turned your face into his chest, smiling. “Stressful. I packed in twenty minutes and forgot my toothbrush.”

“I have one. You can steal it.”

“Thanks. I’m sure it’s barely been used.”

He snorted. “Three times a week. If I remember.”

You smacked his chest lightly and he grinned, pulling you closer, like your body weight was something he didn’t just tolerate; he needed it against him. He kissed the top of your head without thinking.

“You sleep on flight?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Bad seat?”

“Middle.”

“Disgusting,” he muttered. “Should sue me.”

You laughed and tilted your head up to look at him. “You did book it.”

“I booked fast. I was horny. Not thinking clearly.”

“Mmm.” You kissed the underside of his jaw. “I forgive you.”

“Generous.”

You let the quiet hold for a moment, just the sound of Shane moving in the kitchen, the gentle hiss of something hitting oil.

Then Ilya asked, “You watched the game?”

You nodded. “On my phone, in the Uber from the airport.”

He made a low, disgusted noise. “Phone is no way to watch greatness.”

“I watched Shane’s greatness,” you teased.

That earned you a squeeze at the waist and a glare that was only half-fake.

“I let you in my arms,” Ilya muttered. “This is how you repay me?”

You laughed. “Come on. He was good tonight.”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “He was good. I hate how good he was.”

You traced a line down his chest, teasing. “Almost like you’re…proud?”

He groaned. “Disgusting.”

You grinned. “You’re disgusting. He scored twice and assisted once.”

“He was cocky all game,” Ilya grumbled. “Smirking like little bastard.”

“He deserved to smirk.”

“He did.” Ilya muttered it like a confession, then turned his face toward your hair and breathed in. “Still want to bodycheck him through wall.”

You giggled. “You already did that last season.”

“Not hard enough.”

You shifted to press a kiss to his collarbone. “You like him.”

“I like you,” he said. “I tolerate him because he makes you blush.”

You hummed against him. “You like us.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just kissed your forehead again, tighter this time, and squeezed your hip like he wanted to pull you into his bloodstream.

From the kitchen, Shane called over:

“You two done whispering about me?”

“No,” Ilya called back. “Talking about your ego.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, snuggling in tighter.

Shane walked into view then, barefoot, spatula in hand, still wearing the same hoodie from earlier. His hair was messy - like he’d run his hands through it ten times too many - and he looked at you both on the couch like something soft had cracked wide open in his chest.

“You’re both the laziest fuckers I’ve ever met,” he said.

You grinned. “We’re cozy.”

“We are sexy,” Ilya added.

Shane rolled his eyes and turned back into the kitchen. “Dinner in ten. If you’re not at the table, I’m eating it all myself.”

“You could not eat all of anything,” Ilya muttered. “Your stomach is size of apple.”

“You love my stomach,” Shane shot back.

Ilya leaned down, nuzzled your temple, and whispered, “He’s right. I do.”

You looked up at him and smiled. And he looked back at you like maybe - just maybe - he’d lose every game just to see this exact look on your face again.

___________

Dinner was…bad.

Not inedible. Just aggressively underseasoned, vaguely mushy and somehow both dry and wet at the same time.

You chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then looked at Shane with absolute sincerity. “Did you…cook this out of spite?”

Shane frowned at his plate. “It’s a new recipe.”

Ilya took another bite, paused, then very deliberately set his fork down. “This is crime,” he said. “In Russia, you go to jail.”

“For chicken?” Shane protested.

“For disrespect,” Ilya corrected.

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth, leaning into Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” you told Shane. “He’s being dramatic.”

“I am being accurate,” Ilya said. “How do you win a game and lose dinner this badly?”

Shane rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “You didn’t have to eat it.”

“I did,” Ilya replied. “For science.”

You reached over and stole Shane’s roll. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Am I?” Shane asked dryly.

You and Ilya exchanged a look.

Oh. Yes.

The shift was subtle at first. A glance held too long. Your teasing smile turning slower, warmer. Ilya’s posture changing: less slouched, more intent. The way Shane seemed to notice the silence and look up, caught between suspicion and curiosity.

“You deserve a reward,” you said, softly.

Shane blinked. “For…poisoning you?”

“For winning,” you clarified. “For tonight. For Montreal. For being insufferably good.”

Ilya hummed in agreement. “Da. Reward.”

Shane swallowed. “I—what kind of—”

You stood first, taking his hand before he could finish the thought. Your touch was gentle, deliberate. “Come on.”

He let you lead him down the hallway, past the bathroom, into the bedroom, the lights low, the bed neatly made in that very Shane way that suggested he’d thought about this room being seen.

Ilya followed without a word.

When you turned back, Shane was standing at the foot of the bed, uncertain now, breath a little shallow. You looked at him - really looked - and felt that swell of fondness, pride, heat.

“You’re allowed to enjoy this,” you told him.

Ilya stepped closer behind you. “You already admitted how you feel,” he added calmly. “Now you get to see what that gets you.”

You sank down first.

Then Ilya did.

Side by side on the carpet, knees pressing into the soft rug, shoulders brushing. The world narrowed to Shane standing there, caught between disbelief and something that looked dangerously like awe.

You tilted your head up at him, smiling. “Go on,” you said. “Winner’s privilege.”

Ilya glanced up at Shane, eyes dark, satisfied, and added, “Don’t make us wait.”

Shane didn’t move right away. Didn’t speak, either. Just looked at you both, eyes wide and blown, his body perfectly still like if he even breathed wrong it would all vanish.

Your hands slid up his thighs slowly, deliberate and soft, through the thin fabric of his joggers. You felt the heat of him there already, the tension humming through his legs, his hips. Felt the restraint too, how tightly he held himself together, trying to stay grounded while both of you knelt there, eye-level with everything he tried so hard to keep behind his sarcasm and his game-face.

“Relax,” you murmured. “Let us take care of you.”

Next to you, Ilya exhaled a low chuckle, slow and dangerous, like a man watching prey walk right into the trap. His hand moved too, mirroring yours. A perfect, controlled glide up Shane’s other thigh, then resting just under the waistband.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, low. “Fucked up already and we have not touched you.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “I—”

“Shhh,” you whispered. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He let out a shaky breath as Ilya’s fingers dipped just under the elastic. Then yours did. You didn’t rush. This wasn’t about speed. This was about showing him, all the things he’d let himself want, finally, all the ways you and Ilya could give it to him.

When you finally pushed his joggers down, Shane hissed through his teeth.

He was already hard. Fully. Desperately.

Ilya made a soft sound of appreciation. “Perfect.”

“Always is,” you said.

Then, in perfect synchrony, you both leaned in.

You took the tip into your mouth, slow and warm, tongue dragging softly. Ilya’s hand slid around the base, stroking in time, watching your mouth with a look that bordered on reverent.

Shane groaned - a raw, full-body sound - and his hands flew to your shoulders, trying not to grip too hard, trying to hold on.

“F—fuck, that’s—” he choked.

You pulled off just enough to say, “You deserve this.”

Then Ilya leaned in and kissed the side of his cock. Licked the shaft slowly, dragging his tongue beneath where your lips had just been.

Shane’s knees buckled slightly.

“I’m gonna—Jesus—fuck—”

“Do not dare,” Ilya said, voice sharp, fingers tightening. “Not yet.”

Shane whimpered.

You smiled against him and took him back in.

From there, it turned into rhythm. Into worship.

Ilya’s mouth joined yours, the two of you trading off, licking and sucking, your tongues meeting over the flushed, leaking head as Shane moaned and gasped, too far gone to do anything but feel. His hands hovered - gripping the air, the back of Ilya’s neck, your hair, the wall - like he couldn’t decide what to hold on to.

You looked up at him, your mouth slick, lips swollen. “You gonna be good for us?”

“I’m trying,” Shane gasped.

Ilya grinned. “Try harder.”

You both worked him like that, together. One mouth, then the other. Sometimes both. Ilya groaning under his breath in Russian, praising, mocking, coaxing. You teasing with your tongue, your nails lightly scratching his thighs, your eyes locked to his every reaction.

“Please—” Shane whispered.

“What do you want?” Ilya asked, licking a stripe up the side of his cock.

“I want to come,” Shane breathed. “Please—I need to.”

You kissed the tip, slow and soft. “Then ask properly.”

He looked down at you, both of you. And something gave.

“Please let me come,” he said. “Both of you—you’re—fuck, you’re perfect, I can’t—please—let me—”

Ilya made a sound like satisfaction and victory. “Now you are learning.”

Then both your mouths were on him again; fast this time, no mercy, your lips at the head, Ilya’s tongue lapping at the shaft, your hands stroking together, and Shane shattered.

He came with a moan that broke halfway through - his hips jerking, head tipping back, thighs trembling - spilling hard, all over both of you, heat and salt and relief in a single, endless breath.

When he finally sagged forward, panting, trying to remember where the floor was, Ilya leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked up at him.

“Still think you’re the one in charge?”

Shane laughed, wrecked. “Never again.”

You smiled, pressing your cheek to Ilya’s bare shoulder, still on your knees.

And Ilya?

He kissed your temple, then looked up at Shane again and said:

“Good. Because we are not done yet.”

___________

The second Shane stumbled back toward the bed, still half out of breath and dazed from the high you and Ilya had just dragged him through, Ilya was already behind you.

No warning. No teasing.

Just a low growl in your ear and his hands already on your hips, rough and hungry, like his body had been coiled tight with restraint for too long and something had finally snapped.

“Mine now,” he muttered, voice thick, accent heavier than usual, slipping like velvet over heat. “Been waiting - watching - you on your knees. Pretty mouth and soft hands. I will fuck you stupid.”

Your breath caught.

He shoved your panties down before you could blink, the T-shirt still hanging off your shoulders like a flag he’d planted there, proof of claim. His sweatpants were gone in a blur of movement, and before you could even catch your balance, he had you bent over the edge of the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your ass, squeezing hard.

“Ilya—fuck—”

“Shhh,” he hissed, lining up behind you, no space left between promise and possession. “I said mine.”

And then he was inside. All at once.

You gasped - choked - the stretch of him sudden and so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs. His hands were everywhere now: one on your lower back holding you down, the other tangled in your hair, dragging your head back so he could see your face.

“So tight,” he gritted out. “Fuck—wet for me, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes shut, body jerking as he pulled out and slammed back in with brutal force.

“Say it,” he snapped.

“Yes,” you gasped. “I’m wet for you—I always am—”

He snarled something in Russian, unintelligible and feral, and started to fuck you in earnest. Not slow. Not gentle. Just pure, reckless need: hips snapping forward over and over, skin slapping, the room echoing with your breathless moans and the low, guttural sounds tearing out of him like he didn’t even want to hold them back.

Behind you, Shane sat on the bed, still recovering, his eyes wide and glued to the place where you and Ilya met; his chest rising and falling like he was feeling it too.

Ilya didn’t even look at him. Didn’t have to. All his attention was on you.

“You take it so good,” he growled. “Like this pussy was built for me.”

You cried out, bracing harder on the bed as his pace became downright vicious, each thrust angled perfectly, making you see stars.

“Ilya, please—”

He leaned down, chest to your back, breath hot in your ear. “You want to come?”

“Yes—”

“Then fucking earn it.”

He reached around, fingers rubbing your clit with brutal precision, hips never stopping, his cock dragging against every swollen nerve inside you like he’d mapped you to memory.

You came so hard it stole sound from your throat - body clenching around him, thighs shaking, forehead pressed to the sheets as pleasure tore through you.

But he didn’t stop. He cursed low and dark, almost desperate now.

“Going to fill you,” he gasped, fucking harder. “Make you drip—fuck—you are so fucking good—”

You whimpered under him, still trembling.

And with one last deep thrust, he slammed into you, hips flush, and came with a rough shout: hot and thick, spilling inside, his body locked around yours.

Everything went still.

Heavy breath. Sweat. His body still shaking slightly as he held himself over you, panting, his hands sliding slowly back up your sides like he had to feel you, like he couldn’t quite let go.

After a long moment, he pulled out, gently, and cupped your hips with reverence now. Then looked up at Shane, who was still watching, lips parted, face flushed.

“Hope you are not done,” Ilya said, breathless, cocky, wrecked.

“Because I want to see her ride you now.”

You didn’t push. You never did. That was your secret weapon with Shane: you gave him space, and he gave you everything.

He was already flushed when you turned toward him, leaning back against the pillows like he couldn’t quite catch his breath, eyes darting from your mouth to your hands to anywhere but the obvious problem between his legs.

He was getting there, slow. Sensitive, a little wrecked from everything Ilya had made him feel earlier; maybe a little in his head, still not used to the heat of being watched. And Ilya, for his part, wasn’t helping.

Sprawled on the chair near the bed, legs wide, hand lazily cupping himself like he was enjoying the show before the show, he gave one look at Shane’s still half-hard cock and let out a low, smug laugh.

“Fucking adorable,” he muttered. “So shy all over again. You would think is his first time with you.”

Shane threw him a glare but it didn’t land. Not really.

You crawled toward him on your knees, Ilya’s shirt hanging off your shoulders, nothing underneath but that slow, sultry grin that had Shane sinking lower against the pillows the second your hands touched his thighs.

“It’s okay,” you purred, dragging your nails lightly along the inside of his leg. “It’s just us. Me. Him. The same two people who made you beg for it half an hour ago.”

Shane groaned, head tipping back, but he was still trying to resist. Still stuck in that place between overstimulation and need.

“You going to help him, malyshka?” Ilya asked from behind you, voice thick with lazy filth, Russian curling at the edges. “Or just talk him hard?”

You didn’t look at him. Kept your eyes on Shane.

“I think he likes when I talk,” you murmured, brushing your lips just barely against the head of Shane’s cock. “Don’t you, baby?”

Shane’s breath stuttered. “Jesus Christ…”

You smiled. “No, just me.”

You wrapped your hand around him and stroked once: slow, firm, perfectly controlled.

He was twitching in your palm already, helplessly. Getting harder by the second now. Remembering what your hands could do. What your mouth could do.

“You want to feel my mouth again?” you whispered, just for him, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock. “Want to watch me take it slow this time? Let Ilya see how much you love it?”

“Fuck,” Shane hissed. “Fuck, yes.”

Behind you, Ilya muttered something low in Russian - something ragged, dark, hoarse. You didn’t need a translation. His breathing said enough.

You kissed the head of Shane’s cock, then licked another slow stripe, using your hand to stroke what your mouth hadn’t yet touched. Then you leaned up, mouth close to his ear, hand still working him slow and steady.

“You think about us like this when you’re alone?” you whispered. “Me on my knees. Him watching. Maybe touching me. Maybe not.”

Shane’s entire body twitched under you.

You kissed down his throat. “You think about us fucking while you just sit there and come all over yourself?”

He moaned - loud, desperate.

And Ilya? Ilya laughed low, dark and starving, the kind of sound that curled heat into your spine.

“You are fucking evil,” he said to you.

You glanced back. “And you like it.”

Ilya’s hand was now inside his sweats, lazily stroking himself, eyes locked on you and Shane. “I love it. Look at him. Not even hard yet and ready to fucking cry.”

You turned back and kissed Shane again; this one deep, hot, tongue slipping in while your hand kept moving. Then you pulled away just enough to say: “You ready to let me ride you, baby?”

Shane nodded, breathless. “Please.”

“Use your words,” Ilya snapped.

Shane’s eyes fluttered shut for a second. Then, hoarse and wrecked:

“Please let me feel you. Please ride me.”

You gave him one last long stroke, kissed his cock, then smiled as you rose up, already reaching for him.

Behind you, Ilya growled under his breath:

“This will be so fucking good.”

You shifted forward on Shane’s lap with the grace of someone who knew she was being watched.

You felt Ilya’s eyes on your ass before you even straddled Shane. You felt the air shift, thicken, heard the subtle way Ilya’s breath caught as you reached back and guided Shane into you, slow and hot and deep, your thighs sliding against his.

Shane gasped like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

“Fucking hell—”

You rolled your hips once, deliberately, and his hands flew to your waist like he couldn’t help himself. He was already hard again, just enough, and the way you moved - the way you held his gaze with that soft, devouring smile - dragged him straight past shy and into wrecked.

Behind you, Ilya groaned, his voice already ragged with heat.

“There she is,” he muttered. “Fucking magic, how you do that.”

You didn’t answer. You just rocked again, slow grind, working Shane deeper into you until his eyes fluttered shut and his head hit the wall behind the bed.

“You feel that?” you whispered in his ear. “Feel how tight I am around you?”

He moaned something incoherent, hands tightening on your hips like he was trying not to lose control.

“Let go,” you breathed. “Let me ride you.”

He did.

The rhythm built, slow at first; deliberate, drawn-out. You braced your hands on his chest, your nails dragging down skin slick with heat, and moved like you owned him. Shane’s mouth was open, panting, completely gone, and your body rolled in perfect tempo, milking every sound from his throat.

Ilya’s voice cut through it all: low, amused, almost tender in its filth.

“Look at him,” he said. “Already fucking begging with his eyes.”

“Tell him,” you said breathlessly to Shane, not stopping. “Tell Ilya how good it feels.”

Shane groaned. “So good—fuck, she’s perfect—she’s so tight—”

Ilya cursed in Russian, sharp and low.

You leaned in and kissed Shane’s jaw, then his neck, then whispered against his ear: “You’re doing so well, baby. You fuck me so good. You make me so wet.”

He whimpered. And then—

“Can I—can I have your ass?” he asked, voice hoarse and shaking. “Please. Let me—”

Everything stopped. You froze just long enough to process the heat in his voice, the desperation, the need.

Ilya barked a laugh behind you: short and filthy and proud.

“Fucking finally,” he said. “Took him long enough to ask.”

You turned your head to glance over your shoulder at Ilya, then looked back at Shane.

Your voice dropped.

“You want it that bad?”

He nodded fast. “Yes. I need to.”

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep.

Then you said, “Okay.”

He helped you shift, guiding you into position, watching your face, checking in with trembling hands. And when you gave the nod, when you told him it was okay—

He pressed in slow.

You gasped.

He moaned.

And Ilya, still watching with one hand on his cock, hissed through his teeth and said: “Bozhe moy. You let him in there? You love driving me crazy.”

Shane was still moving carefully, panting, whispering broken apologies and praise against your neck.

“Fuck—so tight—I can’t—how do you feel like this—”

You moaned his name, back arching as you adjusted, letting him in deeper, your whole body shivering at the fullness.

And Ilya lost it.

“Fucking ride him,” he snarled. “Make him come like that. Make him feel what you do to us.”

You did.

The rhythm picked up, your hips grinding in circles as Shane clutched your waist, stunned and shaking and already so close. His cock pulsed deep inside you, every thrust dragging helpless, desperate sounds from his throat.

You whispered filth to him: his name, what a good boy he was, how much he stretched you, how Ilya was watching every second, stroking himself to the sound of Shane moaning in your ear.

“You love this, don’t you?” you gasped. “You love being between us.”

Shane sobbed, thrusting harder now, barely able to speak.

And when he finally came - hard, deep, groaning into your skin like he couldn’t survive the feeling - you went with him, shaking around him, your hands clutching his hair, your mouth open against his neck.

Ilya didn’t come yet.

He just stood there, fisting his cock, chest heaving, eyes dark with pride and hunger as he watched you both fall apart.

And then he said, voice like smoke:

“Next time, you both ride me.”

__________

You stayed right there in Shane’s lap, your body still twitching, muscles clenching softly around him, your legs trembling on either side of his hips. Sweat-slicked and flushed, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your foreheads pressed together, both of you too wrecked to move but too wired to stop.

His breath was still coming in sharp, shallow bursts; his hands smoothing down your back now, reverent, almost shy again, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of you after he’d been inside you like that.

You kissed him. Not soft. Hungry.

He gasped against your mouth when you rolled your hips just a little, still filled, still locked together, and your kiss turned messy, greedy. Tongues meeting, teeth catching, the kind of kiss that burned deeper after the sex, not before it. Like you were still making love with your mouths, still claiming each other with every desperate press of lips to lips.

From across the room came a sharp inhale. A low curse in Russian. And then Ilya’s voice, thick and velvet-dark: “Fucking look at you two.”

You barely glanced over your shoulder, just enough to see him, still standing, hand wrapped around his cock, shirt bunched up in his other fist. His eyes were locked on you, heat blazing behind them, teeth bared in something halfway between a grin and a snarl.

“I should film this,” he said. “Send it to coach. Tell him this is why I miss morning skate.”

Shane barked a laugh into your mouth; cut off halfway by the next kiss and the way your hips shifted again, teasing. He moaned low, hand sliding up your side, still so deep inside you.

You felt Ilya’s eyes everywhere.

He was stroking himself now - hard - watching your tongue slide against Shane’s, the way you held his jaw, how he moaned into you when you clenched tight around him.

“Fucking hell,” Ilya growled. “You ride him like you were made for it. Like you want me to watch. Like you know it drives me insane.”

Your hand reached back blindly, palming the air until Ilya caught it in his own. You didn’t look at him. Just squeezed. Hard.

“I do want you to watch,” you said against Shane’s lips. “I want you to see how much he needs me. How pretty he looks when he begs.”

Shane shivered under you. You kissed his neck.

Ilya hissed something sharp and brutal in Russian - no translation needed - then groaned, guttural, raw, and came hard, cock twitching in his fist, ropes streaking across his abs as his breath punched out of him in one violent exhale.

He cursed again, head tipped back, a long moan spilling out.

You and Shane both watched, panting, clinging to each other.

The silence after was thick, heavy, perfect.

Then Shane, deadpan, voice hoarse but precise: “You know the neighbours definitely heard that.”

You burst into laughter against his neck, your whole body shaking.

Ilya, still catching his breath, just wiped a hand across his chest and muttered:

“Good. Maybe they stop knocking next time.”

Chapter Text

You were already in his apartment when he got in: lights low, candles lit, something soft playing in the background that he would pretend not to notice and secretly appreciate. You’d dropped your overnight bag by the door and made yourself comfortable on the couch, barefoot, in one of his hoodies that hung halfway down your thighs, flipping through a book without really reading it. Just waiting.

The moment you heard the lock click, your head lifted. Then you heard the bag hit the floor, heard his keys drop into the dish, and—

Nothing.

No hello. No muttered curse in Russian about the weather or traffic. Not even the usual sarcastic “you break into my home again, detka?”

Just silence.

You stood slowly, barefoot on warm hardwood, rounding the corner just as Ilya finally stepped into view.

One look. That’s all it took.

Something was off. Not rage. Not drama. Not even the classic Rozanov sulk.

Just…quiet. Stillness in places he was never still. Shoulders a little too low. Eyes not meeting yours right away. Lips pressed together like he didn’t trust them to move yet.

You stepped forward. “What happened?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

You crossed your arms. “Try again.”

That earned you a brief flick of his eyes and then a sigh. He walked past you, shrugging out of his jacket with the tired grace of a man who’d just fought three flights of stairs and a ghost from his past.

You followed him, not pushing - yet.

When he didn’t say anything as he opened the fridge, stared inside for a second and shut it again without taking anything out, you just leaned back against the counter and waited.

“Ilya.”

He leaned both hands on the kitchen island. Still quiet.

You stepped up behind him, pressed your hands to his back.

“Talk to me.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then: “Is stupid.”

You were already shaking your head before he finished the sentence. “If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid.”

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s Shane.”

That explained the silence.

You waited.

“It was nothing,” he said again, but this time softer. “It was just—” He paused, then finally turned to look at you. “He freaked out. Over me saying his name.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Not ‘Hollander,’” Ilya said. “I called him Shane. In the middle of—” He broke off, made a frustrated sound. “It just happened.”

You nodded. “And he…?”

“Stopped. Froze up. Pulled away like I hit him.”

You swallowed. “What did he say?”

“Not much. Just…panicked. Kept saying we couldn’t do that. Couldn’t be that.”

You stepped forward, reaching for his hand.

He let you.

“I was not trying to be anything,” he said. “It just came out. Just one second—‘Shane’—and I fucked the whole thing up.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t fuck anything up.”

He looked down at your joined hands. “He will not talk to me.” His voice cracked. “Like he doesn’t want me to care.”

You stepped into his space, placed a palm flat on his chest.

He was trembling. Almost imperceptibly. But he was.

You looked up at him. “Do you want to care?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

His breath caught. And then, quiet, cracked, raw: “Yes.”

You leaned your forehead against his chest. “Then let him figure it out. You’ve waited this long, right?”

He was quiet.

You looked up again. “And until then…?”

“I have you,” he murmured, voice low, reverent.

You nodded. “Yeah. You have me.”

He kissed your forehead - tender, aching - and whispered against your skin:

“Do not ever flinch when I say your name.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

His hands were already finding your hips - solid, sure - pulling you into him like your body might disappear if he let go. His mouth came down hard on yours, not rough, not angry, but possessive, hungry, claiming: a kiss that said ‘I’m still here’ and ‘don’t ask me to talk anymore’. And you gave it to him. All of it.

He needed this. Not just sex. Not just release. He needed control.

You let your hands fall to your sides, surrendering to the kiss, letting him take the lead. Letting him guide you backward down the hallway with that slow, single‑minded dominance you’d felt in him a hundred times before but tonight, it was different.

No teasing. No smirk. No sarcasm.

Just heat. Just need.

When he broke the kiss, your lips were already kiss‑bruised, chest heaving, eyes glazed.

“On the bed,” he said, voice gravel and smoke.

You obeyed.

He stood there for a second, looking at you. You could see it now, all of it. The tightness in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the muscle ticking in his cheek like he was holding himself back.

But he didn’t. Not with you.

He undressed without ceremony - T-shirt off first, then sweats, no hesitation. His cock was already hard, heavy, flushed dark with the kind of frustration that hadn’t started with arousal and wouldn’t end with just getting off.

When he climbed over you on the bed, he didn’t speak. He kissed.

Everywhere.

Mouth on your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder, your breast, his hand sliding between your thighs with unerring accuracy; like your body was his and he remembered. Which it was. And he did.

“Mine,” he growled against your neck. “All fucking mine.”

You moaned, reaching for him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it down against the bed with one large hand.

“Not tonight,” he murmured. “You don’t move. I take what I need.”

Your breath hitched. “Okay.”

His eyes met yours - stormy, raw.

“You trust me?”

You nodded. “Always.”

His kiss landed again - this one deep, all tongue and teeth and ownership - his hips settling between yours and then he was inside you, deep and fast, one smooth push that knocked the air out of your lungs.

You gasped.

He grunted.

And then he moved. Rhythm hard, relentless, no space between thrusts. His hand pressed your wrist harder into the mattress, his free arm braced beside your head, his hips slamming into yours like he needed to forget, or maybe feel it all, or maybe both.

You moaned his name and he froze for half a second.

Then leaned down and hissed in your ear:

“Say it again.”

You did.

“Ilya.”

He groaned; louder this time, almost pained.

“Fucking love hearing it from you.”

You tilted your head, offered your throat. He took it: mouth open, biting just enough to mark. You arched beneath him, whimpering, everything going tight, sharp, perfect.

He felt it. He knew.

“I will make you come for me,” he growled. “Not for Hollander. Not for anyone else. For me.”

You cried out, his pace slamming into you just right; his mouth on your chest, your neck, your lips, every inch of you claimed and marked and taken.

And when you came - shuddering, gripping his wrist and moaning his name like a lifeline - he didn’t stop.

He followed.

Buried deep, hips grinding as he emptied himself into you with a growl that turned into a ragged curse in Russian, his body shaking over yours, every muscle coiled and then released, all at once.

Afterward, he collapsed onto you, arms tight, body slick with sweat.

You held him. Both hands in his hair, stroking.

He didn’t speak for a long time. But when he finally did, it was quiet, broken, whispered into your throat like a secret:

“Thank you for being here.”

You kissed his temple.

Always.

___________

Two Months Later

The video call connected with a soft chime, and there he was: grainy hotel lighting, a white towel slung over one shoulder, damp hair pushed back from his forehead and that familiar scowl halfway between ‘leave me alone’ and ‘please make me talk about it’. He looked tired. Not just from the road. From carrying something heavy.

You smiled at him anyway.

“Hey, stranger.”

He grunted. “You wearing anything under that blanket?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He grunted again, less tired this time. “I would. Show me.”

You raised your brows. “Uh-uh. You’re not getting out of this conversation that easy.”

His mouth pulled into a thin, annoyed line and he leaned back against the headboard like a man settling in for an interrogation he deserved but still resented. The towel was now hanging loosely around his neck, his bare chest gleaming faintly from the shower.

“You look tired,” you said gently.

“Road trip,” he muttered.

“Road trip or you haven’t talked to Shane in two months?”

He didn’t answer. Just rolled his neck slowly, eyes flicking away from the camera. You caught the hesitation - saw it - that flicker of vulnerability that always came out sideways with him. The same thing you’d learned to read in his silences, not his words.

“Ilya.”

He exhaled, hard. “What is point? He doesn’t want to talk. Fine. Let him not talk.”

You gave him a look. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

He muttered something in Russian under his breath. Not an insult. More like ‘fuck, she’s right’.

You let the silence stretch again. Let it pull at him.

Then, softly: “He hurt you.”

Ilya blinked. His voice was quiet when it came. “He did not mean to.”

“But he did.”

“I knew what it was,” he said, trying to make it sound like fact. “He never promised anything.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like something.”

He didn’t argue.

You shifted on the couch, adjusting your laptop. The blanket slipped a little lower. His eyes tracked the movement automatically, something dark and instinctive flickering over his face: want, affection, longing.

You sighed. “I know it’s hard.”

He looked at you then, like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he’d finally let it out.

But instead, he whispered, “I miss him.”

It broke something in you. Not because he said it but because of how he said it: quiet and raw, no accent softening it, no ego left in it. Just truth.

You reached for the screen, like you could touch him through it.

“I know,” you said. “I know, baby.”

“I thought—after that night,” he murmured, “after what we did, what he said…I thought maybe he would stop hiding.”

“But he got scared.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to say his name. His fucking name.” His voice cracked, full of frustration, like it had been building behind his ribs for weeks. “He looked at me like I put gun to his head.”

You stayed silent. Let him keep going.

“I did nothing wrong,” he said. “Not really.”

“No,” you agreed softly. “You didn’t.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, rough. “I just…if he does not want to see me again, he should say it. Not leave me fucking waiting.”

“Have you tried calling?”

He shook his head.

“Ilya…”

“If I call,” he said, “I will not stop.”

That ache in your chest pulsed. You bit your lip.

He looked back at the screen, at you, all of him open in a way only you ever got to see.

“I don’t want to need him like this,” he said. “I hate it.”

You whispered, “Then let me hold some of it for you.”

He blinked.

You shrugged. “Until he figures his shit out. Until he comes back to you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He leaned back, exhaled, eyes closing for a second. When they opened again, something in them had softened.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled. “You say that every time. Still doesn’t make it true.”

“I will say it every time you let me.”

“Good,” you said. “You’re going to need the practice.”

He huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “Can I still see under blanket?”

You raised a brow. “Only if you stop pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

He looked at you like you were sunlight through a crack in a winter wall. Then, finally, he nodded.

“Okay.”

He looked at you like he needed air. Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks - months - and was only now remembering how to breathe.

You watched that look ripple through him, from behind the dim hotel lamp glow, flickering soft across his cheekbones and the hollow of his collarbones, sweat still dewing lightly at his hairline from the shower. That towel was long gone now, dropped somewhere out of frame, and his hand was clenched into the sheets at his side, knuckles white.

His chest rose and fell, slow and heavy.

“I need you,” he said.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a line. It was Ilya - rough, blunt, honest in the way only he knew how to be when the rest of the world couldn’t see him.

You moved without thinking, sliding the blanket off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch as his eyes followed with laser focus. You didn’t tease. You gave.

His jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, angling your laptop a little lower, giving him the full view.

One of his hands dropped between his thighs, out of frame.

You didn’t need to see it. You could feel it.

His breath hitched at the same moment your fingers slipped between your legs. There was no need to warm up. You were already slick from watching the way his mouth had gone slack when you’d called his name earlier. From hearing him say I miss him and knowing he’d never said that to anyone else.

You whispered his name again now.

“Ilya.”

He groaned, dragged his hand roughly down his chest, breath catching like your voice alone stroked straight through him.

“You thinking about me?” you asked, voice low, steady, a little breathless.

“I see you,” he said. “Fucking perfect. Touching yourself for me. Just for me.”

You bit your lip, moaned as your hips moved, your fingers curling deeper.

“You deserve this,” you whispered. “You hold everything in. You take care of everyone. Let me take care of you now.”

His teeth sank into his bottom lip. He muttered something under his breath in Russian, low and wrecked.

“You want to come with me?” you whispered. “You want to picture me underneath you when you do? My thighs open. My mouth on your neck. My nails in your back.”

He grunted, head tipping back, hand working faster now, muscles in his arm tensing hard. The laptop shook faintly on the bed with every movement.

You pushed yourself higher on the couch, moaning louder now, letting him hear you lose control. Your fingers worked faster too - slick, rhythmic, eyes locked on the camera.

“Ilya—please—”

“Do it,” he growled. “Come with me.”

You did. Hard. Your legs jerked, your body arched, and you cried his name as you came - shaking, clenching, wrecked. The sound of him coming a second later, hoarse and gasping, was pure fucking music.

He collapsed back onto the pillows, chest rising and falling like he’d just come off the ice after triple overtime.

You both stayed there, panting, silent.

His face came back into the frame after a moment, flushed and soft, hair stuck to his forehead.

“You are fucking dangerous,” he murmured.

You smiled, breathless. “And you love it.”

“I really do.”

You watched each other for a long beat; no words, just the low hum of distance bridged for a moment. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and you could see how much lighter he looked now.

He reached for the edge of the sheet, covered himself lazily.

You said, “You have an early skate tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Da,” he grumbled. “Fucking Madison Square Garden. I hate that place.”

You smiled sweetly. “Well. Try not to fight anyone.”

“No promises.”

He looked like he was about to say more. Something soft, something important. But he just ran a hand through his hair and said, “I will text when I get back from morning skate.”

“I’ll be awake.”

You didn’t say goodbye.

Just smiled, lingered there, waited until he finally ended the call. And the second the screen went black, you were already reaching for your phone, opening tabs, checking flights, booking your ticket.

Return to New York.

He had no idea what was coming.

___________

Madison Square Garden had always buzzed with a particular kind of electricity - you’d been in plenty of arenas but this one throbbed with that big game energy; all steel and spotlight; jerseys and overpriced beer and the crackle of rival fans pressed too close together.

You kept your hood up walking through the concourse, not trying to be anonymous, just…private. You weren’t here to be seen. Not by anyone except one man.

Your pass got you where you needed to go: closer than most but not too close. Not behind the bench, not in the suite with the execs. Just a seat about six rows up, neutral section, middle of the first period, just as the players were starting to really settle into the rhythm of the game. A dangerous rhythm.

Your eyes didn’t leave the ice. Not once.

Ilya was all over it: dominant, aggressive, fast, loud. You could see it in his body language immediately, even under all the padding. He was restless. Quick shifts, hard hits, harder chirps. The kind of night where he looked like he wanted to hurt someone just for breathing wrong.

God, he was beautiful.

You didn’t try to get his attention. You didn’t stand, didn’t wave, didn’t call his name. You just sat there, hair pulled forward, jacket open over a plain hoodie, legs crossed, still and watching.

Waiting.

And then - second period, penalty kill, just after he dumped the puck deep and turned back toward the bench - he saw you.

You didn’t wave. You didn’t move. You didn’t have to. You watched it happen like it was in slow motion: his head lifting, scanning the crowd on muscle memory. His gaze sweeping past; then snapping back. Locking on.

The moment slammed into him like a cross-check.

He skidded in his own glide for half a second, feet catching uneven on the pivot, shoulders jolting. Then: stillness. Full-body tension. Just standing there on the ice, frozen in place, staring up at you like he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

You let the faintest smile pull at your lips. Nothing obvious. Just enough to say: yeah. I’m really here.

Even from six rows back, you felt the shift. Like something behind his ribs eased. And then he moved again; faster now, harder, more focused than he’d been all night. The hit he laid against the boards in the next shift had the whole crowd roaring. When he skated off, you saw him say something to one of his teammates. You didn’t need to hear the words.

He was going to find you after the game.

You smiled again, leaned back in your seat, and waited.

Let him come to you.

_________

The back entrance was quiet in that post‑game way: concrete and exhaust and the low murmur of staff packing up. You waited with your hands tucked into your coat sleeves, heart ticking too fast, replaying the way his head had snapped up in the arena when he saw you.

Thirty minutes passed. Then the door swung open.

A few players came out first, laughing, loud, still riding the adrenaline. Then more. You kept your eyes on the doorway, breath fogging in the cold.

And then, Ilya.

Hair damp, cheeks flushed, jacket half‑zipped. He was still buzzing, still glowing with that sharp, victorious energy that never quite left him after a game like that.

His eyes lifted. Found you. And his whole face changed.

It was instant: like someone had cut a wire inside him. The tension melted into something bright and feral and unrestrained. He crossed the distance in long strides, a laugh already tearing out of him as he grabbed you up into his arms.

“What the fuck,” he breathed, burying his face in your hair. “You little—”

“Naughty girl,” he finished, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, eyes blazing. “Keeping secrets from me.”

You smiled, slow and unapologetic. “You didn’t ask.”

He shook his head, laughing again, hands firm at your waist. “I love it,” he said, voice low. “I fucking love it.”

A car idled at the curb. He didn’t ask. Just opened the door, tugged you in after him and slammed it shut. The driver pulled away immediately, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows.

The car hadn’t even cleared the block before he had you in his lap.

The driver said nothing - head forward, divider up, a perfect silent accomplice - but even if he had noticed, Ilya didn’t give a single fuck. His hands were under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders like it offended him, like anything keeping him from your skin had no right to exist.

“You think you can show up like that,” he growled, voice thick, teeth grazing your jaw as your hips ground down into his. “Stand there like a dream. Keep this from me. Make me look like idiot in front of God and the Garden—”

You moaned when he bit you, open-mouthed, rough, right at the base of your throat.

“You loved it,” you gasped, your thighs tightening around him.

He thrust up once, hips sharp under yours. “I did. I’m fucking insane about you.”

The seats were narrow, space tight, but he didn’t care: his palm flat on the small of your back as he lifted you just enough, shoved down the front of his sweats and pressed you down over him hard. The sound you made hit the roof.

Your coat slipped off completely. He yanked up your shirt, bared your chest, groaned when he saw you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Look at you,” he rasped, cupping one heavy breast in his hand, squeezing hard enough to make you cry out. “You did this for me. Didn’t you?”

You nodded, panting, fingers tangled in the back of his hair. “Yes. Just for you. I wanted—fuck—I wanted you to see me.”

He pulled you down again - deeper - and you choked on a moan.

“I see everything,” he growled. “The way you ride me. The way you fucking clench. The way you smile like you are innocent when you’re sitting on my cock in front of driver—”

“Ilya—”

“You are menace,” he hissed, hips pistoning up as you bounced on him, the rhythm filthy now, your thighs shaking. “You know that? Fucking perfect and I can’t stay away. Can’t think about anything but being inside you.”

The car hit a bump - your body jolted with it - and he snapped, holding you down as he thrust up, hard and fast, fucking into you like the entire city outside had gone silent. You couldn’t speak; could barely breathe. All you could do was cling to him, one hand pressed to the window for balance, the other twisted in his collar as he wrecked you.

“You going to come?” he asked, voice low and ragged. “Going to do it just like that - tight and messy in my lap - fuck, you are so hot when you come for me—”

Your whole body went tight.

He felt it - growled low - and snapped his hips up again, grinding into you at just the right angle, and you shattered. Silently, all over him, mouth open in a gasp, no air left to scream.

“Tak krasivo,” he muttered - so beautiful, Russian curling off his tongue. “Just like that. Fuck.”

And then he came too, spilling deep inside you, head buried in your neck, breath hot and shaking as he held you in place.

The car didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down. But, in the back seat, Ilya pressed his hand to your back and held you there: close, panting, skin flushed, sweat-slick, his.

“Next time,” he murmured, biting your shoulder softly, “warn me before you drive me this fucking crazy.”

You smiled against his throat.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

____________

One Month Later

The call came just past midnight - your phone buzzing against the nightstand, screen lit with Ilya in big block letters.

You answered half-asleep, already smiling. “You miss me that bad?”

There was a pause on the other end. And then:

“I am in Florida.”

You rubbed your eyes. “Yeah, I know. Tampa game tomorrow.”

Another pause.

Your brows drew together. “Ilya?”

He exhaled. It sounded like a confession.

“He’s here.”

You sat up straighter, blanket slipping from your chest. “Shane?”

A long beat of silence.

Then: “Da.”

You waited.

“I did not know he was coming,” Ilya said quietly. “He just showed up. Said he had few days off. Wanted to…talk.”

Your breath hitched but you didn’t interrupt.

“He was here for a few hours. We talked a lot. Did not yell. Is different this time.”

You closed your eyes. “Ilya.”

“I know. I was not expecting it.”

You could hear the hum of hotel AC through the speaker. He sounded raw. Unsteady, but not in a bad way. More like hope was new and terrifying in his mouth.

“He asked about you,” Ilya said, softer now. “A lot.”

Your chest squeezed.

“I told him the truth. You are mine. That you love him anyway.”

You exhaled. “And?”

“And he asked if you would come.”

You blinked, slowly. “To Florida?”

“To us.”

Your breath caught.

“I will book you a flight right now,” he added. “First thing. I cover everything.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, stunned. “You always cover everything.”

“Because I fucking want to.”

Another pause, then he said your name, quietly, reverently.

“I need you here. Please.”

That did it. You swung your legs out of bed, already reaching for your phone charger.

“Text me the flight info when it’s booked.”

You heard him exhale, relief and hunger and something deeper, steadier.

“Done.”

“And Ilya?”

“Mm?”

You smiled.

“Tell Shane I’ll see him soon.”

____________

The plane touched down just after 4pm: sun blazing through the oval window, humid Florida air already pressing at the glass like a warm hand. You’d barely made it through the gate before your phone buzzed in your pocket, screen lighting up with a new message from Ilya:

Marriott Water Street
Room 1712
I’ll be waiting

No punctuation. Just his name below it, timestamped, urgent and controlled. It made your pulse spike.

The cab ride from the airport blurred - tangled palm trees, lazy late-afternoon traffic, the Bay flickering pale blue between high-rises. You barely registered it. You were already there in your head, halfway through the door, already seeing him. Feeling the way his hands would grip your waist. The way he’d press his face to your neck and breathe like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

The hotel was sleek, modern, full of glass and steel and cool air-conditioning that hit your skin in a sudden rush as you stepped into the lobby. You moved on autopilot: into the elevator, thumb poised over the floor button, heart stuttering when it reached 17. The ride up felt eternal. You kept smoothing your palms over your thighs, trying to breathe, trying not to imagine what would be waiting when the doors opened.

You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to. The door to room 1712 opened before you reached it.

And there he was.

T-shirt. Sweats. Barefoot. Damp curls at his temples like he’d just showered, like he couldn’t sit still long enough to dry completely. His eyes raked over you in one pass: sharp, heated, already dark with need.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. Just stepped back. Let you in.

The door clicked shut behind you, soft and final.

“Hi,” you said, voice a little hoarse.

Still no smile but his eyes softened. Just a little. “You look good.”

You took him in - broad shoulders, bare arms, the tension he always carried coiled tight under the surface - but something was different today.

He didn’t move toward you. Not right away.

You dropped your bag, watched him.

“Is he here?” you asked, quietly.

Ilya shook his head once. “Later.”

A beat.

Then: “Right now, is just us.”

He took a step forward, slow and sure, that huge frame radiating heat, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he hadn’t seen you in years.

And then, he dropped. Straight to his knees on the carpet in front of you, like gravity yanked him down.

You gasped, heart skipping as he wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulled you forward into the cradle of his body. His head tilted back, face flushed, lips already parted, the tension in his shoulders gone; replaced with a different kind of hunger. Not just want. Need.

“Bozhe,” he whispered - God - breath hot against your stomach. “I need you—I need to fucking taste you, right now.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair.

He groaned at the contact, eyes fluttering closed, reverent. “Kak ya tebe skuchal.” He said - How I’ve missed you “You don’t even know, detka.”

He tugged at your waistband, fumbled to pull your clothes down with a kind of frantic reverence, mouth already chasing your skin. He growled something else in Russian as he mouthed your hipbone, like prayer and curse in one, his voice rough and wrecked.

Then, just as his mouth was brushing between your thighs—

A knock. Sharp. Firm.

You both froze.

Ilya’s head snapped up.

You blinked, breathless, your fingers still knotted in his hair.

A second knock.

His chest heaved once. He closed his eyes. Whispered, “Fuck,” like it was a personal attack from the universe itself.

Then - reluctantly, so slowly you almost laughed - he leaned back on his heels, eyes still dark, still burning.

You arched a brow. “You expecting someone?”

His jaw clenched.

“…Hollander.”

Ilya stayed crouched for another second, hand still gripping your thigh, mouth so close to your skin it was obscene how far he’d already gone and then he stood. All quiet intensity, the shift from feral to composed as seamless as always, except for the obvious strain behind his eyes. You could see it in the way he moved. His hands twitched like he didn’t want to leave you for even a moment, and his jaw set hard as he turned toward the door.

He didn’t need to check the peephole.

He just opened it.

And there was Shane Hollander.

Wearing jeans and a fitted black jacket. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. Shoulders tense, gaze already tilted downward like he was preparing himself for a punch. The second the door opened, his head lifted but not all the way. Just enough to flicker toward Ilya, then immediately toward you.

His eyes froze.

You were still breathless. Still flushed. Your shirt was half untucked, your pants not fully fastened. Ilya hadn’t given you the chance. The look on Shane’s face when he registered it - guilt, shame, ache - nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

But he didn’t look away. His throat worked as he swallowed, stepped once inside the room when Ilya moved back to let him pass.

The door clicked shut again. Silence bloomed.

You and Shane just stood there across the room from each other, tension like static on bare skin.

Then he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

His voice cracked halfway through it. You didn’t know if he meant you, or Ilya, or both.

You stayed still. Let him say it.

Shane looked between you: eyes never quite settling, like he couldn’t bear to hold either of your gazes fully.

“That night,” he said. “When he called me by my name—” He stopped, teeth biting down hard into his lower lip. “I freaked out. You both know that. But I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I panicked and I pulled back and I told myself I could just…stop needing this.”

His voice dropped further. “Stop needing you.”

You felt Ilya shift behind you but he didn’t interrupt.

Shane looked at the floor. “I thought it would make it easier if I just pretended I didn’t care. But I’ve been lying to myself every second since.”

He looked up finally. Right at Ilya.

“I missed you.”

Ilya’s jaw flexed but he didn’t speak.

Then Shane turned to you.

“And you…I just—fuck, I’m sorry. For leaving you in it with him. For not being strong enough to be here.”

He hesitated. Voice softer. “You’re the reason I wanted to try again.”

And that - that - punched straight into your chest.

He meant it. It wasn’t just an apology. It was a surrender.

You stepped forward slowly.

“You scared the shit out of both of us,” you said, gently. “But you’re here now.”

Shane nodded. “I want to be here. For both of you. If you’ll have me.”

Still nothing from Ilya.

Shane turned to him again, quieter. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

And that was when Ilya finally moved: came to stand directly in front of Shane, eyes locked on his, body still thrumming with all that restrained, simmering intensity.

“I don’t forgive you,” he said, voice low and Russian-thick. “Not yet.”

Shane swallowed. Didn’t flinch.

“But I want to,” Ilya added.

You reached for Ilya’s hand, threaded your fingers through his.

“And I want you to,” you said, to both of them.

Ilya looked at you, then back at Shane.

He stepped back once. And said:

“Sit down. You can talk. We are not done here.”

Shane didn’t sit right away.

He hovered, fidgeted, the way he always did when he wasn’t on skates, like his body didn’t know how to hold still without the structure of play. His hands rubbed together, then scrubbed through his hair and he stayed just shy of the couch, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to take up space on it.

You and Ilya were standing shoulder to shoulder now. Ilya still had that wired stillness to him - tension vibrating through every inch of him, but leashed. Managed. Barely.

Shane’s eyes flicked up again. “You were about to, um… before I knocked…”

Ilya didn’t smile. But something flashed through him.

“Da. I was.”

Shane’s ears flushed pink.

Ilya didn’t stop looking at him.

“I was on my knees. About to taste her. She was shaking for it.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Shane blinked. “Jesus.”

“Exactly,” Ilya said flatly. “And you knocked.”

You touched Ilya’s arm. He didn’t pull away: if anything, he leaned into your hand slightly.

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”

“You didn’t,” you said gently. “You paused it.”

Ilya’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not for long.”

That landed like a stone dropped into deep water.

A beat of silence.

Then Shane, low and hesitant: “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you both.”

Ilya stepped forward, barely, just a slight shift of weight. He said nothing. But the message was loud.

“I wanted it too badly,” Shane admitted. “I got scared. But I never didn’t want it. Either of you.”

Ilya finally broke eye contact to glance at you. You nodded, barely, your hand sliding down his arm.

And then he turned, back to the couch, and sat. Calm. Powerful. Legs spread. One arm thrown along the backrest, like a man who owned the entire fucking room.

He gestured lazily to Shane. “So sit.”

Shane did.

Slowly.

The room went quiet again. The tension had shifted, no longer jagged, but charged, every second stretching tight with possibility.

Then Ilya looked at you.

“You have been very quiet,” he murmured.

You lifted your brow, playing innocent. “Listening.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Thinking dangerous things?”

You smiled. Then you reached for the hem of your shirt.

And pulled it off in one slow motion.

No bra. Just skin: your chest bare, nipples already peaked under the tension, under the heat you’d all been stoking since the moment you opened the hotel door.

Ilya’s breath punched out of him in one sharp exhale.

Shane made a sound - something between a gasp and a broken word - and his eyes went wide.

You took a slow step forward. “You were saying?”

Ilya’s mouth curved, just slightly. Predator’s amusement.

Shane looked completely wrecked and hadn’t even been touched.

Then Ilya said, low and dry: “Welcome back, Hollander.”

Shane’s breath hitched like someone had punched him in the chest. His eyes were locked on you: jaw slack, pupils blown wide, hands fisted tight on his knees like he didn’t know whether to move or kneel. And Ilya? Ilya was leaning back on the couch like a man at peace, one hand draped over the backrest, the other now slowly stroking the inside of his thigh.

Like this was his show. Like he’d been waiting for the curtains to rise.

You crossed the room slowly, top still in your hand, chest bare and high, every step deliberate. The air in the hotel suite felt heavier now, like it was pressing in from the corners. You knew exactly what you were doing. You felt their eyes all over you - Shane’s hesitant and reverent, Ilya’s hungry and claiming - and it made your skin flush hot and tight.

Ilya’s eyes tracked you like a hawk. “She walks like that and you are still sitting there?” he drawled, voice thick and low.

Shane inhaled sharply.

You stopped in front of him.

He looked up at you, all flushed cheeks and wrecked, lips parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust his voice.

“Touch her,” Ilya said, the command razor-edged.

Shane blinked. “I—can I?”

You didn’t wait. You straddled his lap.

And the sound he made - half moan, half plea - cracked something inside both of you.

Your hands found his jaw, tilted his head back, and you kissed him. Soft, at first. But it didn’t stay soft.

He groaned into your mouth, hands skimming your back like he couldn’t believe you were real, and you could feel him trembling beneath you, hips already lifting slightly, cock thick and hard in his jeans.

Behind you, Ilya shifted. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching with hooded eyes and his hand down his pants.

You pulled back from Shane slowly, watched the dazed desperation in his eyes.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

You didn’t get to respond.

Ilya stood behind you, slid a hand down your spine, possessive, and spoke close to your ear.

“On your knees, detka. I want to see your mouth on him.”

You didn’t hesitate. You slid from Shane’s lap with practiced grace, tugged open his jeans as you dropped to the floor. Shane’s hands clutched at the armrest, his eyes wild, already panting.

“Ilya—fuck—”

“I’m watching,” Ilya said, circling around, standing close behind you. “You show me how much you missed him.”

And you did.

Took Shane into your mouth slowly, deeply, your tongue tracing every inch like worship and Shane swore, loud and helpless, his hips twitching, one hand tangling in your hair. You let him, let him guide, let him groan as you bobbed your head, moaning around him, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t.

Ilya’s hand was in your hair too now: controlling your rhythm, murmuring praise in Russian, voice hot and coarse at your back.

“Look at him,” Ilya said, voice rough. “Falling apart already.”

Shane was: his head tipped back, lips parted, eyes blown wide. But he wasn’t gone yet.

You pulled off slowly, licking your lips. Then looked up at both of them.

“I want both of you.”

Shane blinked like he couldn’t process it.

Ilya growled low, already undoing his sweats. “Bed.”

No argument. They both followed you. Shane sank onto the mattress like his knees were giving out. You crawled over him, straddling his lap again, naked now, wet and wanting and unashamed. His hands found your waist but he didn’t move. Not yet.

Not until Ilya climbed onto the bed behind you. Hands on your hips. Kissing your shoulder. Then biting it.

“I’ll fuck you from behind,” Ilya murmured. “You ride him. You make him come undone.”

Shane’s breath caught.

You nodded, moaning when Ilya pushed inside you from behind, deep and thick and merciless, his hands gripping your hips hard as he set a rhythm that rocked you straight onto Shane.

You took him next. Slow. Deep.

And the sound Shane made when you sank down over him - when both of them were inside you, every inch of you filled - would’ve made the angels blush. And the devils cheer.

Ilya groaned, muttering filth against your back as he fucked you into Shane’s lap, his thrusts pounding you forward, Shane’s hands clutching your waist as he moaned your name, kissed your chest, begged to hold out, begged not to.

You were in the middle of it. Their middle. And you never wanted to leave.

Ilya’s pace was relentless.

He gripped your hips with that unshakeable control: every thrust behind you snapping into your body with precision, purpose, possession. You were bouncing in Shane’s lap now, helpless between them, filled so completely your body couldn’t tell where one man ended and the other began.

Shane was wrecked.

You could see it in his eyes: blown wide, pupils black, lips parted like he couldn’t remember how to close them, fingers digging into your waist as though anchoring himself there was the only thing keeping him conscious.

You rocked on him, moaning, grinding down as Ilya shoved in deeper from behind. Shane’s head tipped back against the pillows, a desperate sound tearing from his throat.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped. “You’re gonna kill me—I’m not gonna last—”

“Hold it,” Ilya growled, voice sharp, right at your ear. “You come when she says. Not before.”

Shane whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And you nearly came from that alone.

Ilya reached around you, fingers finding your clit with ruthless focus, stroking in tight circles, already slick with the heat of your own arousal, the friction of him pounding into you from behind. His other hand never let go of your hip, guiding every slam of his cock into you like he was building something. Tearing you apart to put you back together.

“Look at him,” Ilya hissed, his voice pure fire now, filthy and reverent. “Look what we do to him.”

You leaned in.

Crushed your mouth to Shane’s.

He kissed you back - messy, hungry, grateful - his hands everywhere now, sliding up your back, your ribs, fingers brushing the curve of your breasts as he moaned into your mouth.

“I missed this,” he panted. “Missed you—both of you—fuck—please—please.”

Your whole body was trembling, slick with sweat, muscles burning.

Ilya’s rhythm stuttered behind you.

“Say it,” he growled. “Tell him he can come.”

You turned your head slightly, caught Shane’s eyes.

“Now,” you gasped. “Come for me, Shane.”

And he did. So hard you felt it hit: his whole body jolting, voice shattering in your ear as he moaned your name, buried his face in your chest, came deep and shaking beneath you.

The sound of it - the feel of him - sent you spiralling right after, your orgasm crashing down like a freight train, every muscle locking, your cry caught in your throat as you clenched around them both.

And Ilya—Ilya—

His hand locked tight on your hip, his mouth dropped open against your shoulder and he groaned deep, low in his chest, guttural, as he spilled inside you, hips jerking wildly once, twice, then pressing deep and staying there, every inch of him buried as he rode out the high, muttering in Russian with every ragged breath.

He stayed still for a long moment, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he slid out.

You collapsed forward onto Shane, the three of you breathing hard, tangled in sweat and heat and everything that had finally boiled over.

Ilya dropped beside you both on the bed, one arm thrown across your waist, the other propping him up.

And then, quietly, his fingers brushed Shane’s jaw.

You watched as Shane turned his face toward him, breath still uneven.

And Ilya kissed him. Deliberate. Slow. Honest. No teasing. No smirk. Just lips to lips, eyes closed, one hand still at your waist as the other held Shane’s cheek with unexpected care.

When they pulled apart, Ilya exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Idiots.”

Shane smiled, flushed and dazed.

You smiled too.

And the three of you just lay there. Breathless. Spent. Together.

Chapter Text

The Boston morning was heavy with grey light and slush lining the sidewalks. Ilya had left for morning skate twenty minutes ago - long enough for the front door to close and the apartment to settle back into its quiet domestic hum.

You padded barefoot into the bathroom, the tile cool under your soles. The water took a minute to heat, steam fogging the mirror while you brushed your teeth lazily. You were still wearing one of Ilya’s T-shirts, sleeves rolled, hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

Behind you, movement. Then the faint creak of the bathroom door opening again.

Shane stepped in, hair sleep-mussed, eyes still soft with half-dreams.

He froze when he saw you.

“Oh. I thought—I didn’t know you were…”

You smiled around your toothbrush. “Ilya’s gone.”

He relaxed visibly. “Right.”

The silence between you stretched for a moment, intimate in a way neither of you had planned. You turned toward the shower, stepped in and let the heat bite into your skin.

By the time you looked back, Shane was already stripping off his shirt. Quietly. Almost shy. But he didn’t stop.

A few seconds later, he stepped in behind you.

You stood under the water together for a minute, just that. His hands tentative on your waist, your back against his chest. Steam curled around your legs. His breath was slow, warming the top of your shoulder.

Then his fingers slid across your hips, over your stomach. Careful.

You leaned into him.

He kissed your neck. Soft. Lingering. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded. Reached back. Curled your fingers around the back of his thigh.

“It’s more than okay.”

You turned in his arms and kissed him. Really kissed him: slow and deep, your wet bodies sliding together, his hands trembling just slightly at your waist as he found his rhythm in your mouth.

He wasn’t confident like Ilya. Not here. But he wanted to learn. He wanted you.

He kissed you again: hands spreading wide, one gliding up to cup your breast, the other down between your legs, hesitating for only a second before sliding in.

You gasped, pressing closer, whispering encouragement against his lips. His fingers curled, stroked just right and you could feel him react when your breath caught.

The water ran hot over both of you. It felt peaceful. Private. A moment stolen and quiet and only yours.

Then—

A shift in the air. The soft thump of the bathroom door opening.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. You felt it in your spine.

You and Shane both froze.

Silence.

Then—

“Ilya,” Shane said, voice raw, already full of guilt.

You turned your head slowly.

He was there, leaning against the doorframe. Still in his coat. Still in his hat. Hockey bag dumped just outside the room.

Watching.

You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. You didn’t ask.

He said nothing.

Just stared at the two of you: his girl pinned between his man and a wall of steam, Shane’s hand still between your thighs, your mouths still flushed from kissing.

Shane flinched slightly. Tried to pull his hand back.

Ilya lifted one brow.

“Don’t stop.”

The words were even. Heavy.

Shane froze.

Then, softly: “You’re not mad?”

Ilya stepped into the room. Unzipped his coat. Peeled it off, slow and deliberate.

“I am very mad.”

Shane swallowed.

Ilya kept speaking as he stripped: shirt, socks, pants, everything in one clean, confident motion, like he was unwrapping something he already knew was his.

“Not because you touched her.”

He crossed to the shower. Now naked. Now dangerous.

“I am mad you started without me.”

The door slid open. The heat shifted.

Shane stepped back instinctively. You didn’t move.

Ilya stepped in. Steam clung to him like worship. His hand came under your chin first - tilted your face to his - and he kissed you.

Hard. Possessive.

You moaned into his mouth as your hands braced on his chest, your body caught between the two of them now: Shane behind, Ilya in front. Water ran down all three of you but none of you moved to adjust it.

“You let him touch you?” Ilya rasped against your lips.

You nodded.

He kissed you again.

“You liked it?”

You nodded again.

Then Ilya looked over your shoulder. Right at Shane.

“You are hard?”

Shane’s voice cracked. “Yeah.”

“Then you listen.” His voice dipped lower. “She rides me. You get her mouth.”

Shane sucked in a breath. Nodded.

Ilya turned you easily, like a doll. Pressed you forward.

Lined himself up behind you and - slowly, completely - took you.

You gasped, hands flying to the wall as Ilya filled you with a groan, his grip tight on your hips, his mouth hot against your spine.

And then—

Shane stepped closer. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

You opened for him - welcomed him - let him take your mouth as Ilya fucked you from behind.

Shane moaned as your lips wrapped around him, as your tongue teased his tip and slid down his shaft. He tasted like soap and salt and need. He touched your face like you were something sacred.

Ilya fucked into you like he was claiming territory.

“Look at him,” he muttered, voice shredded. “So pretty when you make him beg.”

You were the centre of them. Full. Worshipped. Used. Loved.

Shane whimpered above you as his hips stuttered. “I’m not gonna last—fuck—”

“You do not come until I tell you,” Ilya growled. “Same for her.”

The rhythm built. Steam thickened. You were shaking now.

Ilya’s hand reached around, thumb between your legs, rough and practiced. Your moan vibrated around Shane’s cock, making him groan loud and unfiltered.

“Come for me,” Ilya ordered. “Now.”

You shattered, clenching around him, body locking, and Shane? Shane came with a helpless cry, spilling into your mouth as his hips jolted.

Ilya was last.

He fucked you through both of your highs, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and Russian words pouring into your skin until he came deep, sharp and violent, the sound he made wrecking the echo of water and breath in the shower.

You all stayed there. Pressed together. Breathing. Steam curling up the walls.

Then Ilya kissed your shoulder. Reached out. Tugged Shane forward. And kissed him, too. Slow. Filthy.

Shane moaned into it.

You smiled against Ilya’s chest.

All yours.

_________

You were barely halfway to pulling on your underwear when Ilya turned from the dresser, towel hanging low on his hips and stopped dead in his tracks.

Shane was on the bed.

Laid back, still damp, still pink in the cheeks, one arm over his eyes like he was trying to catch his breath from the shower and not doing a great job of it. A single droplet of water rolled down his chest, catching the light.

And Ilya, watching, tilted his head.

You were fastening your bra when his voice cut through the room like a blade.

“On your knees, Shane.”

Shane blinked. Lifted his arm slowly.

“I—I thought we were getting dressed.”

Ilya didn’t blink.

“Do I look dressed?”

Shane hesitated.

Ilya dropped his towel.

“No?” he said, stepping toward the bed, thick and hard again like the shower had only barely dented his need. “Then you better be ready to make yourself useful.”

You were already moving, heart thudding, towel slipping off your hips as you crossed to the bed and climbed up alongside Shane.

He looked at you - flushed and so completely wrecked already - and you kissed him, slow and filthy, straddling his chest without waiting.

“Ilya,” you said over your shoulder, already breathless. “I want his mouth.”

He was right behind you now, dragging Shane into position: gripping his hips, manhandling him into place like he was weightless, like he was his.

“I want more than that,” Ilya muttered.

You settled your knees on either side of Shane’s face and lowered yourself slowly. His tongue met you like a prayer. Like worship. His hands clutched your thighs, fingers trembling, mouth open and already moaning.

Below you, his cock twitched. And behind you, Ilya lined up.

You heard the breath catch in Shane’s throat.

Then Ilya slid inside him in one hard, sure stroke.

Shane cried out into your pussy - voice caught and crushed by the wet seal of your skin, tongue still working, even as his whole body jolted forward under the weight of Ilya’s thrust.

You ground down on him with a gasp, rolling your hips slowly, circling your clit over his tongue while Ilya fucked into him with brutal, possessive force - his grip unforgiving, his voice feral.

“Take it,” Ilya growled, fucking deeper. “Take both of us. You like being full?”

Shane moaned. Muffled. Desperate.

You were in control now - riding Shane’s mouth like a throne, grinding harder when his tongue slowed, tugging his hair when he lost focus, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

“Ilya,” you gasped, turning slightly, watching him hammer into Shane’s body, his abs flexing, his skin flushed and shining. “He’s so good like this.”

Ilya’s teeth bared in a grin, sweat beading at his temple.

“I know.”

Then he slammed into Shane harder, making your breath hitch and Shane’s entire body jerk beneath you.

You leaned down, kissed Shane’s jaw.

“You like this?” you whispered. “My pussy on your tongue. Ilya’s cock in your ass. You’re such a good boy for us.”

He whimpered, broken and soaked, hands gripping your thighs tighter.

Ilya reached forward and slapped his ass, sharp.

“Tell her.”

Shane gasped out, voice shaking.

“Yes—fuck—yes.”

“Say it while you lick her.”

Shane’s mouth closed around you again, tongue flat and perfect, moaning like he was drowning and still wanted to drown deeper.

Ilya’s rhythm stuttered.

“You are going to make him come just like this,” he grunted. “From my cock and your pussy. Don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You rode his mouth, hips grinding, your clit throbbing with every pass of his tongue, your body already fluttering at the edge, Shane sobbing into you as Ilya fucked him mercilessly, muttering dirty, blistering Russian through his teeth.

Then—

You broke. Shattered hard, a cry ripped from your throat as you came on Shane’s face, hips locking, thighs trembling.

And that—

That was it.

Shane screamed, untouched, cock twitching on his stomach as he came, helpless and raw, soaked in the centre of the bed beneath both of you.

Ilya groaned through clenched teeth, drove deep, and came inside him: hard, shaking, biting down a curse so filthy it felt like the air in the room cracked open around it.

You collapsed forward onto Shane’s chest, your cheek resting just over his hammering heart.

Ilya followed, chest heaving, dragging a hand down Shane’s back as he slid out slowly, carefully, eyes glazed.

“Zvezda,” he muttered, voice rough silk. “Fucking star, this one.”

Shane blinked up at the ceiling. Mouth wet. Face flushed.

You kissed his jaw again and laughed, breathless.

“Think we’re gonna need another shower.”

Shane was still flat on his back, arms flung out like he’d just been hit by a truck - albeit a very satisfying one.

You were stretched out half on top of him, hair damp where it clung to your shoulders, one leg slung between his and your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was slowing down. Ilya lay beside you both, propped on one elbow, watching like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes fucking Shane within an inch of his life. Like he was still deciding whether round two was necessary before lunch.

The room smelled like heat and sweat and steam and sex but no one moved to clean up yet. That could wait.

“Dead?” you murmured against Shane’s skin.

He groaned. “I’m not sure I’ll ever walk again.”

“Is this your strategy?” you added, eyes sliding toward Ilya. “Wreck their star forward the day before the game?”

“Maybe,” Ilya said lazily. “If he cannot skate, cannot score.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

Shane snorted, still breathless. “It’s fine. I’ll just tell Marty I pulled a groin. No big deal.”

You grinned. “Want me to write the note? ‘Excused from morning skate: was too busy getting railed by his nemesis and his nemesis’s filthy-mouthed girlfriend.’”

“Not my girlfriend,” Ilya interjected, without heat, “She just lives in my bed, eats my food, steals my shirts, rides my cock.”

You made a content sound. “All true.”

Shane coughed a laugh. “This is insane.”

“You stayed the night,” you pointed out.

“Ilya made me.”

“I fucked you,” Ilya corrected, rolling onto his back like he was very pleased with himself. “You stayed because you liked it.”

Shane tried to cover his face, but your arm was in the way. “Ilya, we’re literally playing tomorrow.”

“So?” He shrugged. “I like you sore.”

You gave Shane a pitying pat on the chest. “Poor baby.”

He groaned. “God, I’m going to be thinking about this on the ice, aren’t I?”

“Only if you are lucky,” Ilya muttered.

Shane turned his head toward you, something a little more serious flickering behind the exhaustion. “You’ll come to the game, right?”

You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“She sits in my section,” Ilya said darkly. “Wears my colours.”

“Only because you’re a possessive bastard.”

“You like that.”

You kissed his shoulder in agreement.

Shane shook his head, mumbling. “You’ll probably heckle me.”

“I’ll probably make signs,” you said, propping yourself up a little. “You guys love it when I get creative. Remember the ‘Spank Me, Hollander’ one?”

“I still get chirped for that.”

“Because it was true.”

Ilya smirked. “I have the photo. Is framed.”

“You’re both the worst,” Shane muttered.

“You love us,” you said.

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he reached up, tugged you gently down to kiss him, slow, unhurried, his hand lingering at the back of your neck like he needed the anchor.

Ilya watched, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Do not fall in love,” he said, in that low Russian monotone. “You will get benched.”

Shane pulled back, lips swollen. “You gonna tell Coach on me?”

“No,” Ilya said, reaching over to drag you half on top of him instead. “I just fuck her louder next time you are in town.”

You sighed happily, arms flopping over both their chests. “God, I love hockey.”

__________

The arena was cold, loud, and vibrating with energy - just how you liked it.

You were in your usual spot, tucked low in the section where Ilya could see you every time he hit the ice. Wearing his team’s colours. His name on your back. Your legs crossed and your expression neutral, even though inside you were already buzzing.

You’d caught him watching you in warm-ups. Not subtle. Helmet off, mouthguard tucked in one glove, staring like he hadn’t had you half-collapsing against Shane’s face while he railed him an hour after morning skate. Like his only objective tonight was scoring goals and reminding you who the fuck you belonged to.

Which, let’s be honest, you loved.

Shane spotted you during the anthem. His eyes flicked across your face and dropped to your jersey. He bit his lip. You watched the little breath he blew out of his nose, the way he shook his head once like he couldn’t believe he was doing this again - playing against Rozanov with a semi and a craving for your voice in his ear telling him how pretty he looked losing.

Ilya caught your gaze during the second shift.

Looked right at you as he lined up for a face-off against Shane.

He grinned. That goddamn grin - deadpan, wolfish, knowing.

Then he leaned in and said something to Shane that made the ref raise an eyebrow and Shane flush like he was twelve.

You laughed aloud. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.

The whole game was just one long, filthy, teasing standoff.

You watched Ilya tear down the ice, checked hard into the boards, took a shot like he wanted to bury it straight through the net. Every time he looked over, he found you. Every time Shane skated past the bench, you caught him sneaking a glance, biting the inside of his cheek like he was trying not to smile.

You sent a photo of yourself - legs up, Ilya’s hoodie pulled low on your thighs - to the group chat between periods.

Caption: Winner gets me first tonight. Loser begs.

No response. Not until puck drop in the third.

Ilya got a goal. Clean, fast, deadly. Like he’d been saving it just to prove a point.

He didn’t celebrate. Didn’t even lift his arms. Just skated past the glass where you sat. Met your eyes.

Mouthed: Mine.

You nearly melted.

Final score? Boston: 3. Montreal: 1.

You stayed in your seat long after the buzzer. Let the crowd thin around you. Kept your phone tight in your hand, heart thudding.

Then a single message popped up from Ilya:

don’t fucking move

You smiled.

He was going to be insufferable tonight. And you were going to let him.

The players had cleared the ice. The crowd was thinning, slow tidal waves of jerseys and scarves shuffling toward the exits but you stayed in your seat - right where he told you.

You sat with one leg crossed over the other, jersey pulled tight over your curves, still warm from the game, from watching him dominate in that way only he could: forceful, relentless, unapologetic.

A security guard passed by and gave you a look like, ‘you’re still here?’, but you just smiled sweetly and adjusted your position like you had all the time in the world.

And then—
Boots on concrete. Fast. Heavy.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

Ilya came straight through the tunnel, no hat, no jacket, just hoodie sleeves shoved up over muscled forearms and that goddamn post-game flush still staining his cheeks. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking in sharp points across his forehead.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you. Then jerked his chin once.

“Let’s go.”

You stood. Smooth. Obedient. Felt his eyes drag down your body like a claim.

He held the back door open for you, hand hovering low on your back as he walked you to the car: one of the black SUVs the team used for transport. The second the door shut, he turned in his seat and looked at you full on.

“You wore my jersey.”

You smiled. “What, you didn’t think I would?”

“I thought you would wear nothing.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

He leaned closer, hand on your thigh now. “I scored with you watching. Hard.”

“I saw. You barely celebrated.”

He squeezed your leg.

“Didn’t need to.” A pause. “Had all the reward I wanted in front of me.”

The car moved through the city. You watched the streetlights flicker over his face. His hand never left your thigh.

You were halfway to his place when you reached for it. Traced slow circles on his palm.

“Where’s Shane?” you asked softly.

Ilya snorted. “On the bus. Being sad.”

“Aw. Poor baby.”

“Don’t push it.”

You laughed again - this time with a little moan underneath it. You knew what that tone meant. Possessive. Spiteful. Hard already, probably.

At his building, he got out first, came around, and opened your door like a fucking gentleman but with eyes that burned.

Upstairs, everything felt familiar. Warm. Lived-in. His hoodie slung over the back of a chair. Your toothbrush in his bathroom. A pair of your socks peeking out from under the coffee table.

He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it. Didn’t move. Just looked at you like he had the entire goddamn arena wrapped around his little finger and now you were the only thing left on the list.

“You watched us all game,” he said.

You nodded.

“I could feel it.”

“You kept looking at me.”

“I was hard from warm-ups.”

You smirked. “You gonna do something about it?”

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Took your chin in his hand. Tilted your face up.

“I won,” he said.

“I noticed.”

He kissed you, slow and claiming, one hand sliding around to the back of your neck, the other already on your waist.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. Spinning.

“This one is just for me,” he murmured. “You can ride Hollander tomorrow.” His voice dropped, deeper, darker. “Tonight, you belong to me.”

And you did. You always did.

__________

You were already spread out beneath him when he reached for his phone. Unlocked it. Opened Voice Memos.

You blinked. “Ilya.”

He pressed record. Didn’t look at you. Just murmured: “He should hear what he is missing.”

You exhaled sharply, already aching.

“What are you going to do?”

His voice dropped further. “Everything.”

And he did.

He didn’t speak for the mic. Didn’t narrate. Just fucked you slowly, thoroughly, one hand over your throat, the other guiding your hips while he grunted soft Russian curses into your mouth. You moaned louder than usual - on purpose and he knew it. Smiled against your neck, “Krichi,” he growled - scream, “Let him hear how pretty you are when you take it.”

You were gasping his name when he came: low and dirty, voice broken around the syllables of your name, your body locked beneath his, wet and used and loved and perfectly ruined.

He stopped the recording. Didn’t even play it back. Just hit send.

To Shane.

No warning. No message.

The two of you were still catching your breath when Ilya’s phone buzzed violently across the bed.

You grinned. “Oh my god—he—”

Ilya didn’t smile. He answered. Put it on speaker.

“Rozanov?” Shane’s voice was ragged, low, wrecked.

“You listened already?” Ilya said, breath still rough.

“You—fuck—what the hell is wrong with you.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth to muffle the laugh, still sprawled across the sheets, thighs trembling, heart racing.

“You liked it,” Ilya said flatly.

Shane exhaled. Shaky. Then, more honest: “I came before it ended.”

You bit your lip.

Ilya smirked. “Told you - you beg.”

“I’m fucking dying here,” Shane muttered. “It’s going to be weeks.”

“You will survive.”

Another beat. Then Shane: “Send more. Anything. Videos. Pictures. Just—please.”

You looked at Ilya. His face was pure smug pleasure.

He said nothing. Just looked at you, leaned in, and kissed you again - slow, possessive, dominant.

Then back to the phone:

“Maybe.”

He ended the call. Didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

You hadn’t even had time to clean up.

Your skin still burned in places: cheeks flushed, throat marked where Ilya’s mouth had lingered a little too long, thighs trembling from the way he’d held you down and taken what he needed. You hadn’t moved.

You hadn’t wanted to.

Not with Ilya watching you like that. Like he was already planning the next round.

He sat back on his heels now, kneeling between your legs, chest rising slow but deep: satisfied, but nowhere near done. One hand still on your knee, holding it wide, the other already stroking himself again, slow, deliberate, filthy.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your fingers spread across your stomach, your thighs slick and shaking.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathed.

He smirked.

“You love it.”

And then - without a word - he leaned forward again, hooked your hips in both hands, and slid back into you like he owned the space.

You gasped. Your whole body lit up, raw and over-sensitive and starving.

“Ilya—”

“Shh.”

He started to move; hard, this time, sharp thrusts that forced breath from your lungs, that dragged new sounds from your mouth without permission. The wet slap of skin, the low rasp of his breathing, your whimpers and half-laughed moans - all of it echoed in the room like music he’d composed himself.

“You love being messy for me,” he hissed against your cheek, hips grinding. “Love when I don’t hold back. Da?”

You nodded, eyes wide, voice wrecked. “Yes—yes—fuck, yes—”

“Good.”

He slammed into you, grunting once, twice, and then pulled out just in time to come everywhere.

Across your stomach. Your breasts. Your thighs. Heat, sticky and shocking, so much, painting your skin like a mark of ownership.

You gasped at the sensation. He let out a groan, deep in his chest, head tipped back, fist still wrapped around his cock as the last few strokes worked through him.

Then stillness. Heat. His breathing ragged, your body ruined, the space between you thrumming.

He didn’t wipe you down. Didn’t move to get a towl.

He reached for his phone instead. Camera. Pointed it right at you.

You met his eyes.

“Ilya,” you said, voice hoarse.

He smirked.

“Smile for Hollander.”

You didn’t move but your eyes glittered, lips parted, still red and swollen from kissing, from moaning his name.

The click of the photo made you ache. Then: the whoosh of it being sent. You covered your face with both hands and groaned.

“You’re insane.”

“No.” He crawled back up over you, kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. “I am making sure he knows what he is missing.”

You felt the vibration a moment later.

Ilya checked the message preview. Read it aloud.

Shane:
You’re both fucking evil.
I’m so hard I could cry.
Don’t stop. Ever.

Ilya grinned down at you.

“Oh, we won’t.”

___________

You knew exactly what you were doing when you hit record.

The lighting was warm, soft, deceptive. You sat with your back against the pillows, legs spread just wide enough, skin bare under your oversized Raiders hoodie - Ilya’s - no pants, no bra, no shame. You didn’t show everything. That wasn’t the point.

The point was the voice.

Your voice. Saying their names, slow, like honey and sin.

“You miss me, boys?”

You ran a hand down your stomach. Dipped lower. Didn’t rush.

“Rozanov, you winning tonight because you’re hungry…or because I’m not there to ride it out of you like I should?”

A beat. Your lips parted.

“And you, Hollander…how hard are you already? Hmm? Are you biting your hand trying not to come too soon?”

You let your fingers trail just low enough to show movement. Wet. Intentional. The little whimper you made was real.

Then, click. Video done. Exactly 47 seconds.

You sent it to the group chat without a word. No caption. No emoji. No warning.

You locked your phone and set it face-down. Didn’t move.

Sixty seconds later, it buzzed so hard it nearly slid off the table.

Shane:
Are you fucking serious.

A second later—

Shane:
I’m in the middle of team dinner.
I had to go to the bathroom.
I hate you I hate you I hate you.

You laughed.

Then the voice message came through.

From Ilya.

You tapped it and his voice came low and growling through the speaker.

“You are home. Wet. Touching yourself. And I am not there? You are getting punished when I get back, detka.”

Thirty seconds later, your screen lit up again, FaceTime incoming.

Rozanov & Hollander.

You let it ring. Smiled. Waited. Let it die.

They tried again. You picked it up this time. Let them see your face. Your mouth. Your flushed cheeks. Not your hand. Not your legs.

“Hi, boys.”

Shane sounded wrecked.

“I’m begging you. Right now. Please.”

Ilya’s voice overlapped, sharp and hungry: “Show me. Show us. Now.”

You bit your lip. Cocked your head.

“Say please.”

“Please,” Shane breathed.

You made a little thoughtful noise.

“Mm. Maybe.”

“Do not fuck with me,” Ilya growled.

“Oh? But that’s my favourite thing.”

You shifted on the bed, just enough to let them hear a sound that made both men groan at once.

“No hands,” Ilya said, voice wrecked. “You don’t come unless we tell you.”

“Oh, are you here to stop me?” you said sweetly.

Shane actually whimpered.

You grinned at the screen, then reached forward and ended the call.

Their names lit up again almost immediately. You didn’t answer. Instead, you sent a single photo:

The very edge of your parted legs. Your fingers trailing just up your thigh. Nothing more.

Caption:
Try again in five minutes.

Then you shut your phone off. Let them suffer.

Your phone was off for exactly four minutes and fifty-seven seconds.

Not that you were watching the clock. Not that you were timing the slow flex of your thighs, the way your own breath started to hitch without even trying. Not that you imagined, with perfect clarity, what was happening in two different hotel rooms in two different cities, because you were, and you knew.

You turned the phone back on with three seconds to spare.

It lit up like a live wire. Four missed FaceTime calls. Two new voice messages.

One from Ilya, one from Shane.

And the group chat? An absolute graveyard of desperation.

Shane:
Come on.
I swear I’m losing my mind.
I’ve never been this fucking hard doing nothing before.

Ilya:
Turn the camera on.
Now.
Or next time I see you, I’m tying you down and making Hollander watch me ruin you.

Shane:
Jesus.

Ilya:
You’ll like it.

You laughed, biting your lip as you sprawled back on the bed, your legs spread wider now, the whole damn room thick with heat and power and the charge of knowing how completely you had them both.

You hit record again.

No words. Just the curve of your thighs. Your hand, slick and slow. A moan: soft, dragged out, like you’d been holding it back since the moment you hung up on them.

You ended it after fifteen seconds. Sent it. Then sent a message.

You:
One of you better say please. Out loud. On video. Or this stops.

The reply came instantly.

Incoming Video: Ilya Rozanov

You hit play.

Ilya - shirtless, still in his dress pants, tie undone, sitting back on a hotel chair with his hand just out of frame. His jaw was locked. His accent heavier than usual. And his eyes, dark and wild.

“Please,” he said, low and sharp, like the word physically hurt him. “Please, detka. I want to hear you scream. I want to see how wet you are. I want to see you make yourself come while you think of us.”

Then a pause. A smirk.

“You think Hollander will be that brave?”

Ten seconds later—

Incoming Video: Shane Hollander

Shane was in bed. Shirt off. Blankets pushed down. His cheeks were flushed deep, the red climbing all the way to his ears. His breathing was shallow. He licked his lips.

“Please,” he whispered, staring straight into the camera. “I need it. I—I’ll do anything you want. Please just let me see you. Let me hear you.”

He looked like a man unraveling slowly.

You melted into the mattress, satisfied. Spoiled for choice.

You started the live call. Both of them joined instantly.

Their faces popped up side by side: Shane lying down, clearly trying not to touch himself yet; Ilya sitting upright, fingers steepled under his chin like a man watching his prey.

You turned your camera on. Their faces changed instantly.

Shane’s eyes went wide. His lips parted.

Ilya just smiled.

He leaned forward, slow.

“There she is.”

You let your fingers slide lower. And they both watched - silent, stunned, ravenous - as you took your time.

“I want both of you,” you said, breath hitching. “Here. Watching.”

Ilya’s jaw flexed. “You have us.”

Shane nodded, already breathing like he’d just skated ten miles. “All yours.”

You moaned - on purpose, loud - and both of them visibly broke.

You smiled at the screen.

The next hour was theirs. But the control? That always belonged to you.

You angled the phone, braced it against your thigh. Left your hand just visible, the curve of your body deliberate in frame, hair falling over one shoulder, skin flushed and already glistening.

On-screen, Ilya leaned back in his hotel chair like a king watching a performance made just for him. His lips parted slightly. His chest rose and fell slow.

Shane was silent. Wide-eyed. Red-cheeked. He’d pushed his hair back, but it was already falling loose again: his face helpless, like he didn’t know where to look first.

You gave them both the answer.

“Eyes on me,” you murmured.

They obeyed instantly.

Your fingers dragged slow over your stomach, teasing yourself just enough to shiver before you slid lower - just a breath of sound escaping your lips, and both of their jaws tightened at once.

Ilya spoke first, his voice low and dangerous:

“Take your time. Let him see how wet you are.”

Shane made a choked sound.

You obeyed, slow, deliberate. You moaned softly as you touched yourself, fingers slick and teasing, letting them see how badly you needed it.

Shane exhaled hard.

“Fuck.”

“You touching yourself, Shane?” Ilya asked, still calm.

Shane’s voice was wrecked. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

You smiled.

“Do it now,” you said.

His hand disappeared beneath the camera frame.

You let your own pace increase. Rocked your hips just a little. It was perfect: the timing, the build, the way they both followed your every move.

“Rozanov,” you said, breath hitching. “Take your cock out. I want to see.”

He didn’t blink. Just obeyed. His hand wrapped tight, stroke slow and controlled. “You going to come for us?”

“Only if you ask.”

Shane whimpered again. “Please. I need it—I need to see you come, please—”

“Louder,” Ilya snapped. “Like you mean it.”

Shane clenched his jaw. “Please,” he groaned. “I want to hear her scream. I want—god, I want to be inside her.”

You cried out as your hips lifted, fingers working faster. The wet sounds echoing through the call made Shane’s eyes roll back.

“Now,” Ilya growled. “Come now, detka, give it to us.”

You shattered with their names in your mouth. Breathless, wrecked, hips stuttering, your body convulsing under your own hand.

You barely heard Shane as he cried out: clearly following, clearly losing it at the sight and sound of you.

Ilya grunted once, low and sharp, followed by the faintest, breathless curse in Russian before his head dropped back against the wall and he finished with a vicious twist of his wrist.

Silence.

Just three sets of ragged breathing, hot and uneven, filling the space where speech used to be.

Then:

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered.

Ilya said nothing for a long moment. Then—

“Again tomorrow.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, exhausted and fucked-out and flushed.

“Insatiable.”

“Always.”

Shane looked like he was still floating.

“I’m ruined,” he said.

“No,” Ilya murmured, eyes dark and lazy now. “You are ours.”

The call ended five minutes later but the burn lingered like a handprint across all your skin.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

___________

The group chat was quiet that morning.

No greetings. No teasing. Just the leftover buzz of the night before lingering in the air like ozone: still charged, still very alive.

You were curled up with coffee, lazy in your underwear, scrolling through a playlist when the notification slid down the top of your screen.

Rozanov sent a video. No caption. You didn’t hesitate. You tapped.

It opened on the hotel bathroom mirror.

Ilya. Shirtless. Phone propped up sideways on the sink counter, perfectly angled to catch the whole reflection. Just enough grain to make it look casual. Just enough sweat-slick skin and early morning light to make it devastating.

He didn’t say a word.

He was already stroking: slow, methodical, that thick vein down his forearm flexing with every pump. His gaze stayed locked on the mirror. Not the camera. You.

His face didn’t change. Except for the smirk. It was barely there - lazy, sharp, dangerous - the kind of smirk that said ‘you did this to me, even though you weren’t in the room’. Even though he hadn’t touched you since last week.

His breath was audible. Controlled. No moaning, no nonsense. Just the steady slap of skin, the low rasp of breath, and the way he looked at you.

God, that look.

You couldn’t blink.

Then, you saw it. The way his muscles tensed. The way his rhythm hitched.

And he came in the mirror. Hard. Messy. Silent.

You heard him exhale, like the release had dragged it out of him from his spine.

Still not looking at the camera.

Just at you.

It ended there.

Black screen.

You stared for a full ten seconds, heart pounding, thighs clenching. Then the chat pinged.

Shane:
I can’t breathe.
What the fuck.
You’re both ruining me.

You grinned. Typing back.

You:
He didn’t even say anything.

Shane:
That’s the worst part.
He just looked at us like that and then came like he’s been thinking about last night all morning.

Two dots.

Then:

Shane:
…has he?

And finally:

Ilya:
Yes.

Then another one:

Ilya:
Now it’s your turn.

The day wasn’t even started. And already you were soaked.

___________

You were barely back from lunch - still licking the last bit of sauce from your thumb, half-reclined on the couch - when your phone buzzed once.

Hollander sent a video.

No caption. Just like Ilya.

But this one? This one was entirely Shane.

You tapped play.

The camera was propped on a pillow, angled perfectly down the length of a hotel bed: rumpled white sheets, soft natural light, and Shane.

Flat on his back. Naked. Hair messy, cheeks flushed, breath already shaky. He was holding himself in one hand. The other gripped the sheet tight beside his hip, knuckles white like he didn’t trust himself not to lose it before he even started.

You could see the shake in his thighs.

He didn’t look at the camera right away. He bit his lip first and then turned his head, eyes heavy, voice low and wrecked.

“I thought about that video all morning,” he said.

His hips lifted off the bed once, hard.

“I thought about what you sounded like,” he breathed. “What you looked like. What it would feel like if your mouth was on me when I woke up.”

You made a soft noise without meaning to, heat coiling hard in your gut.

Shane gasped again, hips jerking, his body trembling like he’d been edging for hours. “I don’t—fuck—know how long I can last if you’re watching.”

He did look at the camera then. Looked right into it. Eyes open wide, begging.

“You’re watching, right?” he whispered. “You and Ilya?”

Your breath stuttered. Your legs shifted.

He moaned - quiet, but wrecked - head tipping back, hand moving faster now, the kind of rough, needy rhythm of someone trying and failing to hold out.

“I wanna be between you again,” he gasped. “Wanna hear both of you talking while I come, wanna feel it—”

And then his voice broke. His back arched. His legs kicked. He sobbed your name - followed by Ilya’s - and came, hard, spilling across his stomach in thick, desperate pulses.

He groaned through it, eyes fluttering closed, hips twitching.

The screen lingered on his chest rising and falling fast, his fingers flexing open and shut like he didn’t know where he was anymore.

Then it ended. Just black.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Your phone buzzed once.

Rozanov:
Your turn, baby.

And you knew—
You weren’t making it to dinner.

____________

The lighting in Ilya’s living room was perfect. Mid-afternoon sun sliding in through the tall windows. Long shadows across the dark couch where you’d spent so many nights pressed between them.

But today? You were alone. And that was very much the point.

You set the phone up on the coffee table, angled low. You could see yourself perfectly: splayed out across the cushions, legs wide, back arched, one hand already sliding down your bare stomach.

You were loud. On purpose.

The moment you hit record, you let your head fall back and moaned; soft at first, just enough to tease.

Then you spoke.

“Ilya’s couch,” you whispered, voice breathless and soaked with heat. “You remember this spot, right? Where I rode you the first time you let Shane watch?”

You dragged your fingers between your thighs, already slick. Your hips lifted just slightly off the cushion.

“Where you called me greedy, Rozanov, right before you made me say his name while you were still inside me…”

Your breath hitched. You kept going.

“And Shane—baby—I know you’re watching this with your hand already down your pants.”

You moaned again, this time louder, back arching.

“I want you both here. I want your mouths. I want your hands. I want to sit on Ilya’s cock and have you fuck my mouth while I come—”

You broke off on a gasp, fingers moving faster now, the slick sounds unmistakable, obscene, your thighs trembling, couch creaking beneath you.

“Ilya,” you moaned, “Shane—fuck, please, I want both of you—please—”

You cried out as you came, body shuddering, voice hoarse and high as your hips jerked up off the cushions.

You stayed there in the aftershocks, breath ragged, flushed and sticky and wrecked.

Then you smiled. Reached for the phone. Hit stop. Sent it straight to the group chat. No caption. Just the footage.

Twenty seconds later:

Ilya:
On my fucking couch.
You are never walking again.

Shane:
I’m gonna come again just listening to you say my name like that.

Ilya:
Don’t you dare touch yourself without permission.

You:
Then get here.
Both of you.

There was no answer.

Only typing bubbles.

And you knew exactly what came next.

Your phone pinged thirty minutes later: just enough time for them both to have fully recovered, or tried to.

It wasn’t the group chat this time.

Just Ilya.

A direct message.

Ilya:
You want to play like that?
Fine.
You’re flying to Tampa tomorrow.

Attached: a boarding pass.

First class.

10:45am

Your name already printed across it. Your heart kicked in your chest. Another ping.

Ilya:
Pack light.
You’re not wearing anything for long.

Three seconds later, another:

Ilya:
And I’m not sharing this time.

You smiled. Bit your lip. Your thumbs hovered over the screen. Then you replied:

You:
You can try.
But we both know Hollander’s not going to stay away for long.

His reply came instantly:

Ilya:
He won’t get past the door unless I tell him to crawl.
Get some sleep.
You’re mine tomorrow.

You curled up on the couch - the same couch where you’d just made that filthy, perfect mess - and let yourself feel every beat of it:

The control. The desire. The inevitable. You’d be in Tampa by noon. And you already knew you wouldn’t be the only one.

____________

The Florida heat kissed your skin the second you stepped off the plane: sticky, warm, heavy in the air like something waiting.

Your phone buzzed before you even cleared the gate.

Ilya:
Outside. Black car. Left of arrivals.
No fucking around.

You didn’t. You barely glanced at baggage claim: you’d packed light, just like he said.

Outside, the car was already idling. Sleek. Tinted windows. Driver in a cap standing by the door like he’d been briefed personally by Ilya Rozanov himself.

The back door opened as you approached. And he was there.

Legs spread, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, sunglasses low on his nose, mouth curved in that slow, smug smirk that told you exactly how this ride was going to go.

He reached for your wrist the second you stepped in. Pulled you in and over, until you were straddling his lap before the door had even shut behind you.

The driver got back in. The car pulled away.

Ilya didn’t say hello. Didn’t even give you a second to breathe.

His mouth was already on you: dragging up the side of your neck, warm breath right against your ear, hands on your ass pulling you closer, tighter, like he was making sure every part of you felt him.

“You wear this for me?” he murmured, tugging at the hem of your thin travel dress. “Or for flight attendant staring at your tits?”

You laughed, sharp and breathless. “You think I’m trying to kill you?”

“You are doing good fucking job.”

He didn’t wait. His mouth dropped to your collarbone, kissed hard, then opened - teeth, tongue, bite, claiming. One hand shoved between your thighs, finding you already warm, already soft, already ready.

His groan rumbled up from his chest.

“Moya malen'kaya shlyushka,” he muttered, my little slut. “All this for me already? Just from knowing I will be here?”

You nodded, hips grinding down into his lap like you hadn’t even realised you were doing it. “Ilya—”

“Shh.” He kissed you again - hot, open, filthy. “Let me taste.”

And then he sank down, pressed his face between your breasts, kissed lower, shoved your dress up and your panties aside like he’d done it a thousand times.

Your head fell back against the roof of the car. You heard the driver adjust the radio in the front seat, probably pointedly ignoring every muffled sound he definitely could hear behind him.

Ilya’s mouth moved without mercy: devouring you like a man with a schedule and no intention of wasting any of it.

“Missed this pussy,” he growled against your thigh. “No one tastes like you. No one sounds like you.”

And you were already gasping. Already shaking. The car hit a bump. He bit you just a little, like a reminder of who was in control.

You tugged his hair and moaned his name, and that was it: he went harder, like he wanted to drag the orgasm out of you just in time for the driver to pull up to the hotel curb.

He did.

You came shaking on his mouth, nails in his shoulders, thighs locked around his ears, and he groaned like he was coming too; like just the taste of you was enough.

He didn’t let you move after. Just pulled you back into his lap, kissed your mouth - deep, so you could taste yourself - and murmured against your lips:

“Hotel is waiting.”

Then into your ear, low and lethal:

“No sleep for you.”

You didn’t remember the elevator ride. Not really.
M There was a blur of lights, the dull clunk of passing floors, the low, dangerous way Ilya stood behind you with one hand deep between your legs like he couldn’t even wait to get the keycard out.

The hotel door slammed shut.

Clothes didn’t so much come off as get torn. Your dress hit the floor in a whisper. His hoodie was gone by the time your back hit the mattress and your panties were somewhere near the nightstand, inside out and soaked.

Ilya was already inside you when you gasped his name.

One long, deep, possessive stroke: he didn’t even flinch, just growled low in your ear like it physically hurt to be apart this long.

“Look at you,” he hissed, hips rocking slow, like he was enjoying every fraction of a second. “Fucking dripping.”

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist. Your hands scrabbled for his shoulders. And your voice - wrecked already, high and hot - was barely more than a whisper.

“God, Ilya—please—”

“Shh,” he murmured. “Want Hollander to hear?”

He reached for the phone then - still moving, still buried deep inside you - and you felt the cold kiss of air as he dragged his hand down your thigh and lifted it.

Your own fingers were already there, frantic, circling your clit the way he’d trained you to: fast, greedy, loud.

He didn’t ask to take the picture. Just angled the phone down, wrapped a hand around your hip, and snapped it.

No warning.

The image captured everything:

Your thighs spread
His cock buried deep in you
Your hand working yourself with perfect, obscene rhythm
Your stomach flushed and trembling.

He didn’t even check it.

Just sent it to the group chat.

Caption:
You missed your turn.

Three dots popped up in seconds.

Shane:
I’m going to fucking lose it.

You moaned at the words, louder than before.

Ilya smirked down at you.

“Let him.”

Then he dropped the phone to the floor, grabbed your wrists and fucked you hard enough to leave bruises.

You didn’t even know when he came - just that you felt it all the way up your spine, that he bit your neck when he did it, that he growled something in Russian that sounded like ‘mine, always, forever’.

Later, when you both finally caught your breath, the phone lit up again.

Shane, again.

Shane:
You’re both sick.
I’m at the airport.

You rolled over, panting.

Ilya didn’t even look surprised. He just kissed your shoulder and said:

“Guess we don’t have to wait long.”

___________

It was just past sunset when your phone buzzed: three short vibrations, then one long. Your body still hummed from earlier, bruised and warm and perfectly used, stretched across hotel sheets that smelled like Ilya and sex and victory.

Ilya had fallen asleep for twenty minutes, arm slung across your stomach, mouth resting against your shoulder. He hadn’t even bothered with underwear. He never did after he came in you. He liked to stay close. Liked the mess.

The phone buzzed again. You turned it over and smiled.

Shane Hollander is calling.

You answered before the second ring.

“You’re insane,” you said.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Hotel name. Room number. Now.”

You laughed, low and delighted, curling back into the pillows.

“What did you tell the team?”

“That my cousin’s wife went into labour. I panicked, okay? I’m not proud.”

“You should be.”

“Give me the address. Please. I need you. I need—fuck, I need both of you.”

You whispered the hotel name. Then the room number.

You heard his breath hitch, like just knowing how close he was made it harder to stand still.

“How far are you?”

“I’m around. I’ll be there in twenty.”

You ended the call.

Ilya stirred beside you.

“Mm?” he mumbled, not even opening his eyes yet.

“Hollander’s coming.”

That woke him. He stretched, muscles rolling, eyes cracking open with a smirk already forming.

“Family emergency?”

You grinned. “Labour pains.”

He let out a quiet, half-asleep laugh and rolled on top of you, kissed your mouth slow and full.

Then murmured against your lips:

“Leave the door unlocked.”

Twenty minutes later, the hotel door eased open with the soft click of the latch. No knock. No hesitation. Just a breathless silhouette framed in the warm hallway light, dropping a backpack somewhere near the minibar, eyes already locked on the two of you like he hadn’t seen daylight in three days.

You and Ilya didn’t move.

You were still straddling him, thighs aching in the best way, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten. Ilya lay stretched out beneath you, his hands resting on your hips, his cock still buried inside, half-hard but twitching to attention again now that Shane had arrived.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Shane didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room with slow, burning intent.

His eyes flicked down to where Ilya was still inside you. He groaned - audible, broken, and completely gone - then leaned in to kiss you like a man starving.

You opened for him.

Wet, hot, filthy, your fingers finding the back of his neck as his tongue slid against yours. And then—

His hand dropped between your bodies. Found Ilya’s cock. Still inside you. He wrapped his fingers around both of you at once: slow stroke, just enough to make Ilya grunt under his breath.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. “I missed this. I missed you.”

Then to Ilya, without looking: “You’re already hard again.”

Ilya’s voice was a growl. “Because I knew you would come crawling.”

Shane smirked: flushed, panting, bold.

“Let me ride you.”

You whimpered at the sound of it.

“And her?” Ilya asked, still under you, still owning every inch of the moment.

Shane turned to you again, kissed your jaw, your throat, your mouth.

“She’s going to suck me while I take you.”

You nearly moaned just at the words.

Ilya didn’t object. He never did when Shane got like this: flushed with adrenaline, wild from miles of denial, full of want.

“Then take it,” Ilya growled. “Come here. Climb on.”

Shane stripped in seconds.

You slid off Ilya’s cock with a gasp, sticky and already aching for more, moving down the bed as Shane climbed up, straddling Ilya’s hips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You watched him guide Ilya in - slow, jaw tight, hands braced on Ilya’s chest - and you could see the stretch wrecking him in real time.

“Fuuuck,” he gasped, back arching, breath stuttering as Ilya slid inside. “Oh my god—”

Ilya’s hands gripped his thighs. “That’s it. Take it. Every inch.”

And as Shane adjusted, as he started to move - riding him, bouncing slowly, voice already broken - you crawled forward.

Took Shane’s cock in your mouth without warning.

He choked on a moan.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, fuck—”

You sucked him slow, head bobbing with rhythm, letting him fuck your mouth the same pace he was riding Ilya. It was obscene. Beautiful. Filthy perfection.

Ilya groaned under both of you.

“This is what you wanted, Shane?” he rasped, slamming up harder now, hands gripping tight. “My cock in your ass, her mouth on yours - this is your family emergency?”

Shane sobbed out a laugh.

“Worth it.”

You hummed around him, letting the vibration send him closer to the edge.

He was wrecked, the both of you soaked, sticky, caught in the push-pull rhythm of Ilya fucking up into Shane while you swallowed every desperate thrust.

It was going to end fast. And neither of them were going to survive it.

Shane’s head was tipped back now, his mouth hanging open, flushed all the way down his chest. He was riding Ilya’s cock in erratic, desperate thrusts: hips stuttering, legs trembling, every sound from his mouth more broken than the last.

And your lips were still around him. Tongue teasing, sucking hard every time he tried to slow down. You were relentless. Every time he gasped or whimpered or whimpered your name, you just moaned around his cock, made it worse.

He looked completely ruined.

“Fucking—fuck, I’m gonna—” Shane gasped, gripping Ilya’s chest hard, sweat running down his spine. “I—Ilya—”

Ilya had him by the hips now, dragging him down harder, fucking up into him like he owned him.

“You want to come on my cock, Hollander?” he growled, voice thick and hot in your ears. “You going to fall apart with her mouth on you, riding me like fucking toy?”

Shane cried out - a sound so raw and desperate you nearly came again just from hearing it. But you pulled off at the last second, panting, spit on your chin, your hand wrapping around his slick cock instead.

You looked up at him, glowing with sweat and pleasure, and said with a smirk:

“Was this your plan the whole flight?”

He blinked down at you, dazed.

You licked your lips. “Sneaking off to the bathroom at 30,000 feet to get yourself ready for him?”

Shane groaned, flushed deep red, eyes fluttering shut.

“I—I had to—fuck, you weren’t answering—”

Ilya laughed darkly under him, cock still buried deep, still grinding up hard. “Ty gryaznyy malen'kiy ublyudok.” He muttered - you are a dirty little bastard, “You fingered yourself on a plane thinking about this?”

You grinned wider. “We’ve corrupted you.”

Shane was shaking. “I hate you both—”

“No,” Ilya growled. “You love us.”

And then - he slammed up hard, once, twice, dragging Shane down so deep you could see it in his face - and Shane came with a sound that broke through the whole room, body jerking between you both, cock twitching in your hand as you milked it through.

Cum streaked across your chest, your throat, and you moaned at the heat of it.

He slumped forward, catching himself barely, breathing like he’d just sprinted a mile.

But Ilya wasn’t done. He grabbed Shane’s hips tight, slammed up one last time, and roared as he came, thick and hot, spilling into Shane’s ass with a string of curses in Russian, fingers bruising.

You watched the whole thing, breathless.

Shane shuddered, biting Ilya’s shoulder, gasping, wrecked.

And when it was over - when Ilya dropped back into the mattress, and Shane collapsed on top of him, and you dragged your palm across your chest with a satisfied little smirk - you leaned up, kissed Shane’s jaw, and whispered:

“Hope you brought a change of underwear.”

He groaned.

Ilya laughed.

And you?

You knew you’d never let either of them come back from this.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy, final click.

Game over. Season done.

Ilya dropped his gear bag like it personally offended him, then made a beeline for the freezer, muttering about his shoulder. Shane stalked past both of you, jaw locked, still in his coat, his eyes dark with that post-loss kind of mood: angry, frustrated and raw beneath the surface.

He didn’t even speak. Just dropped onto the couch and collapsed, long limbs splayed, eyes on the ceiling like he hated the entire world.

You followed behind, slower. No gear to shed, no bruises, just need. You weren’t sure what kind yet, but it hummed under your skin - hot, quiet, coiled.

Ilya came back with a half-melted ice pack, slapped it down on his shoulder with a grunt and tossed himself onto the opposite end of the couch.

The silence was thick.

Shane let out a long, slow exhale.

“That’s it. That’s how we go out. Bullshit penalties and two deflections.”

“You played well,” you said.

“I played like shit.”

“You looked gorgeous,” Ilya offered dryly.

Shane shot him a glare.

Ilya just smirked, ice pack shifting as he rolled his neck. “I would know. I was all over you.”

That got a snort, begrudging and hot.

You sat in the middle of them, thighs brushing theirs, leaned back against the couch and let your fingers trail lazily down your own bare thigh.

Both men were in sweats. Soft cotton. Hockey hair still damp. Shoulders still tight. You could smell the game on them - sweat, adrenaline, tape, cheap locker room soap - and it turned something low in your stomach, something molten.

Your fingers slid higher.

“You’re both sore,” you murmured.

Ilya tilted his head. “We just played sixty minutes of playoff-speed hockey.”

“I should help you relax.”

Shane didn’t say anything.

So you turned toward him.

Ran your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, letting your nails scratch lightly behind his ear. “You were so fast out there,” you whispered. “So focused.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. His breath caught.

You leaned closer, your mouth brushing his cheek. “But you’re still pissed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wound so tight I can feel it,” you murmured. “And I know exactly what you need.”

Your hand slid down his chest.

He closed his eyes.

Ilya shifted on your other side, lazy and smug.

“Let her touch you,” he said. “You lost. Let her make it better.”

Shane exhaled sharply but his hips shifted, just slightly, just enough.

You moved between them, slow, kneeling on the couch, your hand sliding under Shane’s waistband, your mouth at his throat, kissing softly, warm and careful.

“You were so good tonight,” you whispered.

“Not good enough,” he mumbled.

“Shut up,” Ilya said, voice low. “You kept me pinned on the boards half second period. My ribs still hurt.”

“Good.”

“Then take your praise like a man.”

You kissed him again, lower this time. “Let us take care of you.”

Shane’s hand came up, curling into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding.

You smiled and looked over your shoulder. Ilya was watching, sprawled, one hand low on his stomach, that ice pack forgotten now, his eyes fixed on the way Shane’s hand was trembling.

“You too,” you said, voice sweet. “Get closer.”

“I am comfortable.”

“Get. Closer.”

He moved.

You pulled Shane’s cock free - half-hard, flushed, already twitching under your praise - and leaned down to mouth at it, slow, gentle. Not about pressure. Not about making him come. Just the feeling of being wanted. Worshipped.

Shane groaned.

Ilya slid in behind you, one hand sliding up your shirt, mouth against your neck, voice rough.

“Let him feel both of us.”

You moaned softly around Shane’s cock as Ilya rocked into you from behind, slow and steady through your panties.

“Shit,” Shane gasped, fingers flexing in your hair. “That’s not—fuck, fuck—”

“It’s okay,” you breathed, lips slick against him. “Let go.”

“We’ve got you,” Ilya murmured. “Let us do it all.”

And so you did.

You sucked him slow while Ilya fucked you shallow, just enough to keep your whole body moving, your moans humming around Shane’s cock, your hands stroking his thighs like you could melt the tension out of him.

He cursed. Kept trying to hold off. Kept failing.

“Ilya—please—”

“You want to come in her mouth?” Ilya asked, licking at your shoulder.

Shane whined.

You sucked him deeper.

He came with a strangled cry, back arched, hips bucking, cock pulsing against your tongue and you swallowed it all.

Then moaned.

Ilya groaned behind you, rutting harder now, still controlled, still praising.

“You take us so good,” he murmured against your spine. “Fucking perfect.”

Your own orgasm hit fast, sharp and sweet, fingers digging into Shane’s thigh as your body trembled around Ilya.

He didn’t last much longer.

He pulled out and finished on your lower back, one hand in your hair, the other holding your hip tight, his voice raw in your ear:

“Is mine.”

Afterwards, you collapsed across Shane’s chest, Ilya draping himself lazily over your legs, all three of you tangled, warm, soft.

The game was over. The season was done. But this? This was just the beginning.

It was Shane who broke the silence first. Not with words but with a sigh, long and shaky, then a muttered, wrecked:

“I still hate you both.”

You laughed into his chest.

Ilya, still sprawled across the bottom half of the couch with one leg hooked over the armrest, didn’t even open his eyes. “Did not sound like hate when you came in her mouth.”

“I was vulnerable. I was being coerced.”

“You were begging,” you said, smug.

“Legally inadmissible,” Shane muttered.

You were still grinning when you stood, shaky but determined, and made your way to the kitchenette in just your panties, swiping Ilya’s oversized shirts on the way. Your thighs ached. Your knees would probably bruise. Your mouth still tasted like Shane and smugness.

You grabbed three beers from the fridge.

Turned just in time to catch Ilya pulling a throw blanket over himself with the lazy stretch of someone who had absolutely no regrets.

You tossed him a can. Then Shane.

Then settled back between them, one of Ilya’s massive thighs as your pillow and Shane’s hand curled automatically over your knee.

“Food?” you asked, cracking your beer open.

“God, yes,” Shane groaned.

“I want greasy, stupid food,” you said. “Something that will soak up the sin.”

“Pizza,” Ilya declared. “With pineapple.”

Shane sat up so fast you thought he might pull something. “What?!”

Ilya didn’t blink. “You lost. I choose.”

You snorted into your beer.

Shane pointed a finger at you. “Don’t support him.”

“I’m just here for the pepperoni,” you said innocently. “And the view.”

Ilya grinned. “Which one?”

“Both.”

The pizza arrived thirty minutes later. Shane met the delivery guy shirtless and still visibly wrecked. You didn’t ask what the tip was but Shane’s ears were red when he came back in.

You all ate sitting on the couch, plates balanced on thighs, half-naked, sweaty, tired, and glowing.

Someone put the TV on.

No one could agree on a movie, so you landed on some trashy late-night game show rerun. Ilya tried to guess all the answers in a ridiculous accent. Shane kept correcting him. You threw popcorn at both.

By the time the second beer kicked in, you were sideways across both their laps, shirt tugged up, legs tangled, Shane absently tracing circles into your thigh while Ilya rested his beer on your hip like a coaster.

It was quiet. And full.

Warmth buzzed under your skin. Not just from the orgasms or the alcohol or the pizza but from the way Ilya kept touching your hair, slow and mindless. The way Shane’s voice was low when he spoke now. Less sarcastic. Still soft.

You were almost asleep on Shane’s chest when he shifted under you, voice low, still hoarse from groaning your name.

“I feel disgusting.”

“Is hot,” Ilya said immediately from the other end of the couch, where he was still nursing his beer and now very obviously getting hard again.

Shane rolled his eyes. “You would.”

“I smell like you,” Ilya added, with zero shame.

Shane groaned into his hands. “God.”

You grinned and stretched, nudging your foot against Shane’s. “What you mean is you want a shower.”

“Yes,” he said. “And maybe a body transplant.”

“Too bad,” Ilya said. “I’m not done.”

He was hard under the blanket. Brazen about it. His eyes had been fixed on you both since the credits rolled and he looked like he was already picturing you on your knees, water pouring over your back, Shane open and wrecked between your thighs.

You sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane blinked.

“Okay,” you repeated, sitting up, dragging Ilya’s shirt over your head and tossing it at him. “Shower. Round two. Everybody wins. Democracy lives.”

Ilya stood immediately. “I am president of everything.”

You laughed. “And I’m the swing vote.”

Shane just groaned again but followed you both, dragging himself off the couch and into the bathroom.

___________

Steam rose fast.

The hot water soothed your legs even as it set the anticipation crawling under your skin again. Shane stood under the spray, eyes closed, hands braced on the tile, trying to rinse off the last of the night. You stepped in behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, kissed the back of his neck.

“Still sore?” you whispered.

“Everywhere.”

You reached between his thighs.

“I can make it worse.”

He shivered.

Ilya stepped in next. No words. Just presence: broad, solid, his cock already hard again, eyes heavy and dark.

You turned, took him in with your hand, kissed him once and felt his breath catch against your lips.

Then you whispered to Shane:

“I want you to fuck me from behind.”

Shane groaned, already nodding.

You turned to face the wall, one hand coming up to steady yourself in the slick tiled wall. You stretched your other hand behind you, guiding yourself onto Shane’s cock as he slid in from behind, slow and careful and so thick it made your mouth fall open and your forehead kiss the tile.

And then—

Ilya looked over Shane’s shoulder, reached down, and spit into his hand.

“Ready for me?”

Shane gasped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve been hard since she swallowed your cock.”

He pressed his slick fingers low between Shane’s cheeks. Shane arched, still inside you, his hands on your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or beg for help.

You took that choice from him.

“Let him in,” you whispered. “Let us ruin you.”

He made a strangled sound but nodded.

Ilya didn’t wait. He pressed inside slowly, carefully, filling Shane inch by aching inch while Shane fucked into you at the same rhythm, layered, thick and intense and impossible to hold onto.

You moaned - sharp and high - as the stretch made your thighs shake.

Ilya groaned into Shane’s back, voice pure filth.

“Yes. You feel that? All of us together? This fucking tight heat—blyat—I could die.”

Every thrust Shane gave you was driven by Ilya’s cock inside him, every grind of your hips made him shudder, made Ilya curse low and dirty in Russian.

It was the hottest, most intimate thing you’d ever done.

Water poured over all three of you, bodies slick and sliding, your hands gripping Shane’s ass as he fucked into you while Ilya fucked him, all of you moaning, bodies shivering, sweat replaced by steam, breath catching with every single movement.

You kissed over your shoulder Shane, mouths open and sloppy.

Shane cried out, hips stuttering, as Ilya bit his shoulder.

You whimpered their names, over and over, until you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the tile.

Shane wasn’t far behind. He came inside you, hips jerking, hands desperate, head thrown back, and Ilya growled as he came into Shane, rutting up hard as he emptied inside him with a deep, wrecked groan.

All of you froze for a beat, bodies trembling, held up only by the wall, the water, and each other. Then you collapsed together in a pile of damp limbs, shaking breaths and twitching muscles.

Steam rose around you like you’d summoned it. None of you spoke for a long time. And still, you couldn’t stop smiling.

Chapter Text

It started with a joke.

You were lying on Ilya’s couch in one of his old t‑shirts and not a whole lot else, notebook balanced across your thighs, Russian vocabulary scrawled in blue ink that was already smudged from frustration.

He was on the other end of the couch, shirtless, legs spread, smug grin firmly in place, flipping through a battered textbook like he wasn’t the hottest distraction in the city.

“This one,” he said, pointing at a word. “Say it.”

You squinted. “Bly…bl—”

His brows lifted. “No.”

“Blyat?”

“Nyet. Try again.”

“Ilya—”

“You want to learn or not?” he said, sitting up a little. “This is how you learn.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough.”

You glared at him. “You teach like a sadistic camp instructor.”

He gave a low, amused laugh. “Sadistic? You want sadistic?” He shifted toward you, letting the textbook fall shut. “Fine. We make deal.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“You say it right?” His hand slid between your thighs, cupping you over the shirt. “You get reward.”

You gasped.

He smirked. “Say it wrong?” He leaned in, kissed your throat, then bit it. “We start over. From beginning.”

Your legs parted on instinct.

“Deal,” you breathed.

Ilya grinned. “Good girl.”

__________

The first word he gave you was blyat.

“A curse,” he said calmly. “Very important.”

You nodded, sounding it out carefully. “Blyat.”

“Close,” he said, one eyebrow rising. “Say it again.”

You did.

He tilted his head.

“Hmm. Good enough.”

And then he dropped to his knees in front of the couch, dragged your panties aside, and licked you once, slow and hot and praising.

You gasped. “Ilya!”

“Say next one.”

You barely got the next word out - suka, bitch - before he slipped one finger inside you.

“You are doing well,” he murmured. “So smart. Such fast learner.”

You trembled.

The next word you butchered - khoroshiy, good.

“No,” he said, withdrawing his hand, shaking his head slowly. “Not good.”

“Please—”

“We try again.”

You breathed it back, corrected, shaky.

He rewarded you with two fingers this time, slow and deep.

You came like a girl starving for praise, legs shaking around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

By the time you reached the last page - nothing but curse words now - you were gasping them, voice wrecked, drenched through and barely coherent.

He just kept going Because if there was one thing Ilya Rozanov knew. It was how to make you learn.

You were still stretched out on the couch, slick and a little wrecked, notebook skewed on the coffee table, hair messy, thighs trembling every time Ilya so much as looked at you.

He was behind you now - half-dressed, smug, his fingers tracing circles on your hip where he’d absolutely marked you earlier.

The phone lit up.

Shane.

Incoming video call.

You exchanged a look.

Ilya grinned.

You answered.

Shane appeared in a hotel room somewhere, hair damp from a shower, t-shirt tugged over his head like he’d barely gotten it on in time. His eyes dropped instantly; took in your flushed face, the state of your body, the lazily satisfied curve of Ilya’s smirk behind you.

“You’ve been learning Russian,” Shane said dryly.

You bit your lip. “Might’ve had a lesson or two.”

“Yeah? Let me guess.” He leaned in toward the camera. “You now know the words for ‘fuck,’ ‘come,’ ‘suck,’ and maybe ‘get on your knees?’”

You burst into laughter.

Ilya made a pleased, rumbling noise behind you. “She also knows poslushnaya, moya, and nyet.”

Obedient. Mine. No.

Shane groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “So useful. You’re going to thrive in Moscow with those phrases.”

“You’re just jealous,” you teased, voice still wrecked.

Shane opened his mouth, probably to agree, but Ilya cut in—

Switching to Russian.

Low, fast, and obscene.

You didn’t understand all of it. Not yet. But the tone was unmistakable: possessive, filthy and absolutely directed at both of you.

His hand came around to your stomach, pulling you back tighter against him as he spoke, his mouth against your temple, his voice pure sin.

You saw Shane freeze on the other end of the call.

“Is he—” he started but your hand was already down between your thighs again, body responding to Ilya like it was instinct.

Ilya didn’t stop.

Still in Russian, every sentence darker, filthier, his other hand drifting to your breast, gripping, teasing. His hips pressing slow against your ass like he couldn’t help it.

You caught a few words this time.

“Moya suka,” he growled. My bitch.

“Takaya khoroshaya.” So good.

“Smotri na nego.” Look at him.

“Govori da.” Say yes.

Something about Shane’s hands. Something about your mouth. Something about who you belonged to and what he was going to do about it.

And Shane?

He was wrecked.

You could see it: the way his hand dropped out of frame, the way his mouth parted, breath caught in his throat, eyes locked on you like it was him feeling Ilya’s hands, not you.

“Ilya—fuck, what are you even saying—”

Ilya stopped. Right in your ear. He kissed your shoulder. And switched to English.

Voice smooth, soft, and lethal.

“One day, you will know what I say.”

A pause. Another kiss. Then, dead serious:

“Then we can do it all.”

Shane moaned like he was going to come untouched.

And you? You were going to memorise every single word.

______________

You were already on top of him, knees pressing into the mattress, hands braced on his chest. Ilya’s body was stretched out beneath you, broad and burning, his cock buried deep as you rocked against him with a slow, maddening rhythm.

He’d been still at first. Just watching.

Drinking you in like he always did when you fucked from above; like he could live off the sight of you. But this time, you leaned in. Slid your mouth down to his ear, your lips soft against his neck.

And whispered:

“Kto moya kiska?” Who owns my pussy?

Ilya froze.

You smiled. Rolled your hips. “Tell me…who my pussy belongs to.”

His hands snapped to your hips, fingers digging in, eyes wild.

“Again,” he growled. “Say more.”

You leaned back, breathing hard, hair clinging to your skin and gave him more: every word you’d memorised, the ones he drilled into you, turned into muscle memory between your legs.

“Blyat,” you gasped, “poslushnaya suka. Fuck…obedient bitch.

He let out a brutal, ragged moan.

You kept going.

“Ya mokraya. Slushay.” I’m wet. Listen.

“Tvoya suka…tvoya suka…” Your bitch. Your bitch.

“Fucking—fuck,” Ilya hissed. His head tipped back. His eyes squeezed shut like it was too much. “Where did you—where did you learn that—”

You slowed your rhythm to a grind. Then bent close to his mouth.

“You taught me.”

And then, in your dirtiest, breathiest attempt:

“Dai…mne…semya…” Give me your cum…

It didn’t even matter that the grammar cracked, that you stumbled through the vowels like you were too wrecked to remember what letter came next.

To Ilya? It was fucking perfect. He flipped you in one motion, slammed you down into the sheets and fucked into you like he had no control left at all.

“You keep saying those words,” he growled in your ear. “You don’t stop. You never stop.”

You moaned them, wrecked and open, your legs wrapped tight around him.

And he came with a curse so filthy it didn’t even sound like Russian anymore: biting your shoulder, pulsing deep inside you, still growling the whole way through:

“Moya. Moy rot. Moya kiska. Moya zhenshchina. Vsegda.” Mine. My mouth. My pussy. My woman. Always.

And when your voice finally gave out?

He didn’t care. He just kept saying it for you.

____________

You woke to the sound of him breathing against your shoulder, low and even, his arm heavy across your ribs like he had no intention of letting you go anywhere. His warmth was everywhere, familiar and grounding, pressed in close.

Your hips ached. Your throat felt rough. But you felt good: that deep, settled kind of good that came from being thoroughly known.

You lay there for a minute and let yourself feel it: the soreness, the marks, the way even shifting slightly brought flashes of memory that made your breath hitch. You smiled into the pillow.

“Mm,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “You say it again.”

You blinked, amused. “Say what?”

“That word,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “One that made me lose my mind.”

You laughed softly, stretching. “There were several.”

His hand slid down your stomach, slow and deliberate, a familiar promise rather than a demand. “Choose your favourite.”

You rolled onto your back, hair a mess, mouth still a little swollen from too much smiling and not enough rest and looked down at him.

Then you said it, soft, teasing, using only the words he’d actually taught you:

“Blyat. Dai mne.” Fuck. Give it to me.

Ilya’s eyes snapped open.

“Bozhe moi,” he muttered. “You will kill me.”

You grinned. “Motivation.”

His hand moved lower, possessive, unhurried. “Is not a threat,” he said. “That is promise.”

You let him touch you. Let him start something but before it got out of hand, you pressed your palm to his chest.

“Coffee first.”

He groaned. “Unacceptable.”

You kissed his cheek. “You need caffeine more than you need to fuck me.”

“Wrong,” he said flatly. “I can fuck while I make coffee. Problem solved.”

You were still laughing when you finally got out of bed, dragging one of his hoodies over your head and stealing the waistband of his sweats. Ilya came into the kitchen behind you bare-assed, hair a wreck and immediately pulled you into his chest.

“Lesson two later,” he murmured in your ear, his hand sliding around your waist. “You say all new things. Get all new rewards.”

“Is it going to be…vocabulary?”

He grinned into your neck.

“No. Today we learn verbs.”

You choked on your laugh.

“Perfect,” he said, “Because I already think of five I want to act out.”

He pressed against you harder, cock twitching back to life, voice pure sin as he listed, low and dangerous:

“To take. To beg. To break. To ruin. To come.”

 

You didn’t even try to pretend breakfast was happening.

The second those five verbs fell from his lips - vzyat, umolyat, lomat, razrushat, konchat - he had you flushed and pressed into the counter, mug forgotten in your hand, heartbeat racing so loud it nearly drowned out the hum of the kettle.

“To take,” he said again, voice lower, his palm flat on your lower back as he nudged your hips forward. “That one’s easy.”

He didn’t mean linguistically. He meant you.

Still in his hoodie and his sweats, you could feel him hardening behind you, naked as always, pressing hot and full against the small of your back. He peeled the waistband down just enough to expose your ass and groaned at the sight: already wet, already swollen.

“See?” he said, dark and smug, leaning in. “I say the words. You remember them in your body.”

“Ilya,” you breathed, head dropping forward, one hand braced against the cabinets.

He kissed the back of your neck, lazy and filthy. “You want more verbs?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled into your skin.

“To beg,” he murmured. “Is number two.”

And you did.

He made you. He teased you with his fingers, slicking you open, breath hot against your neck as he whispered that word again and again until you were saying it back in a ruined whisper, hips rocking back against his hand, gasping just for him.

“Louder,” he said. “Say what you want.”

You twisted toward him, panting, and managed through clenched teeth:

“I want you to take me.”

He pushed inside you with one deep, steady stroke; filled you, thick and slow, the hoodie still bunched around your waist, your hands flat on the counter.

“That is one,” he growled. “Now three.”

You glanced back at him, dazed, shaking. “Three?”

His thrust hit deeper.

“To break.”

And that was the rhythm he used, steady, powerful, pushing you forward on the countertop with each roll of his hips, the breath knocked from you in little gasps that only made him harder.

“You like?” he rasped. “Being broken open like this?”

You couldn’t answer. Not properly. You nodded, whimpering, trying to stay upright, your body giving out under the weight of him, the stretch, the control.

You were a mess in seconds.

But Ilya wasn’t done.

“Four,” he said in your ear. “To ruin.”

You didn’t think he could go deeper.

He did.

You didn’t think he could get filthier.

He did that too.

He muttered Russian curses against your neck, praised you like you were his favourite kind of sin, fucked you until your legs gave out and he had to lift you against the cabinets to keep going.

“You were good student last night,” he said. “Now you are perfect.”

And when you shattered, when you cried out into the counter and clenched around him so tight he swore in Russian again, he pulled you back against him, panting, hips stuttering—

Then he growled, low and final:

“Five. To come.”

And he did.

Right against your thighs, your ass, your lower back, pulling out with a wrecked groan, pumping himself while you trembled under his grip.

After, he wiped you clean with a towel he didn’t even bother wetting, then pulled you into his lap at the table while the coffee finally brewed.

You were exhausted. Sticky. Still throbbing.

He pressed a kiss to your jaw and asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world:

“Ready for speaking exam?”

You snorted, lips bruised, eyes half-lidded.

“Only if it’s oral.”

His chest rumbled behind you, low and lazy, all smug heat. You were draped over his lap in the kitchen chair, skin still flushed, hair tangled, the taste of him still caught in your mouth from the moments he pulled you close and kissed you after.

You were still sticky. Still stretched open from being fucked against the counter.

And Ilya?

He looked like he could start all over again just from hearing you talk dirty.

“‘Only if is oral,’” he repeated, echoing your tease with a grin that was all teeth. “Mmm. Cheeky girl.”

He tapped your thigh gently with two fingers. “Say that in Russian, then. If you’re so clever.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting a little in his lap. His cock was already stirring again beneath you, not fully hard, but getting there, interested, like your body alone was enough to trigger every trained instinct in him.

You smirked, cocky as hell even with your legs still trembling.

“Tol’ko…ustno.”

He blinked once. Then his eyes dragged up your body, slowly, like he was letting the heat catch everywhere he looked.

Then his mouth curled, hot and pleased and dangerous.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Keep saying shit like that and I have to put your face in the sheets again.”

You laughed, breathless, loving how wild it made him. The way he got the second Russian left your mouth in any context: like he couldn’t decide if he was proud, possessive or about to wreck you for sheer principle.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice thickening again. “You think this is joke, da? Think I won’t flip you over this chair and shove my cock in your mouth to reward pronunciation?”

You leaned in, brushed your lips against his ear.

“Prover menya.” Test me.

He groaned, hands coming up fast; gripping your ass, shifting your weight to line your hips up against his again.

But the kettle clicked.

Coffee was ready.

And he paused, forehead against your shoulder, trying to remember what morning was supposed to look like when you weren’t straddling him like a smug, brilliant succubus who learned just enough Russian to make him unhinged.

“Get off me,” he said.

You arched a brow. “Rude.”

“Get off me so I can put caffeine in your body before cock. Because if you ride me again right now—”

“What?” you said sweetly. “You’ll reward my conjugation?”

He laughed against your skin, helpless.

“Do you even remember the word for ‘coffee’ in Russian?”

You thought about it.

“No. But I know how to say ‘more,’ and I feel like that covers both.”

He stood, with you in his arms and carried you across the room.

“No more Russian,” he said. “For one hour.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Twenty.”

You kissed his jaw.

“Deal.”

He set you on the counter, poured you a cup, then leaned in between your knees again like he was already planning round three.

Which he was. Because this wasn’t a morning anymore. It was a language lesson. And Ilya? Was going to make sure you never forgot a single word.

___________

The café was busy - Saturday morning, early spring, college kids studying and couples pretending not to argue - and you had a corner table, warm croissants, and Ilya across from you wearing that too-satisfied smirk that said he remembered everything from earlier.

You crossed your legs. Slowly. Let the hem of his hoodie slide just a little higher.

His jaw ticked. He didn’t say anything. But he reached for his coffee a little harder than necessary.

You smiled, innocent. Buttered your croissant. Then leaned across the table.

“Problema, Rozanov?”

Ilya’s eyes snapped to yours. He stared at you. Then leaned in, mouth nearly at your ear, his breath hot and thick.

“Stop talking like that.”

You blinked, playing dumb. “Like what?”

“In Russian.”

“I thought you liked when I practiced.”

“Not in public.”

“Why not?”

His hand slid under the table. He found your thigh. Your bare skin.

You gasped softly.

He squeezed, teeth flashing as he whispered:

“Because I am hard in these fucking jeans, and swear to God, if you say one more thing in sweet little voice, I will bend you over bathroom sink of this shitty café and make you scream.”

You exhaled, sharp and trembling.

He leaned back. Took a bite of his croissant like nothing happened.

You crossed your legs again. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. But he said, casual as anything:

“Say please in Russian. Now.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Pozhaluysta,” you whispered.

He smirked, eyes still on his plate.

“You are not making it through lunch.”

It was a game now, the most dangerous kind.

You across the table from him, legs bare beneath his hoodie, Russian phrases slipping off your tongue like you didn’t know how feral they made him. And Ilya? Trying to act normal in a busy café, jaw clenched, fingers twitching, eyes on your mouth like he was memorizing the shape of every word you spoke.

He couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t bend you over the table. Couldn’t say anything loud enough for anyone else to hear. And you knew it.

You sat back, licking a flake of croissant off your thumb, your gaze heavy-lidded, and said - just loud enough for him:

“Trakhni menya, da?” Fuck me, yes?

Ilya’s head tipped back. He looked at the ceiling. Took a long, deliberate breath. When he looked back at you, his eyes were murderous. And blown wide. He didn’t even answer.

Just stared.

So you pushed your luck further: uncrossing your legs, just enough that he saw the hoodie ride up your thighs. Then leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, like this was all so casual.

“Ti blyad’…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You are fucking menace.”

You grinned.

“Still proud of me?”

“Still planning to ruin you.”

You finished your coffee. Slowly.

Ilya never touched his again. He was staring at your thighs. At your mouth. At the flush rising over your chest.

You stood, brushing imaginary crumbs off your lap, and said, voice low:

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

He nodded once. Tense.

You turned to walk away, hips swaying, absolutely aware of the way his eyes burned a trail down your spine the entire way across the café.

And when you reached the hallway, you paused, just long enough to glance back. Caught his gaze. Held it. Then disappeared around the corner.

You knew what was coming.

He’d give it sixty seconds. Maybe ninety.

But Ilya? He was going to follow.

____________

He waited.

Not long.

But long enough to make you want it; make you stew there in the tiny bathroom under flickering lights and soft jazz, breathing like you’d just run three blocks, thighs pressed together, still sticky from the filth he whispered in your ear over pastries and public decency.

The hallway creaked. A soft click. The door pushed open. And there he was.

Ilya Rozanov, all six-foot-whatever of smug, fucking feral Russian menace, broad shoulders blocking out the light, jaw tight like he hadn’t unclenched it since you first dropped a phrase at the table.

He didn’t say anything. He just closed the door behind him. Locked it. And looked at you.

His eyes dropped. Followed the length of your legs, the hem of his hoodie, the flush blooming over your chest. You saw the moment he noticed you hadn’t put your panties back on.

His gaze snapped to yours.

“Little slut,” he said softly, like he was awed.

“Your little slut,” you whispered back.

And that was it.

He was on you in three strides, pressing you against the sink, kissing you like he wanted to bite the words out of your mouth. His hand came up around your throat - not tight, not rough, just claiming - while his other shoved the hoodie up and over your hips, his thigh sliding between yours.

“You think you are clever,” he growled against your mouth. “Think you can tease me in Russian now? Say those things in public and not pay?”

“I want to pay for it,” you gasped. “I want—”

“Tell me what you want,” he snapped. “In Russian. Now.”

You swallowed.

Heart pounding.

Voice shaking, you managed:

“Tvoy chlen. Trakhni menya.” Your cock. Fuck me.

His eyes rolled back like he could feel it.

“You are going to kill me,” he muttered. “Fucking kill me.”

And then? He did exactly that.

He turned you, gripped your waist, lifted you like nothing and dropped you onto the sink, your legs opening without question, your hands in his hair, your back arching as he shoved two fingers inside to feel how soaked you were.

“Goryachaya suka,” he groaned. “Hot little bitch.”

You moaned so loud he had to kiss you to cover it, then lined himself up without ceremony, one hand behind your knee, his cock dragging against your entrance.

“You think this public place will stop me?” he growled. “Think I won’t fuck you in a shitty café bathroom?”

“I’m counting on it.”

He slammed into you. One deep, full, filthy thrust that made the mirror behind you rattle.

You cried out, grabbed the edge of the sink, clenching around him already, body still warm and open from earlier.

He fucked you like he had a point to prove.

Like he needed to fuck the Russian back into you.

Every time you moaned, he praised you in that low voice, lips at your ear, sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

“Kakaya umnitsa. How smart you are. How good you take me. You want to learn, this is how.”

You babbled Russian and English and nonsense, gasping through it all as he picked up pace, cock hitting so deep it made your toes curl, his fingers gripping your throat like he couldn’t help it, your legs locked around his waist.

“Konechno ty budesh’ moey. Of course you’ll be mine.”

And when you came?

You screamed it:

“YA TVOYA! YA TVOYA! YA TVOYA—” I’m yours.

The sink shuddered. The walls echoed.

And Ilya? He came with a wrecked, snarled “Suka blyad!” and dropped his head to your shoulder, shaking.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Not until he pulled back, tucked himself away, kissed your temple and murmured:

“Lesson three: how to say quiet, little slut.”

And then he helped you off the sink like you were breakable.

Like you hadn’t just spoken a language into his skin he’d never forget.

______________

Next morning, The kitchen was still warm from the oven, the kettle, the heat between your thighs.

You stood barefoot, one of Ilya’s old t-shirts clinging to your skin, your thighs bare beneath it: no panties, just intention. And you’d just managed to pronounce the word for “coffee” correctly when his hand slid up the inside of your leg without warning, brushing heat where you were still aching from last night.

“Eto kofe goriyachiy,” you repeated, breath catching.

He kissed the back of your neck.

“Not as hot as this.”

You grinned, flushed, trying not to melt into him completely as his fingers pressed closer.

“Next,” he murmured. “Say what you are.”

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Ya tvoya.” I am yours.

He groaned - low and rough and purely territorial - then kissed you behind the ear, his other hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

There was a knock. You both froze.

Ilya didn’t pull away.

He waited, his fingers still teasing between your legs while he kissed your shoulder once more.

“Go open it,” he said in your ear.

“Ilya—”

“Just like this.”

You opened the door.

Shane stood on the threshold, stunned.

Backpack slung over one shoulder. Mouth open. Eyes wide. His gaze dropped; took in the shirt, your bare thighs, the flush on your cheeks, and the unmistakable heat in your eyes.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “You started without me?”

Ilya leaned into view behind you, shamelessly nuzzling your neck.

“She is studying.”

Shane’s eyes darkened. “In that shirt?”

“Very motivated.”

He stepped in, dropped his bag. Didn’t say anything else; just reached out and pulled you into a kiss, desperate, hot, shaking a little. Ilya didn’t stop him. He watched. Hands still on your hips. Still guiding you.

You moaned into Shane’s mouth, then broke away just enough to whisper:

“On smotrit na menya.”

Shane blinked.

“She said ‘he’s watching me,’” Ilya translated. “Say it again.”

You did.

And Shane’s fingers tightened.

Ilya grinned. “Again. But look at him when you say it.”

You turned to face Shane, cheeks flushed, lips parted, and whispered:

“On smotrit na menya.”

He swallowed hard.

Ilya tugged the hem of your shirt higher. “Say what you want.”

You hesitated.

He rewarded you for it by sliding two fingers between your legs, slow, deliberate, making you gasp as you struggled to stay upright.

“Skazhi eto,” he murmured. Say it.

“Khochu, chtoby vy oba…” you started, breathless, stumbling through it.

“I want you both—” Shane began.

Ilya finished for you. “To fuck me.”

Your knees buckled. Ilya caught you.

He dragged you back into the kitchen like you were a toy between them, shirt riding high, your thighs slick, your lips wrecked already. Shane followed, eyes wild.

And when Ilya bent you over the table, lifting your ass and whispering every correction in Russian at your ear - say this, beg in this, tell him what he’s doing to you in this - Shane could barely keep it together long enough to undo his jeans.

It was slow and filthy: you between them, moaning phrases you barely understood while Ilya praised you for every word that came out right and Shane praised you for everything else.

“You know what she just said?” Ilya asked, panting as he watched you kiss Shane’s cock, still dripping from earlier.

Shane groaned. “Does it matter?”

Ilya grinned. “It was ‘I want to choke on you while he fucks me.’”

Shane nearly came on the spot. And you? You earned another reward.

Later - sweaty, used, soft between them in bed - Ilya rolled over and whispered:

“You speak Russian better when I am inside you.”

And Shane added, smirking:

“Yeah? Then she’s fluent by now.”

The bed creaked softly as you shifted back against the pillows, knees drawn up, skin still buzzing and oversensitive. You didn’t touch yourself. You didn’t need to. Watching was already doing too much.

Shane was on the mattress now, breathing hard, shoulders tense, eyes dark with a mix of nerves and want. He looked back at you once like he needed to know you were still there.

You smiled at him.

That was all the permission he needed.

Ilya climbed onto the bed behind him, big and unhurried, presence alone changing the air in the room. He didn’t rush. Didn’t grab. Just leaned in close enough that Shane felt him there, felt the heat of him, the inevitability.

“Stay still, perfect. ” Ilya said quietly.

Shane swallowed. Nodded.

You watched the way his back arched slightly at the sound of Ilya’s voice alone. The way his hands clenched in the sheets. The way he let himself be positioned, opened inch by inch by nothing more than Ilya’s hands and words.

Ilya murmured something in Russian - slow, filthy, deliberate.

You didn’t understand every word. But you understood the effect.

Shane made a sound - low, broken - and your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Your breath came shallow. Watching Ilya take control like this, watching Shane give it, was doing something feral to you.

Ilya glanced over his shoulder at you.

“Look at him,” he said, voice rough. “You see how he listens?”

You nodded, unable to look away.

“He’s beautiful like this,” you whispered.

Shane whimpered at that - actually whimpered - and Ilya laughed under his breath, dark and pleased.

“See?” Ilya said to him. “She likes you when you are open.”

He leaned down, close to Shane’s ear, and spoke again in Russian; lower this time, slower, the kind of tone that crawled under your skin even without translation.

Shane’s head dropped forward.

You could feel the moment he let go. The moment the tension shifted into need. The moment he stopped holding himself together and started melting.

Your hand slipped between your thighs before you could stop it.

Ilya noticed. Of course he did. He looked back at you again, eyes dark and possessive.

“You don’t touch,” he said. “You watch.”

You froze.

“Da,” you breathed.

He turned his attention back to Shane, voice firm, hands certain. Shane gasped, rocked back instinctively, then stilled again at a quiet word from Ilya.

The control was intoxicating.

Watching Shane unravel under him - watching Ilya take him apart slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly where every nerve was - had you shaking.

Your name slipped from Shane’s mouth, wrecked and pleading.

Ilya cursed softly in Russian.

When it was over - when Shane finally sagged forward, spent and trembling, breath broken - Ilya held him there for a moment longer. Just enough. Just to feel it.

Then he looked at you.

“Come here.”

His voice was low. Certain.

You crawled toward them, heart racing, heat pooling, knowing, absolutely knowing, that watching had been just the beginning. And whatever came next? You were going to feel every word.

You moved slowly, deliberately, your body still humming, flushed, soaked with heat from everything you’d just witnessed.

Shane had collapsed onto his side, chest rising hard, lips parted, wrecked in a way you’d never seen before, not even the last time. Not like this.

Ilya hadn’t even looked away from you. His hair damp at the temples, chest rising and falling slow and steady, still half inside his own head, still towering with that same calm, coiled energy that always came after he let himself go like that.

But his voice? When he finally spoke? It was razor-sharp, made of command, not request.

“On your knees.”

You obeyed instantly.

Between them now. One hand on Shane’s shoulder as you leaned in to kiss him: soft, slow, a reward. He tasted like salt and surrender and something almost vulnerable, his body still trembling under your touch. He kissed you back with no hesitation.

And Ilya watched.

“Good boy,” you whispered against Shane’s mouth, lips brushing his.

He moaned quietly.

Ilya’s hand came up behind your neck - heavy, possessive, stroking gently before it gripped just a little tighter.

“You like watching him fall apart, kotyonok?”

“Yes.”

“You want to make him fall again?”

You nodded.

Ilya’s voice dropped further. “Do you want to hear him beg? Or should I do it first?”

Shane stirred, groaned like the idea itself was too much.

You looked over your shoulder at Ilya, face flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Together.”

The way that word landed - the heat it set off behind Ilya’s eyes, the way Shane tensed again beneath your palm - it was like lighting the fuse.

“You start,” Ilya said.

His voice was hoarse. Still thick with leftover need.

“You make him ready. Make him beg.”

You reached for Shane, touched him gently, leaned down and murmured in his ear - not Russian, not yet - just filth, promise, all the things you’d do to him if he let go again.

Shane moaned into the sheets.

Ilya cursed under his breath, deep and in Russian.

You smiled. This was your language now, too.

Your hands were shaking; not from uncertainty but from anticipation.

Shane’s breath stuttered under your touch, his body still warm, still open, still pliant from what Ilya had just done to him. He looked up at you with something raw in his eyes now - no bravado, no jokes - just trust and want.

You leaned in, murmured to him softly, coaxing rather than commanding. Every word landed. Every breath of encouragement made his shoulders loosen, made him melt back into the bed.

Ilya stayed behind you, presence heavy and unmistakable. You could feel him without looking: feel the way he watched the way you touched Shane, the way your voice changed when you praised him, the way your confidence settled into place like it had always belonged there.

“Good,” Ilya said quietly. “You see how he listens to you?”

You nodded.

“He needs to hear it,” Ilya continued. “So do you.”

His hand settled at your waist, grounding, possessive, warm. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there.

You spoke again - low, deliberate - and Shane reacted instantly, breath hitching, fingers curling into the sheets. He let himself be guided, let himself be wanted, let himself be seen.

Ilya leaned down, close enough that his voice brushed your ear.

“You are doing beautifully,” he murmured. “You belong right here.”

The words hit harder than anything physical could have.

The room felt suspended: three bodies, one rhythm, the quiet hum of trust and heat weaving between you. Nothing rushed. Nothing frantic. Just the slow, inevitable pull of being exactly where you were meant to be.

Chapter Text

The limo was sleek and black, quiet inside but for the low thrum of tyres on pavement and the occasional soft click of Ilya’s watch against the door as he rested one arm along the backseat. He was dressed in that unreasonable way that made even the simplest black-on-black tux look like it belonged on some villainous god: open collar, expensive fabric stretched across his shoulders, tie nowhere in sight.

And you? You were in his favourite dress. Not because it was designer. Because he’d picked it off the hanger with a look that said: You’ll wear this and I won’t be able to think about anything else all night.

Your legs were crossed. Lipstick perfect. One hand in your lap, the other resting lightly over Ilya’s.

The windows were dark enough for privacy. He used it.

His hand had found your thigh the second the car door shut behind you, slid beneath the hem of your dress like it belonged there, fingers tracing lazy, possessive shapes over your skin as you rode in comfortable, charged silence toward the event.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. But his fingers squeezed slightly as the building came into view: huge, glittering, the press already waiting.

You turned to look at him.

He was watching you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back up again.

“Last chance to run,” he said, deadpan, thick accent curling around the words.

You smirked. “And miss you pretending you don’t love the cameras?”

He gave a slow, deliberate shrug. “I don’t love them.”

You arched a brow.

He leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth, then murmured, “But they love me.”

The car slowed. Flashes were already going off through the glass.

Ilya sat back, straightened his cuffs, and said, “Ready?”

You smoothed your dress, uncrossed your legs, and smiled.

“Ready.”

The driver opened the door. And the noise hit like a wave - cheering, camera shutters, voices calling out “Rozanov! Ilya! Over here!” and then, after a heartbeat—

“Is that his girlfriend?”

Ilya stepped out first, all broad, brooding confidence, a faint scowl on his face like the whole ordeal was a nuisance. He turned, offered you his hand and helped you out with a steady grip.

The flashes exploded.

The moment your hand slipped into his, the shouting changed: reporters jostling, trying to get the best shot, the angle where your eyes met his, the smile you gave when he leaned in and murmured something in Russian that made you laugh.

They didn’t need translation. The way he looked at you said enough.

“Rozanov!” someone called from the press line. “You brought a date tonight!”

He didn’t even blink.

“She is not date,” he said simply. “She is my girlfriend.”

Another explosion of camera flashes. Another dozen shouted questions.

“What’s her name?”

“How long?”

“Is she moving to Boston?”

Ilya ignored most of it. Just slid his arm around your waist, guided you up the carpet like he had somewhere better to be. (He did.)

You leaned into him slightly. “You enjoying this?”

He gave you that same deadpan, unreadable expression, then dipped his mouth close to your ear and said:

“When we get back in car, I will put your legs over my shoulders and ruin this dress.”

You laughed. Cameras caught it.

He didn’t smile. But God, his eyes said everything.

The red carpet was chaos: professional, choreographed chaos but chaos all the same. A gauntlet of cameras and reporters and PR wranglers with earpieces, flashing badges and too-big clipboards. Ilya moved through it like a glacier in a black tux: unstoppable, deliberate, and completely unimpressed by all of it.

Except you.

He hadn’t let go of you once.

His hand rested at the small of your back like it belonged there, like he’d carved out space on his body just for you to fit. Every time someone called his name or pointed a camera, he turned toward them but only after brushing a thumb over your hip or pressing his knuckles into your spine to make sure you were still there.

You didn’t need to be reassured. But he did it anyway. Because Ilya Rozanov may have looked like an emotionless Russian iceberg but he was watching everything.

Then came the big booth.

The live-streamed one. NHL-backed. Massive viewership. A wall of LED lighting and a square of velvet rope with a mic in the centre and a reporter already mid-sentence.

“Ilya Rozanov joining us now—big night for the league, big names out tonight,” the host said brightly as Ilya stepped into the square, nodding once. “Rozanov, good to see you. Looking sharp.”

“Da,” Ilya said, flat.

You stepped just out of the spotlight, but not far.

Ilya reached back and caught your wrist immediately, tugging you to stand beside him.

Right beside him.

The reporter noticed. Grinned.

“Let’s start simple—how’s the injury? Back in full training?”

“Am not dead,” Ilya said. “Skating. Lifting. I will play.”

Laughter from the production crew. The host grinned.

“Are we going to see you in All-Star form by playoffs?”

Ilya shrugged, still not letting go of you. “I do not take vacation in spring.”

A few more standard questions followed: Boston’s playoff chances, his new line partners, the usual heat from rival teams.

You watched him switch into game mode effortlessly: blunt, honest, impossible to rattle. He didn’t say more than necessary, didn’t crack a smile, but still made the crowd lean in closer with every sharp, accented answer.

And then—

“And who’s this with you tonight?” the host asked, turning just slightly, lowering the mic.

Ilya’s grip on you tightened; not roughly, but possessively. As if he’d been waiting for this question. He looked directly into the camera. Then at you.

“This is my girlfriend,” he said. No hesitation. “We live together.”

It wasn’t a performance. There was no PR-scripted line, no polite vagueness or “private life” deflection. Just fact. And heat.

“She is not from media,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Not hockey. Not paid to stand here. She is mine.”

You flushed instantly.

The host blinked. “Wow. Okay, so—you’re not keeping this quiet anymore?”

Ilya gave the faintest of shrugs. “I don’t care what people know. She makes my life better. I will not hide that.”

The silence after that was sharp. Even the host looked caught off guard.

“And…does she make you better on the ice, too?”

Now he smirked, barely. The left corner of his mouth twitching just enough.

“I win more now,” he said. “You decide.”

The host laughed, waved a cue to the producers and wrapped up the segment with practiced flair. As the crew thanked him and the next player was ushered forward, Ilya didn’t linger. He just turned his head, brushed his mouth against your temple, and muttered—

“Come. I hate standing still.”

But his hand? Still on you. And it didn’t budge once as you walked toward the ballroom.
____________

The second you stepped off the carpet and into the glittering ballroom - ceiling chandeliers like galaxies, the air thick with champagne and money and curated smiles - you turned to Ilya, still laced into his side, and said, arching a brow:

“We live together?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at you. Just slid his hand lower down your back, fingers grazing the curve of your ass, and said, low and deadly:

“You live in my bed. You moan my name in my shower. Your things are on my floor. Your clothes in my drawers. So, da. We live together.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“And if I say that’s a little possessive?” you asked, breath catching as he leaned down close, voice brushing your ear.

“Then I say thank you.”

His hand gave the barest squeeze. Just enough to make you stumble slightly in your heels, just enough to make you bite your lip as he steered you through the crowd.

But he wasn’t done.

“Also,” he added, softer this time, nearly under his breath, “I want to. Every morning. Every night. With you. At home. I want that.”

It hit you right in the chest: no warning, no armour.

You blinked up at him.

His expression didn’t change but his fingers threaded gently through yours, anchoring you even in all this chaos.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Because just then—

You spotted him. Shane.

Posted up at the bar like he belonged there. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. Hair a little messy in that perfect, didn’t-try-at-all way. One hand curled around a whiskey glass, the other tucked in his pocket. And his eyes - sharp, dark, scanning the room - landed on you like a match to dry wood.

His mouth twitched up in a slow grin.

You didn’t hesitate. You gave Ilya’s hand the lightest tug, and he followed your line of sight instantly.

His smirk was all teeth.

“Of course he’s here,” Ilya muttered.

“He cleaned up well,” you whispered back.

“He always does.”

Together, wordlessly, you walked through the party toward Shane. No spectacle. No greeting. Just that shared, charged magnetism between the three of you: always simmering, always close.

Shane’s grin widened as you approached but he didn’t say anything right away. Just let his eyes trail up your body - slow, appreciative, dirty - before flicking to Ilya’s arm still around your waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he said finally, voice low and private and laced with everything he wasn’t letting himself say in public. “You two look like a goddamn sex tape in waiting.”

You laughed, flushed from the inside out.

Ilya didn’t.

He just smirked, unapologetic.

“She wore this for us,” he said. “You can look.”

Shane raised his brows. “I was gonna do a hell of a lot more than that.”

Your heart hammered. You looked between them - yours, both of them, standing in the soft shadows of crystal and music and press-ready polish but speaking like the only people in the room.

Ilya leaned down, kissed your temple, then said, still low:

“Stay close. I do not trust anyone not to want what is mine.”

Shane added, with a crooked smile, “Same.”

You ordered champagne. And the night began.

___________

The ballroom was all glint and glitter - silver cutlery flashing under chandeliers, low laughter rising like champagne bubbles between courses, every table filled with familiar faces dressed up for the night like they hadn’t all beaten the shit out of each other on the ice the week before.

Yours was tucked in near the stage: good visibility, good lighting, good press optics.

Shane’s table was across the room.

You caught his eye once as the seating plan was announced; he gave you the smallest, slowest smile and a not-so-subtle once-over that made your stomach flip and Ilya’s hand tighten instinctively on your waist.

“Posmotri,” he muttered - look. “He is picturing you naked again.”

You leaned into his ear, lips brushing the edge. “He’s not the only one.”

That earned you a look. One that promised later. One that already ached.

By the time you reached the table, Ilya had let his hand drift down to the base of your spine again; familiar now, not performative. No grand announcement. He simply pulled your chair out, kissed your shoulder before sitting and carried on like this was how it had always been.

But the stares? They came anyway. You caught the shift in body language around the table. The glance one of the veteran defensemen gave his wife. The blink another player’s girlfriend gave you when Ilya slid your water glass closer like it was second nature.

Someone finally said it. Of course they did.

“I didn’t know Rozanov brought dates to league events.”

The tone wasn’t hostile; more surprised. Curious.

Ilya, mid-sip of wine, didn’t so much as blink.

“She is not date,” he said simply. “She is mine.”

You choked slightly on your own wine.

The woman beside you - who introduced herself earlier as married to a Florida winger - raised her eyebrows and smiled.

“Well damn,” she said. “He does have a soft side.”

“No,” Ilya replied, not missing a beat. “She is the soft side. I’m still asshole.”

Laughter around the table. Some surprised, some genuine.

The Florida winger leaned in slightly, curious. “So, you serious now?”

“I’ve always been serious,” Ilya said, cutting his steak neatly. “No one took me seriously.”

His hand slid under the table. Found your knee.

You bit your lip.

“You’re kind of a legend, Rozanov,” another player said, nudging his date. “I mean—you were single for what, your entire fucking career?”

“Not single,” Ilya said, deadpan. “Just not finished yet.”

That got a laugh, even from you.

“You think she’s the finish line?” the wife beside you asked, teasing.

Ilya didn’t even blink. “She is win.”

The table went quiet for half a second. Then the older couple on Ilya’s right smiled wide.

“Well,” the wife said warmly. “It’s about time.”

Conversations shifted after that - talk of trades, playoff prospects, golf in the offseason - but the energy had changed. They weren’t just watching Ilya anymore. They were watching you. How he spoke to you. How he touched your wrist when you leaned in. How he murmured a quiet Russian word that made you blush mid-meal. How you didn’t interrupt or perform or play the good little WAG; you just existed beside him like you’d always been part of the equation.

Every so often, you glanced across the room and caught Shane watching.

He was leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, lips curved like he knew something no one else did.

You lifted your glass to him in silent toast. He lifted his back.

Ilya caught it. Didn’t say a word. But his fingers slid higher on your thigh under the table. No one else noticed.

Except you.

And Shane.

The clink of glassware and soft orchestral jazz swirled around the room, chatter rising in polite peaks between bites of overpriced halibut and the quiet anticipation of the awards program starting on stage.

You leaned in close to Ilya.

Close enough that only he could feel the brush of your breath, the way your lips didn’t quite touch his ear as you whispered—

“Ya khochu, chtoby ty menya trakhnul.” - I want you to fuck me.

His fork froze mid-air.

For a split second, you weren’t sure if he’d even heard you correctly.

Then his jaw tensed. His nostrils flared.

And you watched it hit him all at once:
A) that you’d just spoken Russian
B) that you’d said that
and
C) that you said it like you’d been practicing.

The pause was long. Dangerous.

“Ilya?” one of the women across the table asked, lightly amused. “You good?”

He didn’t respond. His fingers gripped the base of his wineglass just a little too hard.

You smiled sweetly and leaned back like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just detonated something low and burning in the pit of his stomach.

His hand was on your thigh under the table again a second later; less casual this time, more possessive. You covered it with yours, patted it once. Then leaned in and whispered again:

“I’m going to find a private bathroom.”

You let that linger. Let his imagination catch up. Then added:

“I’ll text the group chat when I’m there.”

You stood. Smooth, composed. Started to turn. And that’s when his hand snapped around your wrist under the table - firm, not rough, but hard enough that your pulse jumped instantly.

His mouth was by your ear in a breath.

“Ty ne uydyosh tak prosto, kotyonok.”
- You don’t get to walk away that easily, kitten.

You shivered.

The grip lingered. Possessive. Like he was imprinting your skin with warning.

You looked back at him, eyes wicked.

“I’m not walking away,” you murmured. “I’m waiting.”

Then you slipped free. And walked. You didn’t have to look back to know he was watching. Didn’t have to wait long before your phone buzzed.

Ilya:
Wrong language to be fucking with me in public.

_____________

The second-floor hallway was quieter: darker, carpeted, empty except for the heavy gold-framed mirrors and the hush of distant music bleeding up the stairwell. You walked like you belonged there, like you weren’t on a mission, like you didn’t have something filthy blooming slow and wicked under your skin.

But the moment you found the bathroom - private, tiled, tucked away like a secret - you locked the door behind you and sent the message:

It wasn’t even two minutes before a soft knock came. Two taps.

You opened it to find Shane, his tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, eyes blown wide.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. “You’re…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t give him the chance. Your mouth was on his before he could say another word, hands sliding into his open shirt, backing him against the wall as his arms wrapped around you like instinct. His lips were hot and desperate, a little sloppy with want; like he hadn’t stopped thinking about you all night, like he was still thinking about Ilya across the ballroom, still hard from watching the two of you together.

“You look so good tonight,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder for it.

His hands slid down to your hips, tugging you closer, and he groaned into the kiss—

—and then the door opened.

You both froze.

Ilya stepped in, door shutting soft behind him, locking with that quiet click. His jacket was off. Cufflinks gone. Shirt sleeves rolled up, chest rising slow and dangerous beneath the fabric.

And he looked straight at Shane. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just said, in a voice flat with disbelief—

“Do you know she speaks fucking Russian now?”

Shane blinked. “…What?”

“She whispered filth in my ear before dessert,” Ilya went on, walking toward you both with slow, deliberate steps. “In my language. Perfect pronunciation.”

You grinned.

“Close to perfect,” you murmured.

His gaze snapped to you. Dark. Wrecked.

“Get on your knees,” he said.

You didn’t hesitate.

Shane dropped with you.

Both of you kneeling now: side by side, breath shallow, thighs already aching with anticipation. Ilya stood above you like something carved out of storm clouds, eyes flicking between your faces, one hand undoing his belt with practiced ease, the other curling into Shane’s shirt at the same time.

“Fucking liars,” he muttered but his voice was shaking with how hard he already was. “Both of you. Sneaking around. Plotting.”

“Studying,” you corrected, breathless.

“I will reward your studying,” Ilya growled.

And then he leaned down.

Kissed Shane first: rough, unrelenting, teeth and hunger.

Then kissed you.

And when he stepped back, the look on his face was all possession. All promise. This wasn’t dinner anymore. This was dessert.

Ilya stood above you both like he was taking inventory; not of your bodies but your willingness. The want in your eyes. The heat pooling under your skin. The exact moment Shane’s breath hitched beside you when Ilya said his name in that sharp, accented snap that always made him freeze up just a little.

“Shane.”

Shane looked up. That look was enough to break something.

Ilya tilted his head slightly. “She told you what she said to me?”

Shane’s voice was barely there. “No.”

“Ask her.”

He did.

And you whispered it again; this time in a voice meant for both of them. Soft. Provocative. Obedient.

Ilya’s eyes closed for a beat. He was breathing like he’d just come off the ice - ragged, heavy, coiled.

“You will both fucking kill me,” he muttered.

Then he reached down, cupped the back of your head and Shane’s jaw, rough and reverent, fingers threaded through your hair like rope.

He guided you in.

Together.

The three of you moved like it was choreographed: already done before in dozens of variations but never with this edge. Never with Ilya’s hand clenched tight in both of your hair, his mouth dragging sharp praise and filth in equal measure across the top of your heads in English and Russian alike.

“Look at you,” he said, voice gone thick. “Look. What would they say out there, da? What would all those suits say if they saw the golden boy and my girl like this?”

Shane moaned through his teeth.

You reached for his hand and he laced his fingers through yours without hesitation.

You were both panting now, matched in rhythm, ruined by the same man.

“So fucking pretty,” Ilya said low, eyes on you and then to Shane, “So obedient.” His voice cracked, rough like gravel. “You like this, Hollander?”

Shane couldn’t even speak.

You did it for him.

“He’s shaking.”

“Good,” Ilya breathed. “He should be.”

And when he finally unraveled - when all that control Ilya carried like a loaded weapon snapped - he came with a growl of both your names, forehead resting against the wall, hands still buried in your hair.

The three of you stayed there like that - silent, breathless, knotted together on the floor of a five-star hotel bathroom, heartbeat against heartbeat, fingers clenched, mouths open.

Until Ilya laughed, low, rasping, wrecked.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “She learns one sentence and we are done for.”

You looked up at him, lips kiss-bitten and smirking. “Wait until I learn a paragraph.”

Shane groaned behind you. “Jesus Christ.”

But Ilya just grinned. Dark. Wrecked. Possessive as sin.

“Then we are never leaving fucking house again.”

____________

The ballroom had filled in your absence - warm lights now dimmed to a soft golden haze, the band trading bright strings for a deeper, slower tempo, something sultry and smooth that sank under the skin like red wine.

It was time for the couples’ dance.

The floor was beginning to populate: captains with their spouses, GMs with their picture-perfect wives, men in suits trying to remember how to lead, women laughing into champagne flutes.

And you?

You walked with Ilya. Alone.

Your heels clicked softly against the tile as he guided you toward the centre, hand firm at the small of your back like you belonged to no one else in the world.

And for tonight - for this moment - you did.

There was no Shane beside you. Because he couldn’t be. He stood across the ballroom, posted up at the bar again, backlit by chandeliers, one elbow resting on polished marble like he wasn’t watching but his eyes never left you.

You felt them before you even looked up. And that was when you smiled. Soft. Knowing. Deliberate. Because this dance?

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the league. It was for him.

The first few steps were slow, lazy almost, the kind of rhythm that didn’t belong to anyone but Ilya Rozanov: shoulders hunched in that easy, dominant way, hand dragging up your spine before settling firm at the nape of your neck.

You moved like liquid together. Not proper. Not polite. Dirty.

Barely concealed by fabric and expectation, Ilya moved with you like it wasn’t a waltz; it was a warning. A private performance disguised as civility. The way he led you in close, thigh between yours, your bodies brushing chest to stomach, breath to mouth. His voice was low and dark in your ear:

“You make the same face dancing as when you come.”

You bit your lip.

He leaned in closer, his mouth a breath from yours.

“Think he can see your knees shaking from there?”

You didn’t have to answer.

You just shifted, slowly, deliberately, tilting your head so your eyes met Shane’s across the room. Caught him. Frozen mid-sip. His mouth was parted. Eyes hungry.

And when your hips rolled with the music, slow against Ilya’s, when your fingers slid from his shoulder to the edge of his open collar and back again, you didn’t break Shane’s gaze.

You let him see what he does to you. What he’d already touched. What he was desperate to touch in public.

Ilya noticed. He always noticed. And his next move? A hand sliding low across your back, fingers spread wide. Not obscene. Not enough to cause whispers.

Just enough to make you gasp and Shane bite the inside of his cheek.

Ilya’s mouth brushed your temple.

“He is hard already.”

You grinned.

“So are you.”

He spun you slowly, lazily, pulled you back against him with purpose and you let your body fold into his like you’d been made for it.

And when the song ended - when the applause came - your lips brushed Ilya’s cheek but your eyes found Shane one last time.

No smile this time. Just promise. Later, you’d pay for it. And you wanted to.

____________

Outside, the flashbulbs chased you to the curb.

But Ilya’s hand was iron at your waist, his jaw set in that flat, unreadable line he wore like armour: brooding Russian hockey royalty with a beautiful woman on his arm, the whole world assuming he’d spend the night between your thighs and not thinking twice.

And he would. Just not alone.

The limo door closed with a soft click behind you, muting the city in a heartbeat.

Inside, low golden light hummed beneath the leather trim, cool air whispering over your skin. You kicked your heels off first, relaxed back into the plush seat as Ilya settled beside you, legs wide, one arm slung along the backrest behind your shoulders.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Not yet. Just reached forward and pressed the privacy button. The screen slid up with a hum, sealing you both in.

Ilya leaned in.

Voice low, just for you.

“Driver knows to go round back.”

You smiled. Your phone buzzed.

Shane: Here.

Ilya opened the side door just as the limo eased to a stop near the loading bay. One dark figure slipped in: head down, jaw tight, the tux jacket already ditched. Shane Hollander. Unannounced. Desperate.

The door shut again.

And the silence in the cabin wasn’t awkward.

It was loaded.

Ilya stared at him for a long moment. No words. Just a slow drag of his eyes over Shane’s chest, the undone buttons, the blown-out pupils.

Then?

He smirked.

“Get on your knees.”

Your breath caught.

Shane’s did too. But then—

He dropped.

Right there on the floor between Ilya’s legs.

You shifted slightly, angled in your seat so you could see all of it: the tension in Ilya’s thighs, the way he relaxed back like a king being served, one hand finding Shane’s hair with a grip so possessive it sent a fresh wave of heat down your spine.

Ilya’s voice was already gone rough.

“Thought about this all night. You, on your knees. You, knowing we were dancing for you.”

Shane made a low sound in his throat.

You crossed your legs. Slowly. Watched Ilya tighten his fist in Shane’s hair.

“You like us being yours?” Ilya asked, accent heavier now, that low Russian rasp curling around the vowels.

Shane nodded. Eyes shut.

Ilya didn’t let him hide. “Say it.”

“Yes,” Shane rasped. “Fuck—yes. I like being yours.”

That broke something.

Ilya’s head dropped back against the seat. A curse in Russian poured from his lips, dark and filthy.

Shane was on his knees between Ilya’s legs, mouth working slow and deep, hands braced on Ilya’s thighs to steady himself. He looked up only once - cheeks flushed, eyes dark, lips already wet - and the sight alone made your stomach twist.

But it was Ilya who made the sound. Low. Wrecked. Half-swallowed like it tore straight out of his chest.

You didn’t move. You just watched.

Watched the way Ilya’s fingers threaded tight into Shane’s hair, not guiding, just holding; white-knuckled and desperate. Watched Shane take him deeper, let his mouth fall open wider, let Ilya come apart into him one careful inch at a time.

Ilya’s breathing hitched. His jaw clenched.

You could see it - how hard he was trying not to lose it, how close he was to failing. You stayed where you were, legs curled under you, one hand braced against the armrest, the other curled at your lips like you couldn’t quite believe what you were watching.

Shane was devoted; like he’d been waiting for this, like he wanted to be good for him, for you, and fuck, he was.

Ilya made another noise - sharper now, punched out through his teeth - and when his head turned, when his eyes snapped to you—

It wasn’t confusion. It was need.

“Don’t look away,” he said, voice hoarse, guttural, completely undone.

You didn’t. You held his gaze as Shane swallowed him whole. You stayed right there and watched them fall apart for you.

___________

Ilya’s breathing was ragged now. Not the sharp inhale of dominance, not anymore. This was something deeper. Bruised around the edges. Still holding Shane’s hair tight in one hand, the other now tangled in yours, his grip unshakable.

Shane was gasping softly, lips red, face flushed. His eyes flicked up - searching - not for approval but for meaning.

And Ilya gave it to him. Not with force. But with truth.

He looked down at Shane and murmured, low and cracked—

“I love you, Shane Hollander.”

The silence that followed was breathless. Not heavy. Just clean - like a wound being licked open and finally left to heal.

Shane’s eyes widened. His mouth parted.

But Ilya didn’t wait for a response. He just pulled him up, guided him out of the floor, onto the seat beside him.

There was no apology in the kiss. Just heat. History. A thousand games and god-knows-how-many nights of hiding pressed into the space between their mouths and when Ilya finally pulled back, Shane looked ruined.

You shifted.

Still barefoot. Dress hitched. You crawled across the seat, slow and sure, until you were straddling Shane, knees spread on either side of his thighs. His breath stuttered as you reached down, eased him out of his pants with skilled, patient fingers, guiding him into you with a roll of your hips so deep it stole his voice entirely.

He gasped - high, sharp, helpless.

You didn’t ride him hard. Not yet. You set the pace - slow, deep, full - your palms braced against his chest, your mouth at his jaw as he tried to recover from the onslaught of Ilya’s cock, and now your body wrapping around him like heat and silk.

“You looked so hot tonight,” you whispered. “Standing at that bar, watching us. Your hand in your pocket—were you touching yourself, Shane?”

His breath hitched. His hands gripped your hips.

“Did you imagine this?” you murmured. “Me, in this dress, straddling you while Ilya watches?”

Ilya’s hand slid up your back, curved around your neck.

He answered for him.

“Every night,” he said.

You moaned, slow and quiet.

Then looked Shane dead in the eyes.

“Let’s give him a show.”

And when you started to move - really move - all Shane could do was take it. Hands clenched. Mouth open. Head tipped back. Worshiping you with his whole fucking body while Ilya muttered in Russian beside you, wrecked and wanting and so fucking in love with both of you, he didn’t know which name would come first when he finally broke.

The rhythm between you and Shane was hitting that perfect pitch - his breath rasping in your ear, hips meeting yours in a rising tide of hunger, hands clenched on your thighs like he couldn’t bear the thought of you lifting off him even for a second.

You reached for Ilya without looking, hand slipping beneath his waistband like it belonged there, because it did. Your fingers curled around him with confident pressure, familiar and unrelenting. He swore, low and sharp in Russian, head tipping back, one palm braced against the glass behind him.

“Fuck, devushka,” he muttered. “You will kill me.”

You smirked, breath hitching as Shane thrust up into you harder, deeper: already wrecked beneath you, sweat beading at his temple, pupils blown wide with the force of how much he wanted to give in. Your name left his mouth like prayer, like warning, like surrender.

Ilya’s eyes dropped to your hand working him - slick, firm, relentless - and then flicked up to your mouth, parted and gasping, your body tightening around Shane in waves.

“You’re both going to finish for me,” you breathed, voice all silk and fire. “Right now.”

Ilya growled. Shane bucked up beneath you with a moan.

You held Ilya’s gaze. And that was what undid him. Not the rhythm. Not your hand. But the control in your eyes.

His climax hit like a fucking storm - spilling across your fist, jaw tight, curses rolling off his tongue as he caught Shane’s name somewhere in the wreckage.

And that—

That sound—

Shane felt it. He heard it. And when he came, it was like breaking open. A sob into your skin, his arms wrapping around your back as he emptied himself into you, every muscle trembling from the weight of it.

You let go only when you were finished.

When they were both wrung out and breathless, and you were shaking with the aftershocks of holding them there together, in your hands, your body, your voice.

No one spoke for a while. Just breathing. Knees touching. Sweat cooling.

You looked at them both - Rozanov flushed and dazed, Hollander wide-eyed and boneless - and smiled that slow, satisfied smile that said you knew exactly what you’d done.

And they loved you for it.

The air inside the limo pulsed with heat.

Breathless silence, fogged windows, skin warm and flushed, your thighs still trembling where you sat straddling Shane: his chest rising fast beneath you, his hands loose around your hips like he couldn’t let go, even if his muscles were too wrung-out to keep holding on.

Ilya hadn’t moved.

He sat sprawled across the seat, one arm draped lazily behind you both, the other heavy on his thigh. Eyes dark, lips parted, entirely wrecked, but still watching you like he owned the room. Which he did.

You turned your head.

So did Shane.

At the same time.

And Ilya exhaled something soft and stunned in Russian as the two of you shifted, off of Shane’s lap, onto your knees in front of him. Together.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Because this was for him.

Your hands found his thighs. Shane leaned in first, soft kisses, jaw and stomach and hip, reverent like worship. You followed; slow, deliberate, your mouth dragging over skin still flushed from orgasm, both of you pressing kisses like offerings, like you needed to mark every inch of him with your tongues just to taste what you’d done.

Ilya’s breath stuttered.

“Bozhe…” he whispered, barely audible.

His hand found the back of Shane’s head. Then yours.

He wasn’t guiding.

He was feeling. Grounding himself with the two of you pressed against him, lips open, breath hot, cleaning every trace of his release with your tongues and mouths like you could drink him down and wear the taste of him.

He let his head fall back against the seat. Breathing ragged.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Look what you do for me.”

You looked up.

Shane did too.

Both of you on your knees, lips swollen, eyes glazed, hands still resting against his thighs like you weren’t done.

And Ilya?

He stared down at you like he might not survive you both. Like he wouldn’t want to.

The heat hadn’t faded; it had settled. A slow, humming pulse in the thick air of the limo, in the gentle press of your body beside Shane’s, both of you still kneeling before Ilya, breath warming the skin of his thighs, your hands curled loosely on the leather seat, your mouths tingling with the taste of him, of each other.

Shane turned to you first.

Still flushed. Still wide-eyed, wrecked from the high of it all. His lashes were wet. His lips slightly parted.

And you kissed him.

Not for show. Not for Ilya.

Just for you.

A slow drag of lips, then tongue, mouths moving together, tender but filthy with what you’d just done; what you’d done together. You pressed closer, fingers at his jaw, his hand skimming your waist, holding on like he couldn’t bear to let you go yet.

It was soft. It was charged. It was utterly intimate.

From above, Ilya watched. One palm dragged lazily across his jaw, unreadable except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth - a silent exhale through his nose. Possessive. Hungry all over again. But letting it be yours.

For a moment.

The limo slowed.

You felt it.

All three of you glanced up as the car rolled to a quiet stop at the private entrance to your building: tucked back, discreet, the one reserved for players who didn’t want to be seen.

The driver didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Ilya adjusted himself slowly, then reached down to pull both of you up: one hand to Shane’s wrist, the other curling around your waist. He kissed your temple first, then glanced at Shane with that same maddening look he always gave him after breaking him open.

“Up,” he said, low and soft. “My turn to be smug.”

You smirked.

The door opened.

Outside, the night was cool, quiet.

You all stepped out together. No words. No chaos.

But you felt it, the kind of gravity that only comes when no one else knows the truth.

Three of you. One home. And the rest of the night still yours.

______________

The ride up to Ilya’s apartment was practically silent. The doors eventually slid open.

None of you said anything until Ilya unlocked the apartment and kicked the door open, then tugged his jacket off with a groan and let it fall somewhere near the couch.

“Hot,” he muttered. “Too many people. Too much sweat.”

“You’re the one who started round two in the limo,” Shane said, kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt with more energy than he should’ve had.

Ilya shrugged, already walking toward the bathroom. “You looked too pretty not to ruin.”

You blinked at both of them from the doorway. “We’re disgusting.”

Shane glanced over at you and grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You peeled off your earrings, laughing softly. “I feel like a crime scene.”

“Good crime scene,” Ilya called from down the hall. “Shower. Now.”

The bathroom was already steaming by the time you reached it: wide and tiled in deep grey, the rain showerhead roaring to life as Ilya stepped under it, still mostly dressed, letting the spray soak straight through his undershirt with a sigh like it might fix everything.

“Come on,” he called, beckoning lazily with one hand. “We smell of sex and strangers.”

You snorted but followed.

Shane came in behind you, shedding his tuxedo. His hair was a mess. Lipstick stained his jaw. There was a button missing from his shirt.

“God,” he muttered, stepping out of his pants. “We were feral.”

“Speak for yourself,” you said, ducking under the spray and sighing as the heat hit your spine. “I was elegant.”

“You were moaning my name in five-inch heels,” Ilya pointed out, reaching for the soap and lathering his hands. “Not elegant. Pornographic.”

You flipped water at him.

“Don’t start a war in here,” Shane warned, reaching for a washcloth and rolling his shoulders with a wince. “My back is already done for.”

Ilya caught your chin gently and turned your face toward him. “You have mascara down to your chin.”

You leaned in. “Fix it.”

He kissed it instead. Soft. Barely there.

Then reached up and thumbed it away with a tenderness that felt like silk.

Shane stepped behind you, warm and solid, lathering your shoulders with slow, soothing circles.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

“This is illegal,” you whispered. “Two hot men washing me after I wreck them at a gala.”

“Wreck?” Shane said, voice low against your neck. “That what we’re calling it?”

You grinned. “Your knees were on marble.”

“You begged me to—”

“Enough,” Ilya cut in but he was smiling.

He passed you the shampoo bottle like it was a holy relic. You took it reverently.

And for a while, the only sound was water. Hands moving gently.

Shane reaching around to help detangle your hair while Ilya washed behind your ears with a cloth, both of them close but unhurried, everything soft.

No rush. No pressure. Just quiet.

You all took turns rinsing.

Ilya rubbed the base of Shane’s neck when he groaned. Shane returned the favour by helping soap Ilya’s back with exaggerated care, muttering something about “old man muscles” that got him swatted with a wet cloth.

You laughed until you hiccuped.

And when it was time to step out, Shane handed you the towel first. “Ladies first,” he said, mock-solemn.

“You’re the lady,” you said, taking it with a smirk.

He bowed.

Ilya rolled his eyes and stepped out behind you, grabbing another towel, then dragging one gently over your shoulders without a word.

He looked down at you, still damp, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to your collarbone.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m really okay.”

Shane leaned into your side, towel draped over his shoulder, mouth against your temple. “You’re more than okay.”

“You are radiant,” Ilya said. “And you need water.”

“Already had a shower.”

“To drink, idiot.”

Shane kissed your cheek. “You smell like us.”

You smiled.

“I always do.”

__________

Hours passed as the three of you relaxed on the plus couch: tension seeping from your bones until you were practically melting.

In the background, some ridiculous action film played - the sounds of gunfire and grenades filled the otherwise silent room.

Ilya and Shane came through from the kitchen, carrying trays of snacks and drinks, and deposited them on the coffee table in front of you.

The air changed.

Ilya stepped behind Shane, hands hard on his hips, pressing close - and you - you sank to your knees with a grace that made Shane whimper, his thighs twitching under your touch.

Ilya caught your chin before you could bend further, eyes dragging over your face with that slow, searching hunger.

“You are trembling,” he murmured, voice a low burr of Russian steel softened by desire.

“Not done,” you answered, mouth brushing his palm.

“No,” Ilya agreed, his smile curving slow and dark as he guided you both down - bodies shifting, settling - until Shane was caught between you, half on the couch, thighs parted, flushed and already leaking again despite the mess you’d both made of him in the car.

You crawled in behind him, hands greedy and warm as you spread him open. He let out a breathless fuck when your tongue brushed over him, slow and coaxing, each pass teasing him open with filthy patience. You could feel the way his muscles flexed, how he tried to stay still, how he couldn’t.

And Ilya - Ilya dropped to his knees in front of you like he was kneeling before an altar, gaze locked on yours as his hands slipped under Shane’s thighs and pulled him down further, tilting his hips. He didn’t hesitate. His mouth was already on Shane, hot and wet and eager as he started licking into him, savouring every inch with obscene reverence.

Shane sobbed. It was ragged, shameless, his voice breaking as you pressed your tongue deeper and Ilya groaned around the taste of him. One of Shane’s hands flew to the mattress, the other to your hair, fingers tangling as he trembled under both mouths.

You mouthed at him harder, tongue flattening, teasing, working him open as Ilya’s tongue fucked into him from above. It was maddening - Shane trying to arch toward both of you at once, torn between the fire at his rim and the cool drag of Ilya’s mouth.

He was panting now, moaning, hips flexing helplessly as his body gave up the last of its tension. Your tongue made slick circles while your hands soothed down his thighs, and Ilya’s lips were glistening when he pulled back just far enough to breathe.

“Ty moya sladkaya suka,” Ilya growled low, possessive, licking his lips. “You taste good like this. You both do.”

Shane only whimpered in response, his whole body flushed, trembling. He tried to say something but your mouth caught him again - slow, thorough, deliberate. He nearly folded in half.

And when Ilya finally stood, one hand steadying himself on Shane’s hip, the other tilting your chin up again, his eyes burned.

“He ready for me to fuck him now?” he asked and it wasn’t really a question.

You pulled back just far enough to smirk, lips glistening, your breath washing over Shane’s hole where your tongue had just been.

“I got him nice and open for you,” you said and kissed Shane’s flushed lower back before shifting aside.

Ilya grunted his approval, dragging Shane up onto his knees. You knelt nearby, watching, one hand stroking soothingly over Shane’s ribs as Ilya pushed in slow - thick, steady, relentless.

Shane cried out, body arching, and your hands never left him. You held him there - watched his face as Ilya sank in deeper - and smiled like the devil when you saw the moment Shane broke open

Shane was wrecked: his back slick, chest heaving against your palm as you held him steady, fingers splayed wide across his heart like you were trying to feel it stutter. He was trembling, hair sticking to his temples, jaw slack with helpless sounds as Ilya rocked into him harder, faster, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. Each thrust sent a ripple through Shane’s spine that you could feel under your mouth as you kissed down the slope of his neck, teeth grazing damp skin.

You could see the moment Ilya hit that spot: Shane’s whole body went taut, then boneless, a cry punched out of him like breath he’d been holding too long.

“Fuck—fuck, Ilya, oh my—”

His voice cracked. His hips bucked. You curled your body close behind him again, one leg thrown over his to keep him steady as Ilya fucked into him like he was chasing something, like Shane’s body held the only answer he wanted.

“You hear him?” you breathed into Shane’s ear, lips brushing the shell. “You feel how deep he is? That’s what he sounds like when you take him so fucking well.”

Ilya grunted, a snarl caught in the back of his throat as he leaned over Shane, hips pistoning, sweat dripping off his chest and onto Shane’s back. His words were nearly unintelligible now - Russian slurred into curses, thick and hoarse.

“Zvezda moya… tak khorosho…fuck—”

You couldn’t take your eyes off the way Shane’s body took it, over and over - the stretch, the slick between his cheeks, Ilya’s cock so deep inside him it made your thighs rub together from where you knelt, watching, aching. Your fingers stroked down Shane’s ribs again, slipping lower to circle the head of his cock - sticky and flushed and leaking more with every thrust that hit his prostate just right.

He sobbed when you touched him. Not a cry. Not pain. Just too much. Just too good.

You dragged your palm up his chest instead, pressing against his sternum, whispering filth as you kissed his cheekbone, wet and red and trembling under your mouth.

“You’re dripping for him,” you whispered. “You’re gonna come just from getting fucked, aren’t you? I don’t even need to touch you, baby. He’s ruined you.”

Ilya groaned at that, hips stuttering before he forced himself deeper, slower now - dragging it out, grinding so low into Shane it made the whole bed shift. His hand curved under Shane’s belly, pulling him back, forcing him to arch even more.

“Tell her,” he rasped, voice pure gravel, breathless. “Tell her what it feels like.”

Shane choked on a moan, words caught behind his tongue. He couldn’t speak; couldn’t do anything but nod, eyes rolled back, sweat dripping off his chin.

So you said it for him.

“He loves it. He’s never taken anyone like this. He’s so open for you I can see you fuck into him.”

Ilya snarled something else in Russian and drove in hard - Shane jolted, legs giving out, and only your body behind him kept him from collapsing.

You both held him there, panting, fucking him through the shaking: your hand stroking his cock now in slow, perfect rhythm, coaxing more precum from the tip as he whimpered.

You kissed his ear again, gentle and cruel.

“Come for us,” you whispered. “Come like this— split open and filled, like you were made to be fucked by him while I watch.”

And Shane shattered.

It hit like lightning - hips bucking, cock twitching in your hand as he cried out, hoarse and ragged, his body wracked with aftershocks. His orgasm spilled hot over your fingers, onto the throw, his whole frame convulsing as Ilya groaned behind him - the tight, rhythmic pulse of Shane’s body pulling a snarl from deep in Ilya’s chest.

“Blyat…” he hissed and then he was gone.

He came inside Shane with a rough thrust, one arm banding across his waist as he held him there - cock buried deep, gasping, grinding - you could see the ripple of his abdomen as he emptied into him, shaking with it, jaw clenched against Shane’s shoulder like the sound he made might break something sacred.

And you, you slid in close, kissing Shane through it again, swallowing every wrecked, needy sound from his lips as Ilya trembled behind him.

Then everything slowed.

Breaths evened out, slowly. Limbs tangled. Shane sagged between you, limp with pleasure and weightless from release.

Ilya didn’t pull out right away. He stayed inside him, buried and pulsing, his hands roaming up Shane’s sides like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

You stroked Shane’s hair, kissed his temple. His hand found your thigh, squeezing blindly.

Then Ilya finally eased back, cock slipping out of Shane with a slick, ruined sound that made you both shiver.

Shane whimpered A soft, oversensitive - and you pulled him into your chest while Ilya stretched out behind you both, his breath still catching.

When Ilya reached across your waist to take your hand, it was clumsy, but it stayed. Fingers lacing with yours tight like a vow.

He whispered something into Shane’s skin, too low to catch, too reverent to translate.

But you didn’t need to understand.

You felt it - the warmth, the weight, the want - wrapping around the three of you like a heartbeat between breaths.

And no one moved. Not yet.

______________

It was the quiet that roused you - that deliberate quiet, the kind spun from guilty pleasure and suppressed groans. A shift of weight, the slow creak of bedsprings, the drag of breath caught on a moan someone didn’t want to make.

Not silence. Conspiracy.

You stirred against the pillow, lashes fluttering open to the dark hush of the room, the blue-grey predawn hour stretching long and silent across the windows. Everything was shadow - cool air and tangled sheets, your body warm under the covers - but your gaze zeroed in instantly on the shape of Shane half-reclined against the headboard, bare chest rising and falling too fast for sleep.

And there, between his spread thighs, was Ilya. His mouth full. His eyes closed. His hands locked down tight on Shane’s hips, thumbs digging in, holding him still while his tongue worked slow, devastating circles along the head, then down - slow suction, a roll of his wrist, his mouth hollowing around Shane’s cock with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t the first time tonight he’d gone down just like this.

Shane’s head tipped back. His mouth opened but he bit the sound back hard, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his hands fisted the sheets.

You lay still for a heartbeat, just watching, letting the slow burn unfurl - throat dry, legs already shifting under the sheets with the ache starting low and insistent between your thighs.

They hadn’t wanted to wake you.

Too fucking late. You shifted your weight deliberately, just enough for the mattress to dip.

Ilya froze mid-suck, Shane’s hand flying to his hair, not to stop him, but like he couldn’t help needing something to hold on to. Both their heads turned toward you at once.

Your voice rasped like sin across the room, rough from sleep and filthy amusement.

“Really?” you murmured, pushing hair from your face, dragging the word out slow. “It’s not even five.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked up from between Shane’s thighs, lips slick, jaw working slowly like he was deciding whether to respond or just go back to sucking.

Shane’s chest was heaving, flushed to the collarbones. “We were trying to be—fuck—quiet.”

You snorted, rising up onto your elbows, the sheet slipping down your shoulder. “Yeah, well. You failed. Badly.”

Ilya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, expression utterly without remorse. “You were making sweetest noises in your sleep,” he said, voice low, rough with hunger. “How was I supposed to behave?”

“I don’t know,” you teased, dragging the sheets off and crawling toward them on your knees, slow and predatory. “Maybe not swallow his dick before sunrise?”

Shane groaned, dragging one hand over his face. “We really were trying not to wake you.”

“You two have the libido of horny sixteen-year-olds,” you muttered, but there was no heat in it, only fondness and desire curling lazy and hot behind your ribs.

Ilya’s smirk was pure provocation, all teeth and shadow. “We missed you.”

“I was asleep for like four hours.”

He shrugged, unrepentant.

You leaned in to kiss Shane first, lips brushing his cheek, then ghosting over his jaw. “You missed him that much overnight?” you murmured against his skin. Your fingers slid over his thigh, grazing up to the base of his cock, still glossy with spit and twitching like it might beg for more. “Already shaking for him again?”

Shane exhaled like you’d slapped him. “Jesus, you’re evil.”

“Selective,” you corrected, pressing a kiss to his throat, then reaching lower to stroke slow and lazy around the base while Ilya watched, eyes gleaming in the low light.

You turned to Ilya next, hand tangling briefly in his hair, tugging him up just enough to kiss him - open-mouthed and filthy, tasting the salt and warmth of Shane on his tongue. He groaned into it, hand slipping to your waist, gripping hard.

Then you broke the kiss with a hum and muttered, “Move over.”

He obeyed instantly, shifting to let you kneel between them, one hand trailing down Shane’s abs again as you curled your body close. You licked up the length of Shane’s cock, teasing, slow, deliberate, and Ilya growled low behind you as he kissed between your shoulder blades, then dragged his mouth down your spine.

“Mmm, you taste each other yet?” you whispered wickedly, your tongue lapping at the head again, before turning your head to the side and murmuring to Ilya, “Get back in there. But this time, share.”

He met your gaze and then leaned in beside you, both your mouths now working Shane in tandem. One of his hands slid over yours, guiding, syncing your movements, while the other pressed to Shane’s belly, holding him down as he writhed helplessly under the dual assault.

Shane’s thighs were trembling, his head thrown back against the headboard. “F-fuck, that’s—holy shit—”

You moaned softly around the head, lips brushing Ilya’s as your tongues met on his shaft - wet and obscene, licking along the same spot, your hands stroking together at the base while Shane tried not to scream.

And then Ilya pulled back, dragging his mouth down, nudging your chin with his nose, coaxing your mouth open so he could slide his tongue between your lips instead. You kissed him hard - filthy and tasting of Shane - and when you pulled back, panting, you whispered, “You wanna take him from behind while I keep him in my mouth?”

Ilya didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You watched as he moved behind Shane again, kissing down his spine, slicking himself fast and rough with the lube still on the nightstand from the night before. You shifted down the bed, tongue tracing Shane’s cock again while your hands braced his hips, keeping him right where you wanted him.

The sound Shane made when Ilya pushed inside - slow, deliberate, thick - was nearly a sob, and you swallowed him deep to muffle it, moaning as you felt the way he bucked, helpless, between you both.

“God—fuck—please,” Shane gasped, one hand clutching your hair, the other scrabbling for Ilya’s wrist behind him.

“You’re such a good boy in the mornings,” you breathed, pulling off him just enough to speak, your tongue stroking along the underside again. “Fucked open before the sun’s up. You like that? Being taken before breakfast?”

Ilya grunted behind him, thrusts getting harder, hands bruising on Shane’s hips. “He begged for it in his sleep,” he said, breath ragged. “Fucking whined.”

You smiled against the head of Shane’s cock. “I believe it.”

He came first - too much stimulation, too much heat, your mouths and Ilya’s cock and the way your voice dropped like velvet over his skin. He came hard, with a desperate cry, his whole body convulsing as you swallowed him down, not spilling a drop, your moan humming around him while Ilya fucked through it.

Ilya didn’t last much longer - the tightness of Shane’s body, the morning stillness, the sheer filth of it all pulling a groan from him as he pushed in deep, shaking, filling Shane full again with his jaw clenched and his head bowed.

You licked up the last of Shane’s come from your lips, watching the way both of them slumped forward, breath heaving.

“Sun’s still not up,” you whispered.

Ilya pulled Shane close, chest to back, still inside him. His eyes found yours in the dark.

“Plenty of time,” he rasped.

And you crawled up beside them, threading your limbs back into the mess of bodies.

No one even pretended to sleep after that.

____________

The shower was thick with steam, heavy and close, curling over your skin like breath. The water beat a steady rhythm against your shoulders, heat loosening every muscle, every thought. You stood facing the tile, arms raised, slick hands working slow lather down your sides, hips rolling lazily with each movement, not for anyone but yourself.

Or so you thought.

Until that moment - that subtle shift of air behind you.

A floorboard, weight easing forward, breath catching that didn’t come from your own lungs.

You opened your eyes. Turned your head. And there they were. Framed in the glass like a scene from a dream - or a fantasy you hadn’t realised you’d already started living.

Ilya was bare-chested, boxer briefs riding low, a hand already cupped around himself with that lazy, possessive confidence he always carried. He leaned one broad shoulder against the doorframe, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved like he knew he should be ashamed for watching you like this but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Shane stood beside him, palming himself through his briefs, flushed to the ears, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. He looked like he’d been trying to leave, maybe once, maybe twice - and failed every time his eyes fell back to your body.

You didn’t cover yourself. Didn’t hide.

Instead, you dragged your soapy hands down your stomach, slow and sinuous, then slipped them between your thighs as though they weren’t watching you at all - as though this wasn’t already about them.

“Good morning,” you said, voice husky from steam, from sleep, from arousal curling low and molten between your legs.

Ilya’s smile deepened, sharp, dangerous. “We should let you finish.”

Shane groaned under his breath, fingers tightening around his cock through the damp cotton. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You smirked and turned back to the tile.

They could see everything from behind - the curve of your spine, the way your ass moved as you shifted your weight, one leg slightly bent, water cascading down the backs of your thighs. You ran the soap up over your breasts, cupping them shamelessly, thumbs dragging across your nipples until they stiffened under your own touch.

You looked to the side, found their blurred shapes in the fogged glass.

“Since you’re already here…” you murmured, letting your hips rock back just a little. “Might as well enjoy the show.”

You could hear their breathing pick up instantly.

Shane pressed a palm to the frame, leaning in like his body was betraying him. Ilya didn’t even pretend to resist - he slid his briefs down with one hand and stroked himself slow, measured, never taking his eyes off your hands as you worked soap over your inner thighs, close enough they had to think you’d touch yourself.

But you didn’t. Not yet. Not even when you spread your legs a little more, back arching, water running in rivers down your sides, over the round of your ass. The angle let them see everything. How wet you already were. How ready.

“Fuck,” Shane muttered.

You smiled.

And finally - slowly - you slid your soapy hand between your thighs. Not coy. Not subtle.

You moaned, just under your breath, as your fingers teased over your clit, slick with both water and need, rolling lazy circles while your other hand braced against the wall. You didn’t stop. You didn’t speed up.

You just let them watch.

You rolled your hips, catching the angle just right, breathing heavier now, heat flaring under your skin like the steam wasn’t enough. You knew how you looked: water glistening off your skin, ass pushed back, head tilted slightly to the side, eyes half-lidded as you teased yourself with a slow, ruthless rhythm.

“You are fucking tease,” Ilya said, voice guttural.

“And you love it,” you shot back, without turning.

“I want to fuck you through that wall,” he growled.

You whimpered at that - just loud enough for them to hear - and slipped one finger inside yourself, the angle shallow but enough to make your back arch and your breath hitch.

Shane’s voice was strained, desperate.

“Please…come out here. Let us—”

“No,” you said sweetly, still working yourself, hips rolling with maddening grace. “You stay right there. You wanted to watch.”

Ilya swore in Russian, low and guttural, his fist working his cock faster now, the tip flushed and glistening.

You moaned again, louder this time, adding another finger, fucking yourself slow and deep, curling just right while the water pulsed around you. Your other hand slid back to your ass, pulling your cheek aside just slightly; giving them a better view, if they even needed one at this point.

Shane groaned like he might come untouched, head dropping forward.

“I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” he panted.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low and filthy. “Come for me, right there. Stroke your cock while I make myself come thinking about you fucking me from behind while he watches. Or maybe the other way around. You’d both love that, wouldn’t you?”

They both groaned at once - incoherent, raw, wrecked.

And then you gave them what they’d come to the door for. You pressed your fingers tight to your clit again, fucking yourself faster, angling your hips just right as the tension coiled hot and tight through your belly: every movement precise, practiced, calculated to drive them wild.

“Fuck—yes—” you moaned, as the orgasm crashed through you, your knees buckling slightly, hand shaking against the tile as you rode it out; eyes fluttering, lips parted, water running between your thighs in long, wet rivulets as you came right there in front of them.

You didn’t hide it. Didn’t bite it back. You let them hear you.

And when you finally pulled your hand away, breathless, spent, you turned to look at them again: Shane already coming, hand clenched tight, cock twitching against his belly; Ilya a heartbeat behind him, his release catching in his groan, thick and messy across his knuckles.

You tilted your head, biting your lip.

“Well,” you murmured. “I hope you at least plan to help me rinse off next time.”

And then - just to twist the knife - you stepped out of the shower, walked straight between them, soaked and glistening, and didn’t look back.

Not until you heard Ilya growl behind you, voice thick with promise.

“Next time?”

He caught your wrist, hard.

“No waiting.”

Chapter Text

You’d never heard a building so quiet at the final buzzer.

There were cheers, sure. The other team’s fans were already up and screaming. But the sound felt…far away. Wrong. Too loud where it shouldn’t be. Too empty in the places that mattered.

You were there. In the stands. Sitting in the shadows in a Montreal sweatshirt under your coat, hat low, hood pulled over, every inch of you hidden: except your eyes. Those never left the ice.

Shane was still standing in the crease. He hadn’t moved since the final goal. Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then thirty.

He skated toward the bench, stick loose in one hand, posture loose in a way that looked painful. Not a slouch, just…hollow. Like the bones weren’t holding him up anymore.

No wave to the crowd. No high fives. No eye contact.

You saw him mouth something to the coach. Saw the gloves come off. The helmet. And then he was gone, down the tunnel before the crowd even knew to react.

You stood You left your seat.

And by the time you reached the lobby, your phone buzzed once.

A text from Shane.
Going home.

Just that. No punctuation. No “I’m”. Not even his usual parentheses.

You called a cab. Gave the address. Didn’t even bother going back to your hotel first.

____________

He didn’t answer the door.

He’d left it unlocked. You let yourself in, kicked your shoes off softly and found him face-down in the couch.

Still in his socks. Just his undershirt peeled halfway off and hanging around his neck.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t ask. You sat on the floor beside the couch and reached for his hand.

He didn’t hold back, but he didn’t hold on, either.

It was worse than anger. Worse than sadness. It was blank.

He didn’t speak for over an hour.

You moved to the couch eventually. Helped him sit up. Helped him out of the last of the gear. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t press. You just…helped.

He looked at you once. Briefly.

Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder and whispered: “I let them all down.”

You said nothing. Your hand stroked through his hair. You let him press his face to your chest, his breath sharp and wrong, his body still buzzing like it hadn’t caught up to the loss.

He didn’t ask you to stay the night. But you did.

You lay in his bed fully dressed. Shane facing the wall. You curled behind him, one arm over his waist, your chest against his back.

He didn’t move. Didn’t sleep.

You stayed anyway.

___________

The knock came just after 1am. You almost didn’t hear it - soft, just once. Then again. Firmer.

You blinked. Pushed up on your elbow.

Shane hadn’t moved. Wasn’t asleep.

You got up quietly, padded to the door, and looked through the peephole.

Your stomach flipped.

Ilya.

Standing in the hall, hoodie up, dark jeans, jacket unzipped. Like he’d driven fast and not stopped. Like he’d just walked through the cold without noticing it.

When you opened the door, he looked up and said two words:

“Is he—”

You stepped aside before he finished.

He didn’t wait. Boots off. Hoodie over his head. No hug. No questions.

Ilya walked into the bedroom like it belonged to him, because it did. In all the ways that mattered.

Shane heard him. You saw his shoulders go rigid.

Then Ilya was there. On the bed. Not asking.

He climbed in behind Shane, fully clothed, and wrapped one arm around his chest. Then looked at you.

“Come here.”

You did. You climbed in on the other side, pressing your forehead to Shane’s chest, one hand slipping under the covers to find Ilya’s, tangling your fingers tight.

The three of you lay there in the dark. No words. No motion. Just breath.

And when Shane finally broke. Not loud, not dramatic, just a shudder and a choked whisper of “I tried, I fucking tried.”

Ilya didn’t speak. He kissed the back of Shane’s head. And held tighter.

You pressed your lips to his shoulder. And said, “You don’t have to try right now.”

__________

You don’t know how long you stayed like that.

At some point, your hands started moving.
Soothing. Comforting.

Then Shane turned.

He kissed you first. Then Ilya. It wasn’t about sex. Not at first. It was about breath. About being real. About needing to feel something.

You let him lead. You let him touch. And when he finally sank into you, slow and aching, Ilya’s hand on his back and your mouth against his chest: he breathed out the first full breath he’d taken in hours.

All of you moved like you’d done this in another life. No urgency. No games. Just warmth. Skin. Love.

And when he came - gasping, buried between you both, your fingers locked together under his ribs - Ilya kissed your shoulder, then Shane’s temple, and said nothing.

__________

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. You’d showered. Towelled off. Pulled on one of Shane’s T-shirts.

He’d gone quiet again - less shell-shocked than before, but heavy-limbed, dazed. Like everything still hurt.

Ilya hadn’t left his side once.

The three of you had made it through that first wave of everything: grief, heartbreak, sex that wasn’t really sex so much as breathing together.

Now you were all tangled in the aftermath.

Shane lay against Ilya’s chest, his back pressed firm, Ilya’s arms looped tight around him. You were curled against Shane’s front, your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

Safe. Still.

You didn’t even mean to move. Just shifted to press your hand to Ilya’s hip under the blanket. To soothe. To touch. To say thank you without speaking.

That’s when you felt it. The faintest ridge of healing skin. New.

Your hand stilled. Then swept lower.

Fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers, dipped just beneath—

And there it was.

A tattoo.

Sharp black ink. Cyrillic lettering. No bigger than a thumbprint. Tucked just above the bone of his hip.

“What—”

Your voice came out hoarse. Too much sex. Too much silence.

You pushed up on one elbow, flipped the blanket back. Shane stirred a little. Looked up.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at where your hand was still holding Ilya’s waistband down, eyes locked on the tattoo.

Then you looked at Shane.

He blinked. Then focused. And his whole body went still.

“Ilya,” Shane said slowly, carefully. “What the fuck is that?”

Ilya didn’t speak.

You looked up and met his eyes.

He was watching you both. Expression unreadable.

“I got it three days ago,” he said finally. Voice low. Serious.

“Three days—?” you echoed.

“Right after the season ended for me. I wanted to.” His throat worked. “I needed to.”

Shane’s eyes were still on the tattoo. “What does it say?”

Ilya hesitated.

“Rodnaya.”

You blinked.

“I…don’t know that one,” you whispered.

“Is not in beginner vocab,” he said. “It means…” He paused. “Not just lover. More than partner. Is like—someone who is part of you. The person you cannot live without.”

Shane made a quiet sound. Almost nothing. But you heard it.

You both did.

“I did not tell you because it was not about proving anything,” Ilya added. “I just needed it. For me.”

“But it’s about us,” you said.

He nodded once.

Shane was staring at the ink. Still as a statue. Eyes hot.

“You got a tattoo for us.”

“Yes.”

“Without telling us.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathed.

You didn’t know if it was anger. Or awe.

You looked at him, then back at the tattoo. Then leaned down and kissed it.

Soft. Mouth open. Reverent.

Ilya’s breath hitched.

You sat up. Shane leaned down next.

He kissed it too. Longer. Then rested his forehead against Ilya’s hip and whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”

Ilya’s voice was barely there. “You love it.”

You reached out. Traced the lettering with your fingers. And without needing to say anything more—

You moved.

This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t urgent. This wasn’t grief sex.

This was…

Ritual.

You and Shane turned to Ilya at the same time. Kissed his chest. His jaw. His mouth.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you both like he couldn’t believe he got to have this.

You guided Shane onto his back. Straddled him, skin on skin. Let him feel you. Let him see how much you wanted him.

Ilya stayed close. Kissed Shane like a secret. Ran his hands down both your bodies.

Everything was heat and ache and awe.

You rode Shane while Ilya whispered in Russian, things you didn’t understand, but felt. The way he touched both of you, slow and deep and grounding, made it clear what he meant.

Shane came first. With a quiet cry into your neck. Your name on his lips. Then Ilya’s.

Then he pulled out, dazed and shaking.

Ilya took his place. Didn’t need direction. Didn’t need to rush. Just slid into you like the two of you had been waiting all your lives.

You were already wet. Already wrecked. But this? This was worship.

You kissed Shane while Ilya fucked you from behind. Told him he was perfect. Told him he was safe.

He whispered back. Told you you’re everything. Told Ilya you’re insane for the tattoo, but kissed him hard anyway.

Ilya came with both hands fisted in your hips and Shane’s mouth on his throat.

None of you spoke for a long time after. You just lay there. A mess of limbs and heat and love. The tattoo between you.

A brand. A vow. A beginning.

__________

The sun was just brushing gold across the city when you woke up.

You pulled on Shane’s T-shirt from last night, padded barefoot through the quiet apartment and spotted the balcony door ajar.

The air outside was cool and clear and Shane was already out there.

He leaned forward, elbows on the railing, gaze unfocused, coffee in one hand. The shadows under his eyes were still dark. His hair stuck up in all directions.

He looked heartbreakingly beautiful like this: messy and thoughtful and still slightly bruised by the night before.

You stepped up behind him, slid your arms around his waist and pressed your face between his shoulder blades.

He exhaled slowly, then rested one hand on yours.

“You okay?” you murmured against the cotton of his shirt.

“No,” he said honestly.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I know.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

Then, quieter: “I’m sorry about the game.”

“I know.”

You hugged him tighter.

“How’re you feeling?”

He let out a humorless little breath.

“Still like shit,” he said. “But less like I’m drowning in it, so. Progress?”

You smiled against him.

“Ilya being here helps.”

You felt his chest tighten under your hands.

Then, finally, he said, “Yeah.”

You stayed like that a while: him sipping his coffee, you leaning into his back, the two of you watching the city wake up.

Then he spoke again. Out of nowhere.

“I want it too.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The tattoo,” he said. “I want it.”

You leaned back just enough to look at him. “Seriously?”

Shane turned, leaned one hip against the railing and finally met your eyes.

He didn’t smile but something soft cracked through.

“Yeah. I do.”

Your throat went warm.

Shane never did anything like that on impulse. But this wasn’t impulse. You could see it in him.

“Same place?” you asked.

He nodded. “Exactly. Hipbone. No one sees it unless we want them to.”

A little beat. Then, tentative: “You too?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

He looked like he might break in half from the relief.

You stepped closer, put your forehead against his.

“Only for the three of us,” you whispered.

He touched your waist. His thumb pressed gently over the place on your hip where the ink would go.

“That’s all I want.”

And then, from behind you—

“You should wait until after breakfast before conspiring to brand yourselves.”

You turned.

Ilya stood in the doorway, shirtless, sleep-rough, eyebrows raised.

But he was smiling.

And his eyes? They looked like someone who’d never, ever expected to be this loved.

Shane rolled his eyes. “We’re being sentimental, Rozanov. Let us have this.”

“I am letting you,” Ilya said, stepping out, wrapping his arms around both of you. “But next time, wake me. I like to be sentimental too.”

You all stood there, quiet. Morning wind in your hair. The city below. And three hearts between you, beating in sync.

___________

You left them in the kitchen with warm coffee and eggs that Ilya had burned slightly on purpose just so Shane could tease him about it.

They needed this.

Not you. Not your softness. Just…each other.

A slow healing through teasing insults and the kind of shoulder-bumping affection that didn’t look like affection at all, unless you knew them.

And you knew them.

You headed into the bathroom, letting the door fall mostly shut, your coffee cup balanced on the vanity while you brushed your hair, pulled on fresh clothes, dabbed a bit of gloss onto your mouth.

You could still hear them.

A clink of ceramic. Ilya saying something too low to make out. Shane laughing, but not the full-bodied sound you loved. Just the quieter, tired one. Real, though. Real enough for today.

Then—

Quiet.

A pause. Breath held. Then the soft scrape of a chair. A step. Another.

And then - so faint you nearly missed it - a kiss.

You froze. Staring into the mirror. Listening. Another kiss. Longer this time. Mouths sliding. The sound of Ilya’s hand finding the back of Shane’s neck; you could hear it, the low rustle of hoodie fabric and skin, of something too slow to be casual.

Your heart pressed hard against your ribs.

Shane murmured something you couldn’t make out.

Ilya’s response was lower. A hum. A chuckle.

And then another kiss.

You didn’t interrupt. You stayed where you were. Let them have this. Let them need each other this way.

When you finally stepped out - ready, calm, composed - they were standing close at the counter, Shane leaning against it with one hand still on Ilya’s chest, Ilya smiling like he’d won the lottery and didn’t want to jinx it.

Both of them turned when they saw you.

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Bathroom long. You okay?”

You smiled.

“Yeah.” You walked forward. “You boys behave without me?”

Shane blushed.

Ilya smirked.

You sipped for your coffee.

“We all ready to get matching ink?” you asked.

And just like that, the whole room lit up.

____________

The shop Ilya picked was quiet. Clean lines. Private room. No fans or Instagram influencers. Just a single artist with kind eyes, a sharp needle and a hell of a lot of discretion.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you walked in but you didn’t expect Shane’s hand to reach for yours the second the door shut behind the three of you.

He held on tight.

Ilya noticed, of course. Smirked as he gave his name to the front desk. “He will need pacifier,” he murmured to the receptionist, loud enough for Shane to hear.

Shane made a noise of protest that was all grumpy and no bite.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are pale.”

“I’m always pale. It’s my face.”

“Maybe we tattoo ‘drama queen’ instead.”

“Maybe we tattoo your full penalty record.”

You squeezed Shane’s hand once before stepping forward. “I’m going first.”

They both turned to look at you.

You shrugged out of your jacket. Wore a crop top for this exact reason. Loose sweatpants, hip already exposed.

Ilya’s eyes dropped immediately. He didn’t hide the way he looked at your skin, where the ink would go. His stare was intense. Proud. Possessive in the way only he could pull off while still making you feel safe.

The artist, a soft-spoken guy in his late thirties named Marcus, led you back.

Private room. One chair. The boys came too, of course.

You lay back on the padded bench, propping yourself up on your elbows.

The stencil went on first. The exact same word. Rodnaya.

Yours.

Right on the delicate slope of your hipbone, just like Ilya’s.

Shane sat on the chair near your head, still pale. Watching everything too closely.

Ilya leaned against the far wall, arms folded, eyes sharp.

“You’re sure?” Marcus asked, glancing at you once more, machine in hand.

You nodded. And it began. The pain was real, but brief. Sharp but manageable. You didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes on Shane instead, the way his mouth parted, the way he clenched his hands between his knees.

When the artist paused halfway through to wipe, Ilya stepped forward.

Kissed your ankle.

“Good girl,” he murmured, just for you.

Your stomach flipped. You kept going. Fifteen minutes later, it was done.

Marcus cleaned the ink. Smoothed ointment. Wrapped you gently.

You sat up, tugged your sweatpants up slowly and looked at the boys.

“Well?”

Ilya’s eyes were molten. “Perfect.”

Shane looked like he was trying not to breathe too hard. “You okay?”

You stood, kissed his cheek. “I’m great.”

Then you turned to Marcus.

“Who’s next?”

Shane sat on the padded bench like it might bite him.

“I’m not nervous,” he said.

No one believed him.

You were still flushed from your own session - wrapped in gauze, riding the high of adrenaline and something a little deeper. You sat now where Shane had been a moment ago, perched on the chair near the head of the table. Watching him. Loving him.

Ilya stood behind you, arms folded, shoulders wide and still as stone.

But his eyes? Locked on Shane.

Marcus prepped the machine again. “You want it in the exact same spot?”

Shane nodded, throat bobbing.

His hoodie was already off. The hem of his T-shirt pushed up so that the slope of his hipbone was exposed, pale and unmarked.

You leaned forward. Traced your fingertips lightly across the skin where the stencil would go.

“You sure you want it in Russian?” you teased gently. “You’ll not be able to tell anyone what it says.”

He looked at you. Blushed a little. “That’s kind of the point.”

Behind you, Ilya chuckled. “Our secret.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Unless we all break up and I have to explain to some poor guy why I have a secret Russian lover’s tattoo on my hip.”

Ilya didn’t laugh. He stepped forward, knelt beside the bench, and looked Shane in the eye.

“No one else,” he said. “There will not be some poor guy.”

It was said plainly. Unequivocally. Like he couldn’t imagine a future where this - the three of you - wasn’t the only path forward.

Shane swallowed hard. And nodded.

You squeezed his hand. “Ready?”

He blew out a breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The needle touched skin. Shane twitched.

Marcus froze.

You snorted. Ilya said, flatly, “This is ten percent of what he takes in a game.”

Shane gritted his teeth. “There aren’t needles in games.”

“Not yet,” Ilya muttered.

You leaned in, kissed Shane’s temple “You’ve got this.”

He didn’t speak but his hand found yours again. Held it tight.

The tattoo went on slower than yours had: Marcus taking extra care over the curve of the lettering. The angle. The perfect sharpness of the Cyrillic script.

Ilya watched every stroke like it meant something sacred.

You didn’t stop touching Shane the whole time. Hand on his shoulder. Mouth at his jaw. Not to distract him. Just to anchor him.

When it was done, Shane sat up slowly. Blinked down at the fresh ink. The quiet redness of new skin.

Marcus cleaned and wrapped it. Then stepped away.

Shane looked at you first. Then turned toward Ilya.

“Alright,” he said. “We match.”

Ilya didn’t say a word. He stepped forward, cupped the back of Shane’s neck, and kissed him - deep and slow and solid.

Then looked at Marcus. “Your turn to leave.”

The artist blinked. “Uh—”

“Go on break. Ten minutes.”

Marcus hesitated.

You stepped in, smiling. “We’ll tip well.”

He rolled his eyes. “Five minutes.”

The door shut behind him.

You climbed up onto the bench beside Shane.

Ilya joined from the other side.

Three bodies. Three fresh tattoos. One secret no one else in the world would ever guess about at.

Your fingers traced the wrap over Shane’s skin.

Shane’s hand slid low, resting lightly on your still-tender hip.

Ilya just watched you both.

Then, finally, murmured,

“Now we are impossible to undo.”

The three of you sat together on the padded bench in the center of the private room, backs against the wall, bodies close, too close to need explanation. The smell of antiseptic still clung faintly in the air, mingling with clean sweat and warm skin.

You were in the middle, knees drawn up, Shane on your left, Ilya on your right.

His thigh pressed to yours. Shane’s arm brushed yours every time he shifted.
The bandage on your hip felt hot, aware, marked.

It made everything else feel more real.

You tilted your head, brushed your lips against Shane’s jaw - barely a whisper of a kiss - and murmured, “You were so brave.”

He let out a little huff, embarrassed. “I flinched like three times.”

“Still brave.”

Ilya snorted, one arm slung behind your shoulders. “He held my hand like schoolgirl.”

You turned your head toward him, lips brushing his throat. “Don’t act like you weren’t into it.”

“I am into everything,” he said easily. Then leaned in, mouth by your ear. “But mostly you two.”

Your breath caught.

Shane looked over at both of you, cheeks pink from more than just the flush of exertion.

You turned, kissed him again. Slower this time. Lips open, breath shared.

Your hand slid across his thigh. Then lower. He didn’t stop you.

Neither did Ilya.

You pulled back just enough to speak. “I want to see them.”

Both boys blinked.

You nodded toward Shane. “Yours first.”

He swallowed, but nodded, leaning back, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants. Tugged them down just enough.

There it was. Black ink. Stark on pale skin.

You traced it with your fingertip, featherlight, just the edge of your nail.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” you whispered.

Shane’s breath shivered.

“You are ours,” Ilya said beside you. “Now you have it. Forever.”

Your hand slid further. Over Shane’s hip. To his stomach. Lower.

“Touching you right here,” you said softly, “while I’m looking at this…do you have any idea how hot that is?”

Shane leaned his head back.

Ilya’s hand slid over your shoulder, down your back, warm and slow.

Your other hand reached for him blindly. Found his thigh. Felt how hard he already was.

“Yours too,” you said. “Show me again.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. Just leaned back, shoved his waistband down, revealed the tattoo you’d already memorised but somehow, it looked sharper now. Hungrier.

Because now you matched.

Shane reached across you, brushing fingers over Ilya’s skin.

Then glanced down. “Can I see yours?”

You nodded. Let both of them tug your waistband low.

Three matching tattoos. Three places marked in the same secret spot.

Your breath hitched.

And then Ilya whispered—

“I am going to fuck you right there. So slow. You will feel it with every thrust. My language on your hip and my cock deep inside.”

Shane made a sound like a whimper.

You turned and kissed him. Hard. Dirty. Tongue and teeth and heat.

He kissed you back, open-mouthed and dizzy.

Then turned to Ilya, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him in.

Their mouths met in a crush. You could taste them both on your tongue.

Your hand stroked Shane.

Ilya’s mouth dragged hotly down your neck.

“Time’s almost up,” you whispered.

“Then we better make it count,” Shane said.

You smiled. And kissed them both again.

___________

Four hours. That’s how long you had before your flight.

Three and a half, if you didn’t want to sprint through security with your panties in your purse and a matching set of bruises blooming beneath your clothes.

Ilya had to hit the road too - whatever upscale hotel he was hiding in before instinct drove him here. He had a game tomorrow. His skates were still in his car.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because the second the front door to Shane’s place shut behind you—

You were already reaching for his hoodie. And Ilya was kicking the door closed behind him with one heavy boot, his eyes on fire.

“I need it slow,” you said, your voice already wrecked with the promise of it.

“No.” That was Ilya, stepping close, hands rough on your hips. “You need it deep.”

Shane backed against the wall like it was instinct, like he already knew he was going to get pinned there. He looked between the two of you like he’d drown in the heat.

“I want to feel you,” you told them both. “Right here—” You reached for the hem of your shirt, pulled it up, shoved your pants down just enough to reveal the tattoo on your hip. “I want one of you inside me while I’m watching the ink disappear.”

Ilya’s eyes dropped immediately. “Then lie down.”

Shane’s breath stuttered.

“Ilya,” he said softly.

Ilya turned to him. “You want her?”

Shane nodded.

“Then take her.”

You took Shane’s hand and ran.

The bedroom was still messy from last night. Sheets twisted. One pillow on the floor. The weight of everything still lingering in the air.

You didn’t care.

Shane pushed you down gently, then knelt over you.

You both stripped - fast, hungry, hands brushing, mouths dragging.

Ilya stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching like a man who owned the room. And everything in it.

You were already wet.

Shane’s mouth traced over your hip first. Over the gauze. Over the ink.

He whispered something like awe. Then kissed it.

You hooked your legs around him. Pulled him in.

And the moment he slid inside—

You moaned, “Fuck—yes, right there.”

Shane was panting already, trying not to move too fast. Trying to memorise how this felt.

“Look at her,” Ilya growled. “See how her mouth opens for you.”

Shane did. And thrust deeper.

You arched, dragging your nails down his back.

“Right there,” you gasped again. “That’s where the tattoo is—fuck, I can feel it.”

Ilya stepped forward. “You think I should touch her while you are inside?”

Shane looked up, wide-eyed, flushed.

You grinned. “Do it.”

Ilya’s hand slid across your stomach. Found your clit like he’d been there a hundred times. He circled you just right, slow and devastating.

“Together,” he said. “You come with him inside and then I fuck you again before you get on plane.”

You nodded wildly.

Shane whimpered. “She’s so tight—fuck—”

You grabbed his face. “Don’t stop.”

You came first, shaking, gasping, hips lifting.

Shane came with your name in his mouth and Ilya’s hand still between your legs.

It was filthy and reverent and fast, but perfect. And then—

Ilya unbuckled his pants.

“You are not done.”

He didn’t rush it. He never did when it mattered.

You were still breathless, body loose and open, warmth lingering deep inside you from Shane - evidence of him still there, trickling out of your pussy. Your heart was pounding hard enough it felt bruising, every nerve lit and oversensitive.

Shane stayed close, like he wasn’t willing to give up his place. His hands never left you. His mouth kept finding yours: slow, lingering kisses that tasted like sweat and salt and devotion, like he was grounding himself in you while you came back down.

Then Ilya moved in behind you.

Heavy. Certain.

His weight settled against you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other sliding deliberately over your hip - over the bandage, the new ink beneath it - his thumb pressing there like a quiet claim. Like he wanted you to feel everything at once.

His voice dropped. Low. Rough. Possessive.

“You feel incredible like this,” he murmured. “Still full of him. Still shaking. Both of you so fucking beautiful I can barely think.”

You felt him fit in behind you without hurry, without apology, claiming the space Shane had left behind without erasing it, like he wanted the proof of him there, wanted you to feel how completely the three of you overlapped.

Shane made a quiet sound against your mouth, something wrecked and soft, and kissed you harder.

Ilya’s grip tightened on your hip.

“I love you,” he said, steady and unflinching. “I love both of you. I do not care how messy it is. Or who knows. I do not care what it costs.”

His breath brushed your ear.

“You are mine.”

Shane nodded against your lips, whispering, “We know,” like it wasn’t a question, like it was already settled.

You arched back into Ilya without thinking, instinct taking over, every movement sharp with sensation - aware of Shane’s cum still inside you, aware of Ilya behind you, aware of how undeniably this moment belonged to all three of you.

Ilya kissed the back of your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“You will not forget this,” he said. “When you are on that plane. When I am driving away. You remember how you felt. How full. You remember who you belong to.”

You pulled Shane closer, fists in his shirt, kissing him like you might never get another chance - desperate, open, everything unsaid spilling out through your mouth.

And when it finally ended - slow, inevitable, trembling - the three of you stayed tangled together, breathing each other in like oxygen, bodies still connected by heat and memory and proof.

The clock kept ticking. The world waited. But for those few minutes—

Nothing else existed.

Chapter Text

You weren’t even supposed to be here.

None of you were. Not in this city, not in this hotel, not in the middle of a snowstorm that grounded both their flights and turned what was supposed to be two separate departures into one accidental layover.

Somewhere between the airport shuttle and the lobby espresso bar, the three of you had collectively decided not to fight it.

Shane had muttered something about the hockey gods being chaotic bisexuals. Ilya had rolled his eyes and told him that sounded like a sex position. You had laughed so hard you dropped your coffee and they both had scrambled to clean it up like you were royalty.

Now, here you were.

In the hotel lobby, mid-afternoon, where no one was really paying attention.

Except, someone was.

You were wearing Ilya’s hoodie, sleeves bunched at your wrists, the hem falling long and low on your thighs. Shane’s team cap was tugged down over your eyes, casting shadows you didn’t bother to correct.

Ilya stood behind you, hands casually resting on your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shane was trying (badly) to show you a video on his phone of a goal from two seasons ago; something about proving a point. But you weren’t really listening. You were leaning into Ilya, into home.

And he, in the most deadpan Russian-accented English imaginable, said:

“You two keep misbehaving like this, you know what happens.”

Shane blinked. “What happens?”

Ilya’s hand slid down his back, fingers just a little too low, just a little too familiar. He leaned in, voice a murmur of silk and threat:

“Punishment. Later. Both of you.”

You wheezed. Shane choked on air. Ilya grinned, sharp and proud. You bumped shoulders, eyes laughing, everything warm. You didn’t see the girl with her phone out behind the pillar.

____________

Six Hours Later

Hotel room. Lights low. Dinner containers empty on the table. The sound of the city dulled by double-glazed glass.

Your phones started buzzing.

All three.

First Shane’s. Then yours. Then Ilya’s.

Text after text. Ping after ping.

You unlocked yours first.

Your face. Shane’s hat on your head. Ilya’s hoodie hanging off you. His hand unmistakably on Shane’s lower back. And all of you looking at each other like nothing else in the world mattered.

Shane made a panicked noise, like he’d been stabbed.

Ilya’s jaw clenched. “What the fuck—”

“Twitter,” Shane said, white-faced, already swiping through mentions. “It’s everywhere.”

You looked at the photo. And smiled.

“You’re smiling?” Shane snapped.

Ilya growled, Russian cursing sharp and quiet. “Give me name of this photographer. I will crush her phone with my hands.”

“She was behind a pillar, who even notices this shit?!”

“I told you—told you—people see.”

“And now the whole world thinks—”

“Thinks what?” You stood, stepped between them. “That we’re in love? That we’re happy?”

They both froze.

You held your phone up.

“Look at us. Look at this.”

They did.

You moved closer. Shane’s hand found yours. Ilya’s arm curled around your waist. You could feel both their heartbeats in the space between your ribs.

“I want people to see,” you said, voice steady. “I want them to know.”

Shane’s breath hitched. “It’s not safe.”

“Fuck safe,” Ilya said. “This—” He pointed between the three of you. “This is real.”

“I’m tired of hiding,” you whispered. “I want this out there. You don’t?”

Shane looked down. “I do.”

You turned to Ilya.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

You nodded. “Then we make a plan.”

And just like that—

The next chapter began.

___________

The phones had finally stopped buzzing. The takeout boxes were cold, uneaten on the table. The photo had done its damage. And now, the three of you sat on the edge of the hotel bed, legs tangled, breaths uneven, like survivors of something you hadn’t yet named.

Shane’s hands were fists on his knees.

He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute; not since he’d whispered I do when you asked if he wanted people to know. But it hadn’t been an easy yes.

Not for him.

Not for the boy who’d hidden half his life behind the steel bars of locker rooms and media training, behind the uniform, the rivalry, the perfect Canadian hockey poster-boy smile.

You reached out and rested your hand over his.

He flinched like it startled him but didn’t pull away.

Ilya was on your other side, arms crossed, jaw set like he was waiting to fight someone, and if no one showed up, he’d take the fight to their front door.

His foot bumped Shane’s, lightly. A reminder. I’m here.

Finally, Shane broke the silence.

“They’re gonna rip us apart.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Some might.”

“No, not some.” He gave a dry laugh. “Most. You’ve seen the way they talk. It’ll be everywhere tomorrow. My agent’s gonna—fuck, I don’t even know—probably call my mom, tell her to shut off her phone, or change her number—”

Ilya cut in, voice calm, steely: “If your agent calls your mother to manage your sexuality, I punch him through wall.”

Shane blinked. “You think I’m out? This picture doesn’t just out us as a throuple, it outs me. Us. You’re Russian. You don’t even flinch at this?”

Ilya turned, eyes sharp.

“I flinch when someone tries to hurt us. Not before. Never for this.”

Shane scoffed, looking down again. His voice was thinner now, more uncertain.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

You leaned forward, turned his face toward you with two fingers under his chin.

“You don’t have to know,” you said, softly. “That’s the point. We’re going to figure it out together. All of it.”

His eyes were glassy.

“Everything’s going to change.”

You smiled, sad and true. “It already has.”

He reached for you then, arms around your waist, face tucked into your shoulder. You felt the tremble in his breath as it left him.

Ilya shifted closer too. One broad hand on Shane’s back. Then on yours.

You were one closed circuit. A single breath shared between three bodies. Three hearts.

When Shane pulled back, his voice was steadier.

“I want people to know. Not because I’m ready. But because I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like I’m doing something wrong every time I touch one of you.”

Ilya nodded, like that he understood. “You are never wrong for love.”

You swallowed. “Then we tell the truth.”

They both looked at you.

You clarified, slowly. “We control it. No leaks. No rumours. We pick the moment. We make it ours.”

Shane blinked. “How?”

“We keep living our lives. We let them wonder for a few days. Let it build. Then…”

Ilya caught on instantly. “We post it.”

You nodded.

“Not a statement. Not a press conference. Just a picture. Or two.”

Shane shook his head. “They’ll ask. We’ll get hounded. What if someone says something ugly in an interview?”

Ilya’s tone didn’t waver. “Then I say uglier back. In four languages.”

You reached for Shane’s face, kissed his cheek. “We’ll be there. Every step.”

He nodded slowly.

“I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Ilya grinned, sharp. “Good. Because now they’ll never unsee us.”

And you?You took both their hands. Pressed them together. And said the only thing that mattered:

“Together. Always.”

_________

You planned the interview like a heist. Quiet. Intentional. Strategic.

Ilya sat in the media room of a Russian sports channel, old team colours in the background, a neutral suit tailored within an inch of its life. His tie was perfect. His posture? A warning.

This was not a man accidentally about to upend decades of professional hockey culture. This was a man choosing to.

The interviewer started off with the usual: his off-season training, team dynamics, rivalry tensions, championship hopes. Ilya answered smoothly. Measured.

But then, as if reading from a script only the two of you had seen coming:

“Rozanov, forgive me for switching topics, but fans always want to know—is there someone special in your life?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift in his chair.
Just answered, low and clear.

“Da. Actually, two someones.”

The interviewer blinked.

“You mean…?”

Ilya didn’t smirk. Just stared him down with that glint in his eye: the same one that came out when a puck dropped or when you moaned his name.

“No, I am not joking. They are the best part of my life. I have never felt more like myself than when I am with them.”

The interviewer tried to pivot, tried to clean it up.

Ilya didn’t let him. The rest of the interview was a blur.

_____________

Two Hours Later:

The clip hit Twitter. Then Instagram. Then TikTok. #Rozanov trended for five hours straight. At first, people assumed mistranslation. Then the Russian-English bilinguals chimed in.

“Nope. I speak Russian. He’s 100% serious. He’s got TWO partners. And he’s SMILING.”

Fans started digging. It didn’t take long to find the hotel photo. The hoodie. The hat. The hand on the lower back. The smile.

The narrative exploded.

Some ugly. But some—

Some pure gold.

“I don’t care how many goals he scores. If Rozanov is fighting homophobia AND monogamy at once? He wins.”

“Shane better be one of them. That’s all I’m saying.”

“That woman looks like she could destroy me and I would thank her.”

___________

That Night

You and Shane curled up on the couch in the apartment you barely had time to share. He was wearing sweatpants and nerves. You were wearing his shirt, curled into his side, phone glowing in your hand.

Ilya had already texted from a timezone ahead: “Do it now.”

Shane was frozen.

You kissed his jaw. “We don’t have to write anything. Just show them who we are.”

He took a breath. Nodded.

You posted first.

A quiet photo. The backs of both men’s necks. Your hands around them. Ilya’s lips brushing Shane’s temple. Soft lighting. Peace. No caption.

Shane posted next.

His palm open. Yours in it. The edge of Ilya’s tattoo visible on your hip, your shirt hiked just enough to reveal it. Still no caption. But his location tag said it all: Home.

___________

The internet erupted. And this time? Something shifted.

Sure, the die-hards barked. The old-school fans muttered. But beneath that? The avalanche of love.

“I’ve never seen three people look more right together.”

“Okay but the tenderness? The tattoo???”
“This just healed something in me I didn’t know was broken.”

“I hope they live forever and fuck forever and win forever.”

You and Shane watched the numbers roll in.

He stared at the screen, stunned.

You leaned in, whispered against his ear.

“People see us.”

Ilya’s reply came seconds later to the group chat. A photo. His hand wrapped around a glass of vodka.

Caption: “My turn again soon.”

You, smiling: “Always.”

_____________

It started with a warning. A text from Shane’s agent at 6:12 a.m.

“Management wants a meeting. No media. Just you. Don’t speak to anyone until then.”

By 6:14, Shane was pacing the kitchen in a pair of boxers and a hoodie that wasn’t his. His hands wouldn’t stop moving. The coffee pot hadn’t even finished brewing.

You sat on the edge of the couch, Ilya’s arm draped around your shoulder like a seatbelt, watching Shane unravel by the second.

“They’re going to spin this,” Shane muttered, jaw tight. “They’re going to say it’s a distraction. That I’m mentally unstable. That I—I don’t care about the game.”

“They won’t,” you said.

“They will,” he snapped. “Because that’s what they do when they don’t understand something. They make it the player’s fault.”

You stood slowly, walked over, placed your hands on his hips, grounding.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered.

Ilya’s voice, behind you, low and lethal: “They want war, they can try.”

The meeting was cold. Three suits. One team psychologist. No open hostility, just an ocean of suggestion.

Maybe he should lay low. Step back from interviews. Let the media cycle burn out.

No one said “closet.” But they said “focus.” They said “messaging.” They said “optics.”

Shane nodded. Once. Left without a word.

He didn’t give another post-game interview for three weeks.

___________

You and Ilya flew in that night. Didn’t even tell him until you landed. You found him alone in his apartment, lights dim, replaying old game footage like it could fix something. His eyes were red-rimmed. His voice was a whisper when he said your name.

You climbed into bed with him fully clothed.
Ilya crawled in behind.

None of you slept. But Shane, he breathed.

The NHL said nothing. Not a single comment. Not even a corporate tweet about “love is love.”

But the fans? God, the fans. The queer fans roared.

Tumblr exploded in reblogs and speculation and fanart that made you blush and laugh in equal measure. Twitter was flooded with gifs. Reddit threads ballooned with theories and analysis and people who suddenly felt seen.

“Shane Hollander being in a throuple is not on my 2025 bingo card but I would die for this man now.”

“Ilya Rozanov defending his partners like a Russian lion?? Inject it.”

“They make me believe in everything.”

#ThroupleGoals trended for days. Ilya’s jersey sales broke team records. You were suddenly, inexplicably, on a list of “most searched sports-adjacent personalities.”

The media frenzy was relentless. But in the eye of it—

There was you. There was Shane. There was Ilya. And Ilya? He didn’t stay quiet.

____________

He didn’t ask permission. Just walked into the media room post-game, hair still wet, towel around his neck. No PR rep. No cue cards. He leaned on the podium like it was a bar and stared down every camera in the room.

“You do not have to like it. But you will respect it. This is love. I am better player, better man, because of them. If you do not want to cheer for me anymore? Don’t. But I am not ashamed.”

“Say what you want. I will still show up. And I will still win.”

He walked out without another word.

Some players were quiet. Some were worse.
A few took to social media to whine about “politics” in sports. A few made jokes behind closed doors.

It stung.

You held Shane that night as he scrolled, silent.

Ilya kissed your shoulder, once, and said in Russian, “Let them choke on their own fear.”

But then—

Something shifted. A player from a rival team liked your photo. Another commented with a heart on Shane’s post. A young rookie posted a selfie in Rozanov’s jersey and simply wrote: “Courage.”

It wasn’t perfect. It was warped, raw, still risky. But as you stood in the doorway one night and watched Shane laugh - genuinely laugh - as Ilya mocked a teammate’s terrible playoff mustache while flipping pancakes in your kitchen?

You knew.

This wasn’t about PR. This was about freedom. About truth. And most of all—

About love.

_____________

It started like any normal summer day in the off-season: too hot, too bright, and already derailed by Ilya’s refusal to let Shane wear a baseball cap with cargo shorts in public.

You were halfway through your second iced coffee when Shane muttered “fashion dictator” under his breath.

Ilya, not missing a beat, leaned in and purred, “You like when I dictate things.”

You nearly choked on ice. Shane turned red from collar to ears.

“Behave,” you warned, already amused and dangerously outnumbered.

Ilya shrugged. “Is off-season. I refuse.”

The three of you hit Newbury Street like you owned it.

Ilya was in black head to toe: sunglasses, designer tee, something cologne-y and expensive that made you want to press your face into his chest.

Shane? He’d tried to tone it down. Fitted jeans, vintage Raiders tee he absolutely wore to antagonise Ilya, and a smirk he didn’t know what to do with half the time.

You? You were the one on a mission.

Charity event tomorrow. Big. Formal. Black tie. Photos. Interviews. Paparazzi in discreet black SUVs already sniffing around.

This would be your first official public event with both of them at your side.

You were going to need a dress that said:

Yes, I’m with them. No, I’m not choosing. And yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.

____________

You were three stores in when things started to slide sideways.

You’d tried on three dresses already - safe, elegant, forgettable. Ilya had told you they were “acceptable.” Shane had said you looked beautiful in all of them, which wasn’t helpful.

Then you found it.

Not red, not black. Something unholy and metallic and cut to ruin lives. The kind of dress that had a mission statement.

Ilya’s eyes went dark the moment you stepped out of the changing room.

Shane swallowed hard. “That one.”

You turned slowly, letting them both see every inch.

Ilya stood and crossed the boutique in four steps. Slid one hand along your waist, dipped his head to murmur at your ear:

“You wear this tomorrow? I will have to leave event early. No self-control left.”

Shane was still seated, legs spread, hands slack between his thighs like he didn’t trust them.

You smiled wickedly. Then turned, looked between them.

“You two are real quiet.”

Shane’s mouth parted. “You look…”

Ilya cut him off. “Like problem. Big one.”

You disappeared back into the changing room to test the dress under different lighting. Behind the curtain, you shimmied slowly out of it, lingering. And just as you hung it on the hook, you heard it.

A soft sound. A groan.

You peered through the gap in the curtain.

Ilya was standing behind Shane now. Close. Too close. One of his hands on Shane’s shoulder. His lips brushing against Shane’s neck, low voice rumbling:

“You want to bend her over tomorrow night? Let them all see how sweet she looks, then make her messy after.”

Shane made a choked sound. You bit your fist to stay quiet.

Ilya continued, merciless.

“She will wear heels. That dress. Nothing under it.”

“You think we can behave, Hollander?”

You yanked the curtain open like a storm. Both men looked up, caught mid-scandal.

You arched a brow. “You two start without me?”

Ilya grinned, completely unrepentant.

Shane blushed again.

You walked straight up to them, kissed Ilya first - deep, filthy, possessive. Then kissed Shane slower, with just enough tongue to make him tremble.

“Let’s go pay for the dress,” you said. “We’ve got trouble to plan.”

______________

You’d expected chaos.

You’d expected one of them to be shirtless, maybe Shane fussing with his tie while Ilya wandered barefoot around the kitchen cursing about cufflinks. You’d expected noise.

Instead, you stepped out of the bedroom and nearly dropped dead.

They were already dressed. Not just dressed, transcendent.

Twin tuxedos tailored within an inch of sin. Ilya in midnight black, deep charcoal lapels with a flash of metallic silver in his pocket square. Shane in storm grey, sleek and quiet, a matching glint at his cuff that shimmered when he turned toward the light.

Both of them, facing the mirror. Both of them, yours.

Ilya caught your reflection first. He turned.

Shane turned with him.

And the way they looked at you—

Like the world had just tipped off its axis. Like the only thing that made sense was you, in that dress, barefoot in your own hallway, mouth slightly parted and frozen in place.

Ilya whistled low, stepped forward.

“You are going to kill people tonight,” he said, voice rough. “We will fight them off with knives.”

Shane just stared, blinking slow.

“Can we not go?” he asked, dazed.

Ilya grinned. “We have to go. But…”

He looked you up and down.

“You kneel for us now, maybe we walk in on time.”

Your lips curled. You sank to your knees - slow, deliberate - never breaking eye contact.

Both men went perfectly still.

You ran your hands up the insides of their thighs, just enough to see their breath catch.

“Just wanted to see what kind of trouble I’d get into if I started the night like this,” you purred.

Shane made a strangled noise.

Ilya smirked, flexed his hands once like he was physically restraining himself.

You stood smoothly, dusted your knees off with your palms.

“Well,” you said, voice feather-light. “Now you’ll both behave. Or I won’t finish later.”

Ilya’s laugh was low and dangerous.

“Cruel woman.”

Shane still hadn’t recovered. “You’re going to be the end of me.”

You kissed both of them. Light. Lingering. Lipstick transferring with promise.

Then picked up your heels.

“Come on, gentlemen. Time to make headlines.”

____________

The car door opened to a wall of flashes.

You stepped out first, hand in Ilya’s, the shimmer of your metallic dress catching every camera on instinct. The photographers murmured, then started to roar.

Because Shane stepped out after. And he took your other hand.

You hadn’t briefed the press. Hadn’t done a rollout or statement. Just three perfectly dressed people - coordinated, calm, unmistakable - walking the red carpet together.

You walked between them. Ilya solid as steel at your left. Shane straight-backed and jaw-tight at your right.

The crowd swallowed the moment whole. There were calls for photos, questions shouted, camera lights blinking like lightning. You paused at the step-and-repeat. Turned slightly. Let both men stand behind you.

And the moment froze into art.

Ilya with a single hand around your waist.
Shane with his palm resting between your shoulder blades. You, the axis they orbited.

A flashbulb storm.

Then came the interviews. The reporter was seasoned, polished. She smiled wide, mic in hand, earpiece gleaming.

“And here they are—the throuple everyone’s talking about. Rozanov, Hollander, and their lovely girlfriend—” she beamed at you, “—tell us, how did this come together?”

You smiled sweetly.

But Shane cut in first.

“She’s not our girlfriend.”

Then Ilya, deadpan:
“She is our heart.”

The reporter blinked, thrown.

You stepped forward slightly, voice like warm honey.
“Three parts. One whole.”

Shane slipped his hand back into yours.
Ilya kissed your temple right there, in front of everyone.

The reporter opened her mouth again.
Closed it.

You all smiled for one more photo.

Then walked in.

___________

The ballroom was gold and cream, chandeliers glittering above tables set for too many courses. People turned the second you entered. Some did double takes. Others whispered. Some watched without blinking.

Your table was near the front.

Ilya pulled out your chair. Shane adjusted the napkin in your lap with a quiet, reverent kind of care.

You weren’t used to this. The attention, the scrutiny. But with them at your sides? You could’ve stood on a stage in flames and felt safe.

People came up in waves. Some familiar faces - fellow athletes, old teammates, a few brave celebrities who shook your hand like you were a queen.

More than one fan approached carefully.
Eyes wide. Voice hushed. Each of them whispered some variation of:

“Thank you for being visible.”

“You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Please don’t stop.”

It made Shane’s throat work visibly. Made Ilya squeeze your thigh under the table. Made you want to cry.

Not everyone was kind, of course.

Some looks were sharp. Some laughs were mean. And one older man whispered something acidic as he passed.

You didn’t even react. But Shane’s jaw clenched. And Ilya didn’t blink, just leaned across you and said, cool as vodka:

“He say something again, I break his teeth on centerpiece.”

You almost spit your wine.

Shane laughed. Then laughed harder when Ilya winked.

Dinner came and went. Courses blurred together. But it was warm. It was yours.

Then the music started. Slow, elegant, designed for fundraising optics and photo-ops.

You stood, offered your hand.

Ilya took it.

Shane watched, already smiling.

You walked to the dance floor together.

Ilya led.

He was devastating in a tux - black-eyed, loose-limbed, letting his hands roam a little lower than was strictly appropriate.

“This dance for Shane?” he asked softly, head bent near your ear.

You smiled. “Of course.”

He nodded once. “Good. We give him show.”

And you did. The kind of dance that simmered. Slow turns, dips that lingered.

You laughed, lips brushing Ilya’s cheek. And when you looked over his shoulder, you found Shane exactly where you wanted him.

Watching. Lit by gold. Eyes hungry. Smile soft. You let your dress slide just enough. Tilted your head back and let him see you be his.

The music softened into something slower. Older. Sinatra, maybe, or something like it. The lights had dimmed just enough to paint the room in amber.

You and Ilya were still moving as one - his arm snug around your waist, his body all heat and muscle, everything he did a promise. But as the next song started, you felt him still.

And then Shane’s hands slid lightly onto your hips from behind. He pressed close.

“I want in,” he said, quiet, already breathless.

You reached back for him instinctively, fingers tangling in his. Ilya turned his head, chin tilted slightly, and kissed Shane without hesitation.

A deep kiss. No show. No fear. It was slow and sure and felt like coming home.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. You stood between them - your boys - heart held on either side.

And when Ilya broke the kiss, he looked at both of you and said it first:

“I love you. Both of you. So fucking much.”

Shane blinked, throat working.

Then nodded, once, hard.

“I love you.”

Then to you, breath shaky:

“I love you.”

You kissed them both.

One hand at Ilya’s jaw. One on Shane’s chest.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Forever.”

The three of you swayed together - public, unashamed, one closed circle of devotion.

Your bodies moved in rhythm with the slow pulse of the room. Hands at waists. Fingers at the nape of necks. Ilya’s knuckles stroking your spine, Shane pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And you, you watched them watching each other.

You saw it. The awe. The joy. The peace.

The song shifted again. Another slow one.

You stepped back. Both of them looked instantly alert.

“I’m sitting this one out,” you said, smiling softly. “Go dance with each other. I want to watch.”

Shane hesitated.

Ilya offered his hand.

You turned to Shane and gently nudged him toward it.

“Go,” you said. “Let me see you like this.”

Shane’s fingers slipped into Ilya’s. He looked like he might break.

Ilya pulled him close with practiced ease. And then they danced. The world didn’t explode. The ceiling didn’t collapse. But something changed anyway.

They weren’t graceful. Not at first. Ilya led a little too aggressively, Shane stumbled once, laughing under his breath.

But it didn’t matter. They found their rhythm.

You sat at the edge of the room, head in your hands, smiling like an idiot. Because this was the truth. Not rumours. Not tabloid blur. Just this—

Two men falling into each other, And you, watching, loving, belonging.

___________

The limo door shut behind you and the outside world vanished. Streetlights streaked across the tinted windows. The partition slid up with a hum, sealing you off from the driver. And then there was nothing but velvet dark, city glow, and you.

You were already in the centre of the seat, legs tucked beneath you, heels kicked off, dress hitched high from dancing. Ilya sat at your left, thigh pressed against yours, one arm slung over the back of the seat like he needed to touch you to breathe.

Shane was across from you, tie loose, cheeks still pink from the ballroom heat and the way he’d stared at you all night like you were magic made flesh.

For a full five seconds, no one said anything. Then Shane broke into a grin - sharp, boyish, a little disbelieving.

“We really just did that.”

Ilya’s mouth curled lazily. “We did it well.”

You laughed, head dropping back, your hand reaching out for both of them.

“We slayed it.”

Ilya huffed, unimpressed. “Is that real word?”

“It is when we look that good.”

Shane leaned forward, catching your hand, eyes brighter than you’d seen in weeks. “You looked unreal.”

Ilya’s voice dropped, all gravel and promise. “Still do.”

He turned to you, fingers trailing the line of your exposed thigh.

“You are not real,” he murmured, like a secret. “But we will keep you anyway.”

You smiled, breath catching.

Shane’s hand moved to your ankle, gentle, grounding. “I felt like we were flying out there.”

You leaned into Ilya’s chest, let your bare toes graze Shane’s calf.

“That’s what it feels like,” you said, voice low. “When no one owns us.”

Ilya’s jaw flexed. He tugged you closer.

“No more hiding,” he said.

Shane’s eyes met yours. “Ever.”

You could feel it, all of it - the rush, the defiance, the weightless thrill of truth. No games, no waiting, no fear. Just three people in a moving car, full of light and adrenaline and something close to awe.

“I want more nights like this,” you whispered.

Ilya bent his head to kiss your shoulder. “You will have them.”

Shane nudged your knee with his. “We all will.”

You smiled, radiant and certain.

The lights of Boston flickered through the windows. And inside that car, wrapped in each other’s warmth and want and wonder, you were finally free.

___________

The second you got back home, everything snapped.

Ilya pressed you to the wall before you even reached the entryway mirror. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and devouring, his hands already on your hips, pulling you tight to him like he was trying to anchor himself to your skin. His kiss wasn’t careful; it was claiming. You moaned against his mouth, fingers clutching at his jacket.

Behind him, Shane kicked the door shut with his heel, letting it slam with finality. His tie was gone, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes dark with the same desire you’d seen simmering under the gala lights all night.

“God,” he breathed, watching you trapped between Ilya and the wall, breathless and radiant. “Watching you both out there—I almost lost it.”

You reached for him blindly, still tangled in Ilya’s arms. “Then come here and lose it.”

Shane didn’t walk; he grabbed. His hand tangled in your hair and he pulled you into a kiss of his own, lips softer than Ilya’s but no less demanding. You whimpered against him, one arm reaching back for Ilya, needing to feel both of them at once.

“Bedroom,” Ilya growled against your shoulder, his hand sliding under your dress. “Now.”

You barely made it that far.

Your dress hit the hallway floor in a silky puddle. Shane’s jacket followed. Ilya’s belt clinked as it came loose and he caught your wrist with it as you walked past the stairs.

You froze.

His gaze was heavy on yours. “You want this?”

Your breath caught. “Yes.”

Shane’s fingers brushed your waist. “Yes.”

Ilya nodded once. “Do not run.”

He pulled the belt loose - not to bind, not yet - but to drag it across your skin, slow and deliberate. The sound of leather against your thigh made you shiver.

By the time you reached the bed, all three of you were down to skin and breath and heat.

Ilya sat on the edge of the mattress, legs wide, arms open. “Come here.”

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees straddling his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. He kissed your throat, your jaw, your lips, every motion soaking in reverence and hunger. Shane knelt behind you, trailing kisses down your spine, palms spreading you open just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Fuck,” Shane whispered. “You’re soaked.”

You moaned.

Ilya pulled back just far enough to nod at him. “Let her feel your mouth.”

Shane didn’t need to be told twice. He shifted lower, spreading your thighs gently, his mouth pressing to your core with that impossible sweetness he always gave you at first before he wrecked you.

You gasped, head falling forward against Ilya’s chest.

“Look at me,” Ilya said softly, tilting your chin up with one hand.

You obeyed, even as your hips bucked against Shane’s mouth, even as his tongue found that perfect rhythm, slow and deep, his fingers gripping your thighs to keep you from moving too fast.

“You let him worship you,” Ilya murmured. “You take it.”

You did. You took every flick of Shane’s tongue over your clit, every gasp he dragged from your lungs, trembling under both their hands.

And then, Ilya’s fingers joined in.

Slid between into your pussy, rubbing slow circles just above where Shane’s mouth devoured you.

You screamed, body jerking, hands clawing at Ilya’s shoulders.

“Da,” he growled. “Come for us. Now.”

You shattered - shaking, breath gone, thighs clenched around Shane’s head as you came hard, your whole body collapsing forward into Ilya’s arms.

Shane kissed your inner thigh, breath hot and wrecked. “Holy shit.”

Ilya leaned back, hands stroking your spine. “Good girl. Now lie down.”

You moved automatically, dazed and glowing, as Shane helped you stretch across the bed.

Ilya stood, stroking his cock once, twice, eyes fixed on you.

“You want more?”

“Yes,” you rasped.

Shane came up beside you, kissing your temple. “You want us both?”

You nodded, legs already spreading. “God, yes.”

Ilya climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. “Then take me first.”

He pressed into you with one slow thrust - deep, so deep you gasped. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering as he filled you.

Shane stroked your hair, kissed your chest. “I’ve got you.”

Ilya started to move - thrusting slow and hard, like he had all night to remind your body it belonged to him.

And then—

“Turn her,” Ilya ordered.

Shane helped you roll to your side, Ilya still inside you, his hips following every shift. Shane pressed behind you now, his cock hard against your lower back.

“Touch her,” Ilya said. “Rub her while I fuck her.”

Shane slid his hand between your thighs again, rubbing in slow circles while Ilya fucked you harder, your moans muffled against Shane’s neck.

You were incoherent. Writhing. Close again.

“You are going to come again,” Ilya said, voice raw. “And then I am going to fill you. You will take all of it. Both of us. Every drop.”

You came with Shane’s name on your lips, Ilya’s thrusts sending you over the edge again, sobbing with the force of it.

Ilya cursed in Russian, body shaking as he followed, spilling into you with a sound that was more growl than breath.

He didn’t pull out right away. He kissed you slow, deep, possessive.

Then leaned back with a smirk. “Shane.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

He rolled onto his back, pulled you with him, guided Shane between your thighs.

“You ride him,” he said. “I keep you open while you do.”

And you did - body spent but greedy, moving with slow, desperate need as Shane entered you, his hands gripping your hips.

Ilya’s hands never left your skin. His fingers found your clit again, even as Shane fucked you, even as your moans tangled with his, even as you begged for one more—

And when Shane came, gripping you like you were the only thing holding him together, you came again with him, collapsing between their bodies, ruined, loved, full.

Later, when the sheets were kicked to the floor, when your legs were jelly and your voice was gone, Ilya pulled you both into his chest.

No more words. No more ceremony. Just hands. Just breath. Just the heat of two bodies curled around his, exactly where you belonged.

Exactly who you were. Unhidden. Unapologetic.

Chapter Text

Ilya

The line was long.

Too long for this hour, too loud for this level of decaf, and far too bright after a flight that landed before dawn. But he was here because he was awake, and because you were still asleep, and because Shane drinks the kind of instant coffee that should be declared a crime in at least three countries.

He stood quietly. Ballcap low. Hoodie zipped. Phone untouched.

The man ahead of him was debating cream cheese spreads with the cashier like it was a life-altering decision. Ilya didn’t sigh; at least, not loud enough to be heard.

And then he felt it. That shift in atmosphere. Like eyes turning toward him all at once.
A tiny breath in the air behind him, like someone gasping through their teeth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He knew how this goes. He knew what was coming.

The girl was the first one to speak.

“Oh my god,” she said, quietly at first. Then louder: “Oh my god, you’re—Ilya Rozanov.”

He turned slowly.

She was with a group - three others, maybe four, mid-20s, jackets half-open, eyes wide.

He nodded. Nothing more.

One of the guys took a cautious step forward. “Dude. You’re…you’re amazing. You were insane this season.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Is compliment or insult?”

The guy laughed nervously. “No—no, it’s a compliment. Huge fan. Seriously.”

The girl beside him elbowed him. “Are you gonna ask for a photo or just stand there blushing like an idiot?”

They all laughed. It was awkward. Nervous. But not hostile.

Still, Ilya waited. Waited for the tone shift. For the joke. For the dig. He’d heard it all recently.

Freak.
Distraction.
Thirst trap with skates.
Greedy.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, the second girl - the one in a half-zipped Metros hoodie, of all things - smiled up at him and says:

“I saw your interview. The one where you said, ‘this is love.’ It was beautiful.”

Ilya blinked.

Another spoke, “Your whole thing? With your partners? You’re, like… relationship goals.”

He blinked again.

“I don’t know what this means,” he admitted, honestly. “But you are not yelling, so I say thank you.”

They all laughed again. A warm sound. Familiar. Not unlike the sound you and Shane make when he says something that’s both endearing and deeply weird.

The girl stepped forward, hesitant. “Can we take a picture with you? Is that okay?”

Ilya nodded. One by one, they posed beside him. No one made a joke. No one muttered anything cruel.

When they were done, he got to the counter, ordered three coffees and by the time he was waiting with the receipt tucked between his fingers, the barista glances up and said, “Nice hoodie.”

He looked down. It was yours. A little small on him. Smelled like your shampoo. He huffed a soft breath. Not quite a smile.
But close.

____________

The apartment smelled like laundry and expensive takeout and that one candle Shane kept pretending he didn’t buy for “vibes.” The heat was on just a little too high because Shane always runs cold and the TV played on low - some sports show muttering about statistics like it mattered.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, one foot tucked under the opposite knee, oversized hoodie on (Ilya’s, obviously), and a paperback half open in your lap.

Shane was stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankle, eyes glazed at the screen.

Neither of you noticed the door at first.

Then—

“What is…relationship goals?”

The voice came from the middle of the living room. Unnatural. Robotic. Completely suspicious.

You looked up.

And immediately lost it. Your laugh burst out loud, startled, echoing off the ceiling.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “Why do you sound like you’re trying to hack a password?”

Shane blinked over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Ilya was standing exactly where he stopped - just inside the apartment, beanie still on, holding three coffees like it was his only defense.

He looked troubled.

“What happened to you?” you asked, wiping your eyes.

“I was attacked,” he said.

Shane sat up straighter, instantly alert. “Wait—what?”

“I was recognised. While in line.”

You and Shane exchanged a look. Not uncommon.

“And?” you prompt.

Ilya frowned harder.

“And they were…very nice to me.”

A beat. He strode over, placed the coffees on the table with quiet purpose, and pulled off his beanie like it personally betrayed him.

“I do not understand,” he muttered, collapsing into the couch beside Shane. “They say I am ‘relationship goals.’ And then they smile. Take photos. Say they are happy.”

He gestured vaguely. “They even thank me. For saying I love you.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to grin again. “So let me get this straight—”

“Always with the puns,” Shane mumbles.

“—you were bracing for war in a coffee line and instead got fan appreciation and Gen Z slang?”

Ilya nodded solemnly. “Was terrifying.”

Shane laughed under his breath. “And you came straight home to report it like a man who’s seen battle.”

“It was four of them,” Ilya said, as if that’s a war crime.

You climbed onto the couch between them, legs draped over both their thighs, your head resting on Ilya’s shoulder.

“They were just proud of you, big guy,” you said softly. “Of us. That we’re not hiding.”

Ilya’s fingers found your calf, rubbed gentle circles. He still looked baffled.

“I thought they would be angry,” he says finally. “Disgusted. Throw something.”

“They didn’t,” Shane said, tone unusually soft. “That’s the point.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Maybe world not so broken.”

You snorted. “Don’t push it.”

He leaned his head back against the cushion. Let out a long breath. “Still. I am…surprised.”

Shane nudged him with an elbow. “Good surprise?”

A pause. Then, gruff but genuine:

“Very good.”

You kissed his shoulder, your voice full of that kind of warmth only the three of you know how to hold:

“Well get used to it, Rozanov. You’re trending again.”

“Is because I am handsome.”

“No,” Shane said dryly. “It’s because you said you love us on national television and didn’t set anything on fire.”

“Yet.”

____________

It started with your leg. Still stretched across both their laps - bare and warm and far too relaxed to be innocent.

Ilya’s fingers were at your calf, slow, idle. Shane’s was brushing absently just under the hem of your shorts. Not thinking, not trying; just muscle memory, the kind of familiar, casual contact that happens when three bodies are used to pressing together like puzzle pieces.

But after a while, the silence grew a little heavy.

Ilya’s hand moved up. Not too far. Just to your knee. But his fingers paused there. Circled. Strokes.

And Shane noticed. His palm settled on your thigh, still tentative, still safe. But firmer now. Deliberate.

You didn’t say a word. Just let your lips curl slow.

And then - casually, like you were adjusting your balance - you leaned forward and dropped your hand into Ilya’s lap.

Shane glanced over.

Ilya’s breath caught.

“Neposlushnyy kotenok,” he muttered - naughty kitten

You grinned and gave him a slow squeeze through the fabric of his sweatpants. Then turned to Shane.

“You boys alright?”

He swallowed. His face already turning red, but he didn’t look away. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

You tilted your head. “Am I?”

Ilya’s hand moved up your inner thigh.

“You started this,” you murmured. “With your…Relationship goals.”

“Is not real phrase,” Ilya grunted, cupping you boldly now. “Is punishment waiting to happen.”

Shane groaned under his breath. “Oh my god.”

You shifted, slowly crawling into Ilya’s lap, deliberately grinding against him as you went. His hands gripped your hips immediately, hard and hot through the thin fabric of your shorts. He was already half hard, cock pressing up against you, restrained only by will and sweatpants.

Shane stared. Breath caught.

So you reached out for him too. Hand sliding across the couch, teasing the waistband of his jeans. You felt the twitch there; how ready he was even from just watching.

“Still think I’m gonna get myself in trouble?” you asked.

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Definitely.”

Ilya’s mouth found your neck, hot and possessive. “Too late.”

You were grinding into him now, slowly, steadily, gasping softly every time his thigh pressed up just right.

Shane’s hand found your wrist where it teases him.

“Come here,” he said - voice low, rough - and pulled you across Ilya’s lap and into his own, until you were straddling him, your chest flush against his.

“You’re both ridiculous,” you said, even as your hips rolled once, twice, over him.

But you were breathless now.

So was Shane.

Ilya shifted behind you, hands wrapping around your waist from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. “Take them out,” he growled against your skin. “Both of us.”

You reached back. Slid your hand into Ilya’s sweatpants. Then forward, unzipping Shane’s jeans, pulling both of them free in your hands. They were hot and thick in your palms; already leaking for you, twitching when you squeezed just right.

You stroked them both in time, one in each hand, loving the gasps they tried - and failed - to stifle.

Shane moaned softly.

Ilya bit your shoulder.

You don’t stop moving. One hand wrapped around Shane’s cock, the other around Ilya’s, both hot and heavy in your fists - throbbing, leaking, aching for you.

Your hips ground down against Shane’s thigh as you pumped them slow, steady, stroking in time.

“You’re both so—” you panted, lips brushing Ilya’s jaw, “—good.”

Ilya groaned low in his throat, hips jerking forward into your grip. Shane’s head tipped back against the couch, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth parted as he choked out a quiet, “Fuck.”

The couch creaked beneath the three of you - knees pressed together, bodies touching, air too thick with heat and the kind of love that doesn’t care where it lands.

You squeezed them both again. Stroked tighter. Stroked faster.

And then - because you can - you guided their faces together.

They went willingly.

Shane leant in first, eyes still half-lidded from the feel of your hand. Ilya met him halfway - rough, sure, hungry. Their mouths collided just above you - moaning softly into each other as your fists twisted and slid along both of their cocks.

You nearly lost it at the sight.

Two gorgeous men, kissing like it’s a religion. Like it’s the only thing they’ve ever wanted. Ilya’s hand curled around the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him in deep. Shane’s fingers clutched your thigh, desperate and tight.

You pumped harder.

“You love this,” you whispered. “Being like this. Being mine.”

They groaned into each other’s mouths.

“Say it,” you demanded, kissing Ilya’s throat while your wrist flicked just the way he likes. “Say you’re mine.”

“Tvoya,” Ilya growled. “Always yours.”

Shane broke the kiss with a gasp. “Yes—fuck, yes—”

You felt him throb in your hand.

“Not yet,” you murmured, releasing your grip just enough to make him whine.

“Please,” Shane begged.

“Not until I say so,” you purred, squeezing both of them just shy of too tight. “You want to come like this, don’t you? Kissing each other while I make you both fall apart?”

Ilya pulled Shane back in and devoured him. Messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and control. Shane moaned into it, full-body shivering as your hands stroked them faster now; your thumbs swiping over their tips, spreading wetness.

They were close. So close.

“Now,” you whispered. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And they did.

Shane first: gasping, hips bucking helplessly, seed spilling into your palm.

Then Ilya: deep and guttural, growling into Shane’s mouth as he jerked forward, pulsing hard against your fingers.

You watched them both - lips locked, chests heaving - your hands still slow, coaxing every last twitch from them.

You didn’t even try to hide the pride in your voice.

“Good boys.”

____________

Nobody moved for a while.

Shane’s head was tipped back on the couch cushion, his shirt pushed halfway up his chest, the rise and fall of his breath still uneven. His cheeks were flushed, lips red from kissing Ilya like he needed him to survive.

Ilya’s body was loose beside him - long limbs sprawling, mouth parted, one arm slung low across your lap like he’d chain you down if he had to. His other hand hung between his knees, knuckles still pink from gripping the couch too hard.

Your palms were a mess - both of them - and so was your chest, your thighs, the hem of your shorts.

You didn’t care. You were glowing. Still curled in the centre of them, one leg tossed over Shane’s, your head resting on Ilya’s shoulder. Your fingers trailed lazily down their arms. Shane shuddered every time you touched him. Ilya hummed low like a cat in the sun.

“I might actually be dead,” Shane mumbled at last, eyes half-lidded. “I might be a ghost.”

“You are too loud to be dead,” Ilya muttered back.

“You’re both terrible,” you murmured into Ilya’s neck.

“No,” he said, turning just enough to kiss your hair. “We are perfect. Relationship goals.”

You snorted, and Shane laughed so hard he wheezed.

“You’re never living that down,” you told Ilya.

“Fine,” he said, smug now. “Will just fuck you both again. You will forget everything.”

“You can’t even move,” Shane pointed out.

Ilya shrugged. “Give me ten minutes.”

“You said that last time,” Shane shot back. “And you nearly fell asleep on my stomach.”

“I was comfortable,” Ilya growled.

“I was suffocating, Rozanov.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

Shane caught you, pulling you half into his lap again. Ilya’s hand slid over your knee, up your thigh, warm and easy. No rush. Just contact. Just touch.

You pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s jaw. One to Ilya’s collarbone. They both went quiet again. And stayed there, in the glow of it. In the after. In the hush that only comes when the people you love are home, and your body knows it.

___________

It was the same couch, but the mood had shifted: not feral, not even flirtatious. Just full.

Ilya was lying back, one long arm draped across your shoulders. Shane curled around your legs at the other end, nursing a now-warm drink. There was some sports nonsense murmuring on TV, volume low, forgotten the moment it started.

You were scrolling Instagram on your phone, lazily, mind half-elsewhere, until a notification flashed across the top.

🔔 5 new posts tagged “Rozanov sighting”

Your thumb paused. Your head tilted.

“Oh,” you breathed, “ohhh, they posted it.”

Ilya shifted under you. “What posted?”

You smirked. “Fan photos. From your little meet and greet at the coffee place.”

“It was not meet or greet,” he muttered. “I was standing. For coffee.”

Shane grinned over the blanket. “And yet, you made someone’s day.”

You clicked open the post.

Photo 1: Ilya standing in line, backlit by the window, hoodie half-zipped, cap low.
Photo 2: A fan beaming beside him, Ilya’s arm around their shoulders.
Photo 3: Him holding his coffee tray, half-smiling, clearly mid-sentence.

The caption read:

“We met Ilya Rozanov this morning at the café!! He was so sweet and kind and YES we asked if he was really with TWO people like the article said and he just nodded and said ‘they are mine.’ We’re OBSESSED.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, did you say that?”

“I did not mean in weird way,” Ilya said immediately, trying and failing to scowl. “They asked. I answered.”

Shane propped himself up on his elbow. “You said we were yours?”

Ilya didn’t blink. “You are.”

You giggled and swiped to the comments.

“Shut up, listen to this—‘I’ve never been more jealous of two people I don’t know.’”
Another one: “He said ‘they are mine’ with his whole chest. Rozanov throuple nation RISE.”
And: “Ilya Rozanov going soft in public? This is my villain redemption arc.”
And your favourite so far: “Deadass thought he was going to be rude but now I’d let him officiate my wedding and carry me over the threshold.”

Shane groaned, his face in your hip. “Oh my god.”

Ilya smirked. “What is threshold?”

“Stop talking,” Shane mumbled.

You scrolled a bit more, then held your phone up between them like a trophy.

“Relationship goals,” you said, smug. “Confirmed.”

“Still stupid phrase,” Ilya insisted, but he was holding you closer now.

And Shane was smiling, even as he hid it behind his arm.

The three of you stayed just like that: tangled, warm, safe. And for once, not caring that the world is watching.

___________

The three of you were still curled on the couch when the idea sparked in your head.

Your head was in Ilya’s lap, his fingers threading absently through your hair. Shane was curled against your back like a second blanket, nose tucked into your neck, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your hip. The TV was still murmuring in the background, long forgotten.

You glanced up at Ilya, then down at Shane, then smiled to yourself.

Quietly, you reached for your phone again.

“Hey,” you whispered, wriggling just enough to get both of their attention. “Don’t move.”

“What are you doing?” Shane mumbled.

“Shut up and look pretty.”

You flipped the camera around and held it high over your shoulder. Ilya arched one brow but didn’t stop you; just tilted his head so he was in frame. Shane groaned and ducked his head but your fingers caught his jaw, tilting him up, making him visible.

Snap. Snap. You take three, just to be sure.

The second one is perfect. Ilya looking down at the camera with that devastating smirk. Shane wide-eyed but glowing, mouth parted like he’d just been kissed. You, right between them, smiling so wide it didn’t even look posed.

It wasn’t. It was real. It was you three.

You upload it to Instagram. Just one caption:

#relationshipgoals

Then you tossed the phone back onto the coffee table and settled in like nothing happened.

Ilya watched you for a second, brow furrowed.

“You post?”

You nodded. “Our first.”

Shane lifted his head. “You hashtagged it.”

“I did.”

“Oh god.”

But his voice was warm. His face pink. And when he leaned over to kiss your cheek, he didn’t actually want you to take it down.

It took four minutes. Four minutes before the comments started pouring in.

You didn’t even have to open the app: the notifications flooded your lockscreen.

Is that a fucking THROUPLE SELFIE???

They’re just…snuggled up on the couch like it’s a romcom.

No one talk to me I’m going to cry.
Ilya was right. This is love.

SHANE’S FACE. He looks so in love I’m gonna vomit.

Honestly? Good for them. No notes.

The post gent viral within the hour. By the end of the night, your name was trending.

So were theirs. So was #relationshipgoals.

Ilya didn’t care. He just stroked your hair and watched the glow of the screen light up your face.

Shane hid his face in your shoulder and muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of us.”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

___________

You didn’t even hear your own phone buzz this time. It was Ilya’s that went off first - sharp, fast, then again, again, again. Three dings in a row, his screen lighting up where it was lying face-down on the table.

He grunted, shifted beneath you but didn’t reach for it. Then a fourth buzz. Then a ding on your phone. And then - Shane’s screen lit up too.

He sat up just enough to check it.

“Uh,” he said slowly. “Ilya. You’re on SportsCentre.”

You blinked. “What?”

Ilya finally grabbed his phone, thumbing it open with a growl. One unread text at the top of the group chat with his teammates - from Ritter.

He opened it. And there it was. A full screenshot. The three of you - curled on the couch, eyes soft, your face half-buried in Shane’s chest, Ilya’s smirk undeniable.

And below it, the chyron:

“Rozanov’s Off-Season Win: Inside the Throuple That Broke Hockey Twitter”

You wheezed.

“Oh my god.”

Shane’s hand flew to his mouth. “Is that—is that a real segment?!”

Ilya just stared at the photo, blinking once. Twice.

Then he muttered flatly:
“‘Broke Hockey Twitter?’ I am better player than that.”

You fell back against the couch, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

Shane was trying not to - but failing - his shoulders shaking.

Ilya frowned. “Why is my shirt wrinkled in this picture? This is not good journalism.”

“You’ve got two people in your arms,” you pointed out, swatting his chest. “No one is looking at the damn shirt.”

Another buzz. This one from your phone. Text from a friend of yours, not even a hockey person:

‘Tell me this is real because I just yelled “I KNEW IT” in the middle of Trader Joe’s.’

You showed it to Shane. He groaned and buried his face in the nearest cushion.

Ilya just leaned back, stretched both arms across the back of the couch, and said calmly:

“Is very good Trader Joe’s.”

You kicked him. He grabbed your ankle, kissed the inside of it.

More messages came in. More screenshots. Twitter was on fire again. But none of it mattered, not really. Because you were still here. Warm. Wrapped in limbs. Cuddled deep. On a couch that had officially gone legendary.

_____________

The living room was a mess.

There was a sock on the coffee table. Someone’s hoodie draped over a lamp. Empty mugs stacked beside Ilya’s phone, which was still buzzing once every few minutes with yet another teammate reacting to the SportsCentre moment.

You were half-tangled on top of Shane, your head on his shoulder. Ilya was kneeling on the floor, stealing your phone like he didn’t have his own.

And then Shane’s phone rand again.

This time, he went completely still.

“…Shit.”

You lifted your head. “What?”

He flipped it to show you the screen:

MOM calling.

Ilya barked out a laugh and dropped your phone on the couch.

Shane groaned, swiped to answer. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh good,” came the voice, light and bright and unmistakably Yuna Hollander. “You’re alive.”

You grinned.

Shane’s eyes closed. “Yeah, no thanks to Instagram.”

“Instagram?” she echoed, a beat of silence—then:
“Oh. Oh, honey, are you telling me that photo was spontaneous?”

“…Yes?”

“Oh sweetheart.” A beat. “We need to plan these things better.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell off Shane’s lap.

Shane rubbed a hand down his face. “I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Excellent.”

He tapped the button and set the phone on the cushion between you all.

“Hi Yuna,” you called.

“Hello darling,” she replied immediately. “And hello to you, Ilya.”

“Privet,” Ilya answered, smiling slightly.

“Hmm,” Yuna said. “That’s all I get after my son’s relationship detonates half of Twitter?”

Ilya blinked. “Should I say sorry?”

“No,” she replied. “You should say you’ll visit for dinner.”

You beamed. “He does make a mean borscht.”

“I do not,” Ilya muttered. “Is average at best.”

“I’ll take average,” Yuna laughs. “As long as it comes with dessert and a scandal.”

Shane’s groan was legendary.

“Mama.”

“What? Do you think I wasn’t going to see the news? Do you know how many texts I got today?”

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it.

Yuna pressed on. “All I care about is that you’re okay. Are you okay?”

There was a pause. Then Shane nodded. “Yeah. I am. I—” He glanced at you. At Ilya. “I really am.”

“Good,” Yuna said simply. “Because you look stupidly happy.”

Ilya smirked. “Is true.”

“Yeah,” you added softly. “He really does.”

There was a little silence on the line. Then:

“So,” Yuna continued brightly. “Now that the world knows you’re an unspeakably attractive throuple, who’s helping me plan your wedding?”

Shane yelled, faceplants into the pillow, and refused to resurface.

Ilya raised a hand. “I vote we elope.”

You? You were still laughing as Yuna launches into wedding colour palettes.

___________

Shane’s face was still buried in the couch pillow. You could see his ears - bright pink.

Yuna’s voice carried merrily through the speaker:
“—so obviously we’ll need to think about the location. I know I said Vancouver for the scenery but Boston’s more central—”

“Mom,” Shane groaned into the cushion.

“What?”

“We’re not getting married.”

You reached over and rubbed his back gently. “Not today, anyway.”

Ilya, lounging like a smug cat with your phone now abandoned beside him, stretched one arm up to comb his fingers through his own hair. Then:

“I don’t know,” he said dryly. “You cry when we win games. You might cry at wedding.”

“I don’t cry,” Shane snapped, lifting his head. “My eyes get damp.”

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. You failed. Ilya does not even try.

Yuna hummed on the speaker. “He cried when he saw a commercial about a golden retriever rescue last week.”

“THAT DOG GOT A HOME,” Shane hissed.

You lost it.

Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane’s flushed cheek with exaggerated tenderness.

“I love your soft heart,” he said, completely deadpan. “I marry you and dog.”

“You’re not helping.”

You tilted your head, innocent. “You know, if we did get married, we could all wear black. Like the powerful throuple witches we are.”

“Ooh, black with metallic accents,” Yuna chimed in. “It could tie into your gala looks.”

Shane flopped back down dramatically. “I hate all of you.”

Ilya pulled out his phone.

Shane eyed him warily. “What are you doing?”

“Googling Vegas weddings,” Ilya said calmly.

“WHAT.”

“I hear they do Elvis,” Ilya added, scrolling. “You would look good in white suit.”

You were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.

Yuna clapped her hands from the phone speaker. “Do not get married in Vegas without me, I will haunt you while I’m alive.”

“I’m not marrying anyone,” Shane insisted, sitting up.

You leaned over, cupped his jaw gently, and whisper, “You’re such a bad liar.”

His whole body melted.

“I hate you,” he said but his voice was wrecked with affection.

You grinned. “Sure you do.”

Ilya leaned in, kissed Shane’s other cheek, then yours, then said:
“You can cry at wedding. I will hold tissues.”

“I’M NOT—”

Yuna cut in. “I’m designing the invitation suite.”

Shane groaned so loud it shook the couch. And you just sat there in the middle of it, bathed in affection and absurdity, your cheeks aching from smiling, your heart full, knowing—

This is forever.

Chapter Text

Shane

He didn’t even like panel work.

Too many lights. Too much time in makeup. And not enough control: just five-minute blocks of filler between commercial breaks, designed to bait headlines and clips, not actual insight.

But the League had asked. Encouraged, really. Shane Hollander - All-Star, MVP finalist, captain, part of That Relationship - was still the biggest draw in the sport.

And after months of media chaos and speculation about his personal life, he figured…fine. Let them see him talk. Let them hear him be more than just a headline.

He adjusted the collar of his dark jacket as the red light blinked on above the camera. Breathe in. Smile. The host opened with an easy joke. The third guest, a former enforcer from the nineties with a beer gut and three decades of bias, grunted some approval.

Things stayed civil for five minutes.

Then came the play breakdown. A hit along the boards. Too aggressive? Was the penalty justified?

The host asked Shane first.

“I think it was the right call. It wasn’t clean. Players have to own that.”

Shane’s voice was steady. Calm. Professional.

But the old guy cut in before the host could redirect.

“You used to play harder than that, Hollander. What happened? Got soft once you started sharing a bed with another man?”

The studio stilled.

Shane blinked. He heard the host gasp. The other guest - a goalie from Chicago - whipped his head toward the guy like he’d just said the most fucked-up thing in the world.

He had.

The host recovered. “We’re not—uh—we’re not here to comment on people’s personal lives. We’re here to talk hockey.”

But Shane had already turned in his chair. Not aggressive. Not even angry.

Just…clear.

“With respect,” he said, “you don’t know a thing about how I play, or how I love.”

A beat.

“And if you think my ability to lead, to train, to compete…somehow vanished when I came out as part of a polyamorous relationship? Then that says a hell of a lot more about you than it does about me.”

Silence. He didn’t stop.

“I don’t talk about this often because it shouldn’t matter. But in a league where players still hide who they are, where locker rooms can still be hostile? I think we have to start asking who’s allowed to feel safe. Who’s allowed to be loved. Who gets to belong.”

He folded his hands.

“Because it isn’t soft to care about someone. It isn’t weak to be known. It’s brave. And it makes me better.”

The camera didn’t move. The host - who’d gone pale - nodded quickly. “Thank you. We’ll be back after the break.”

The red light clicked off. The set exhaled.

Shane’s fingers curled into his palms.

He could feel it then: his pulse, his sweat, the heat in his chest that was not adrenaline. It was shame trying to creep in.

But he wouldn’t let it.

The producer stepped in with a tight smile. “We’ll cut the last question on the rebroadcast. Won’t air it.”

Shane shook his head.

“Keep it in.”

Outside the studio, phones were already vibrating. Comments piling. Tweets surfacing.

But Shane didn’t check his.

He just sat there, still in the chair, hands clenched in his lap. And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he’d just survived something. He felt like he’d won.
____________

You and Ilya, Boston

The second it happened - those words, that goddamn snide drawl - you felt Ilya tense beside you on the couch.

It was barely a twitch at first. Just the sharp way he leaned forward. Then his whole posture changed, forearms on thighs, face like stone, jaw clenching. The remote clicked louder than necessary as he cranked the volume.

You didn’t say anything yet.

Not when the retired player made his dig. Not when the host stammered to recover. Not even when Ilya stood up so fast the beer bottle on the table rattled.

You waited. Waited, as Shane took a slow breath and said—

“You don’t know a thing about how I play. Or how I love.”

That’s when you let yourself smile.

Ilya didn’t. He was too busy pacing now, one hand running over his head, muttering sharp-edged Russian curses under his breath.

“Pridurok. Idiot. On fucking live television. In front of Shane.”

He spun back to face the screen, one hand on his hip, the other already pulling his phone out of his back pocket.

“This is bullshit. Where is PR? Where is their security? They let that bastard sit beside him like is normal—”

“Ilya.”

He didn’t hear you.

“He gets minutes to throw locker room caveman bullshit and now Shane is left picking up the—yebat, he is going to feel this—”

“Ilya.”

His head snapped around. You pointed at the screen.

“Listen to what he’s saying.”

Because Shane, sweet quiet unfuckwithable Shane, was holding the moment like it belonged to him. Calm. Decisive. Absolutely not playing for sympathy.

He was turning that room into a classroom. That camera into a mirror. He was explaining what love meant. What he meant. And for a few seconds, even Ilya stopped breathing.

Then:

“I’m calling that PR guy. What is name? Dave? Dan?”

He turned, already typing, already furious again.

You stayed where you were, eyes fixed on the screen, a slow, stunned smile rising to your face. Your heart was doing wild things. Pride; so sharp it hurt a little. Love; heavy, grounding. And that ache in your chest, the one reserved for the boys who wore your heart like it was theirs.

Ilya’s voice rose in the background, hard and clipped:

“No. You do not get to say you did not know. He is your player. He is on your panel. You think we don’t see this shit coming a mile off? What kind of support do you have in place, huh? Because next time I do not call. I show up.”

You snorted quietly, still watching the final seconds of the segment. Shane, head high, hands folded, defiant and still just so good.

God, you were proud of him.

Ilya ended the call with a final “Go fuck yourself,” and dropped the phone on the coffee table like it had offended his ancestors.

He paced once more. Then sat. Hard. And you reached over without saying anything and took his hand.

He let you. Fingers curled through yours, strong and shaking just a little. He didn’t speak for a moment.
Then—

“He was…good.”

You nodded.

“He was brilliant.”

______________

Shane, just off-air

The hallway outside the studio smelled like coffee and overheated equipment.

Shane leaned back against the wall, jacket still on, mic already clipped off his lapel but the echo of it still there; like the red light hadn’t quite gone out yet. His hands were shaking. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice. But he felt it.

The PR manager, Dave, came toward him with a look that was trying to be neutral and failing.

“Hey,” Dave said. “You did great. Really great. We—uh—just wanted to let you know there’s already movement upstairs about—”

Shane nodded. “I know.”

Dave hesitated. Then: “Also. Rozanov called.”

Shane closed his eyes.

“Of course he did.”

Dave winced. “He was…passionate.”

That made Shane huff a weak laugh. “That tracks.”

Dave shifted his weight. “For what it’s worth? The room’s on your side. The host was furious. The clip’s already trending and not the way the other guy wanted.”

Shane swallowed. “Thanks.”

Dave patted his shoulder, awkward but sincere. “Take a minute. We’ll get you out the back if you want.”

Shane nodded again. Waited until Dave walked away. Then he pulled out his phone. Your name was already at the top of his recent calls. He tapped it before he could overthink.

⸻

You answered on the second ring.

“Hey.”

Your voice - warm, steady - hit him right in the chest.

“Hey,” he said and immediately his throat tightened.

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t rush him. You just stayed. In the background, he heard movement. A clink of glass. Then Ilya’s voice, low and unmistakable:

“Put him on speaker.”

You did.

“Hi,” Shane said, breathless and a little wrecked.

“Privet,” Ilya replied, too calm now. Controlled. Dangerous in a quiet way. “You okay?”

Shane let out a long breath. “I think so. I’m—” He rubbed his face with his free hand. “I feel…weird.”

“Talk to us,” you said gently.

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

“He went right for it,” Shane admitted. “Not even subtle. And for a second I thought—okay, here it is. This is the part where I freeze, or get defensive, or say something stupid.”

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “You didn’t.”

“I know,” he replied quietly. “That’s the thing. I didn’t.”

Ilya exhaled slowly. “You were strong.”

Shane closed his eyes. “I felt targeted. Like—like he was trying to put me back in a box I already fought my way out of.” His voice wavered, then steadied. “But when I started talking…I felt powerful. Like I was finally saying something that mattered.”

You smiled, even as your eyes stung. “It did matter.”

There was a pause.

Then Shane said, softer, “I kept thinking about you both. About how safe I feel with you. And I thought—if I can stand in that studio and talk about love without apologising…then maybe I’m finally okay.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate.

“We are proud of you,” he said. “More than you know.”

You added, “So proud. I don’t think you even understand how proud.”

Shane laughed weakly. “I had a feeling. Dave said you called and scared the hell out of half the building.”

Ilya snorted. “They should be scared.”

Shane smiled for real this time. “I love you.”

“Always,” you said.

“Go home,” Ilya added. “We will see you soon.”

Shane pocketed his phone and straightened. For the first time since he sat under those lights, he felt steady.

_____________

A few weeks later, Ottawa, Awards Night

The hotel room was still.

Not silent - there was music from a speaker down the hall, the faint hum of late-night traffic ten floors below, the buzz of elevators and laughter from the afterparty - but it felt still. Peaceful in a way Shane hadn’t experienced in weeks.

He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, the collar of his dress shirt loosened, tie long gone. The tux itched a little but he didn’t mind. Behind him, you were curled into Ilya on the couch, heels kicked off, your bare legs tangled with his. His hand was stroking your thigh, absent and slow. Neither of you said anything; just watching him, letting him stand in it.

He’d done it. Showed up. Walked the carpet. Stood on stage.

And the whole time, the only thing louder than the nerves in his chest was the soft, persistent hum of pride. Yours. Ilya’s. His own, even if it came quieter.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. No notifications, for once. Just the background he’d never gotten around to changing - some dumb landscape default. He swiped through his photos without really thinking, then stopped on one from two nights ago.

You were pressed into his chest, eyes half-lidded, hair tangled and soft against Ilya’s bicep where your head rested. Ilya had one hand tangled in your hair, his other arm draped over Shane’s waist. The light from the bedside lamp hit all three of you like you’d been painted into place.

He looked at his own face in the photo. Not posed. Not guarded.

Soft.

He set it as his lock screen. No hesitation. No question. Just a quiet certainty curling into his chest like warmth.

Behind him, you stirred. “What was that?”

He turned, held up his phone so you could see.

You sat up straighter, surprise flickering across your face, followed by something warmer, heavier.

Ilya leaned in, squinting. Then he grunted, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Look at our little rebel,” he muttered. “Next you will be getting matching outfits.”

You laughed, your smile blooming fast. Shane flushed, but shrugged.

“Maybe I will.”

He crossed the room and dropped into the chair across from you both. Ilya’s leg knocked against his. You reached over and took his hand, twining your fingers between his.

Shane exhaled.

“You’re not afraid anymore, are you?” you asked softly.

He looked at you both. And he knew. He really knew.

“No,” he said. “I’m really fucking not.”

Ilya smiled - small, private, devastating. He reached out with his free hand and cupped the back of Shane’s neck, pulled him in for a kiss that didn’t have to prove anything, didn’t ask for anything, just was.

Shane let it happen. He let it land. And as the night stretched on outside, full of glitter and noise and people still trying to be seen - inside, the three of you just were.

______________

You undressed slowly. Not out of hesitation but with the kind of purpose Ilya always moved with when he was turned on and had something to prove. And tonight, that something was Shane.

The hotel room had gone quiet except for the rustle of fabric and your soft breathing. You were half-draped across the bed in just your underwear, warm from the shower, lips parted in a dazed little smile as you watched the two men you loved.

Shane sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread slightly apart, shirtless now, his tux trousers still on but undone at the fly. He couldn’t stop watching Ilya. No one ever could when he was like this - focused, dialled in.

Ilya stood in front of him, tugging off his dress shirt. His eyes were dark. His jaw worked once. Then he reached for Shane’s throat; not to squeeze, not to dominate in the brutal sense but to anchor. His palm was warm, thumb brushing Shane’s jaw.

“You looked like fucking god tonight,” he murmured. “Think I didn’t want to get my hands on you all damn evening?”

Shane’s throat bobbed beneath Ilya’s hand.

“Say something,” Ilya added, tone dipping lower. “You shy now?”

You hummed from the bed, lazy but amused. “He’s trying to be modest. It’s failing.”

Ilya smirked. “Do not want modest. Want him spread out and begging.”

He pushed Shane gently down onto the bed, climbing over him until he had him pinned between his thighs. He kissed him - slow, deep, possessive - and Shane moaned into it, fists tangling in the sheets. His hips arched on instinct.

You moved closer, resting on your side, one hand sliding over Shane’s chest, the other skimming down Ilya’s back.

“We taking our time?” you asked softly.

Ilya kissed you over Shane’s mouth. “No rush,” he said. “But he will come when I say.”

Shane whimpered, visibly shivering. Ilya chuckled.

“There’s my boy.”

The next stretch of minutes passed in heat and haze. You stripped Shane the rest of the way, mouth lingering over his chest and belly. Ilya’s hands worked between your thighs until you were gasping, hips rocking into his palm.

Then Shane was inside you - your bodies flush, slow, so slow - and Ilya was behind you both, pressing kisses to your neck while stroking himself. Watching. Controlling the pace with his voice.

“Deeper,” he told Shane. “Make her feel it. No—slower. That’s it.”

You moaned, your body trembling between them.

Shane moved exactly how Ilya wanted. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t showy. It was reverent. Earned.

“You’re perfect like this,” you whispered against his lips.

“You are mine,” Ilya growled lowly, fingers tightening on your hip. “Ours. Say it.”

“Yours,” you both said, breathless.

And when you came, Ilya was the one who coaxed it out of you - his fingers on your clit, his voice in your ear.

When Shane came, it was with your thighs wrapped around his hips, your nails in his back and Ilya’s hand around his throat again, gently, reminding him who he belonged to.

Afterwards, you collapsed together in a tangle of bodies, all sweat and kisses and trembling limbs.

Ilya pulled both of you close. He kissed your forehead, then Shane’s.

“That,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “was better than fucking award.”

And Shane? He believed it.

____________

The room had gone quiet in the aftermath.

Not silent but quiet in the way only closeness allowed. Ilya was sprawled against the pillows, long and warm, his arm draped across both bodies like a claim. Shane was curled against your back, one knee tucked between your thighs, chest rising against your shoulder blade.

None of you had moved much. No one wanted to break the moment.

But Ilya was the first to speak, voice still ragged and pleased.

“You know,” he said, “I deserve award too. For not fucking jumping you during speech.”

You snorted against his collarbone.

“That’s your takeaway? Your restraint?”

Shane groaned into your shoulder. “You weren’t exactly subtle. You were stroking my neck while I was thanking the fucking league president.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “And I could have been stroking your cock. But I waited. I should get trophy.”

You laughed. Shane hid his face in the back of your shoulder and mumbled, “You are the worst.”

“No,” Ilya said smugly. “I am the best. Our little overachiever here can confirm.”

“I’ll confirm nothing,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut again.

But then, his hand started to move.

Just idly. A stroke down your thigh. A brush over your hipbone. He kissed your shoulder, slow and dragging, and whispered,

“I think she wants to go again.”

Shane didn’t lift his head but you felt his grin.

“She always does.”

You reached back and lazily pinched his side. He yelped.

“And you don’t?” you teased.

There was a long beat of heat building, none of you moving too fast, but tension thickening. Then Shane said, quiet and wrecked,

“If he gets behind me…”

And that was it.

Ilya growled, low and deadly pleased. “Da. Turn.”

The shift happened like gravity.

You let Shane roll onto his stomach, then helped him up onto his knees. Ilya moved behind him, big hands already gripping his hips. You were in front, still warm and aching, your fingers in Shane’s hair, guiding him to your mouth.

His lips brushed your belly first.

Then your thighs.

“You’re ready for me?” he whispered.

You shivered. “Always.”

And behind him, Ilya answered in that Russian-thick voice, sinful and low:

“And you are ready for me, Hollander?”

Shane moaned. Nodded.

“Then take her,” Ilya said. “Let me take you.”

His hands landed on Shane’s hips - heavy, grounding, unmistakable - and he leaned down just enough to murmur, thick and low:

“You did so good tonight. You held yourself together like fucking champion.”

Shane exhaled shakily.

“Ilya—”

“Shh,” Ilya cut in, not unkindly. “I have you.”

You felt the words as much as you heard them.

You drew Shane closer, your thumb brushing over his cheek, keeping him with you while Ilya stayed exactly where he wanted: behind, in control, steady as gravity.

The bed creaked softly as bodies shifted.

Hands moved. Breath changed. You could see the sensations flit across Shane’s face as Ilya prepped him; stretched him with his fingers, warmed with lube.

The room filled with the kind of tension that didn’t need visuals - only sound and closeness and the knowledge of where everyone was placed, who was guiding, who was yielding, and who was holding it all together.

Ilya’s voice again, rough with intent:

“Slow. Stay right there.”

You swallowed, heart pounding.

Shane nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

And when the movement finally began; when Ilya slid into Shane inch by inch; when the night took hold of you again; it was with a ferocity that didn’t need description, only sensation: the press of bodies, the way voices broke, the way the bed shook, the way the world narrowed to this.

Later - much later - you were all collapsed together again, breathless and boneless, sweat cooling on skin.

Ilya lay back, one arm hooked around both of you, claiming without effort.

Shane laughed weakly into your shoulder.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

Ilya smirked into the dark. “And yet. You keep coming back.”

You smiled, eyes closing, the night still humming under your skin.

Chapter Text

It didn’t arrive all at once.

It never did.

There was no single breaking point to point to later, no dramatic collapse or clear line in the sand where everything changed. No explosion. No scream. Just a long, soft fade, almost imperceptible at first. Something worn down at the edges.

It started with small things - things easy to explain away if you didn’t look too closely.

You stopped eating breakfast. Not deliberately. Just…forgot. One day bled into the next and you’d glance at the clock already behind. Coffee became enough. Bitter, hot, reliable. Lunch turned into a granola bar you ate standing at your desk, eyes locked on your inbox, mind already on the next meeting. Dinner happened late, if at all. Something cold. Something frozen. Something from a bag. Something you told yourself counted.

You came home tired in a way that sleep didn’t touch. That bone-deep weight, dull and constant, like someone had replaced your blood with wet cement.

Shane noticed first. He always did.

He had a way of watching you without making it feel like surveillance; like he could see past the shell you’d put up even before you knew you were wearing it. He noticed the way you picked at your food when the three of you sat together on the couch. The way your fork hovered just a little too long before setting back down. The way you leaned into him more than usual, like seeking warmth from a fire that didn’t quite catch. But you laughed less. Smiled smaller. Stayed quieter.

The way you said “maybe tomorrow” and then cancelled.

“You okay?” he asked one night, quiet, careful.

It was just after dinner. The plates still sat on the coffee table. Ilya had retreated to the kitchen, pretending to rinse dishes but really giving you both space. Shane’s voice barely rose above the hum of the dishwasher, his hand on your thigh, warm and patient.

You smiled automatically. It felt like muscle memory. “Yeah. Just work.”

It was always work.

You said it like it explained everything. Like it justified the hollowness behind your eyes or the distance in your voice. Shane didn’t push. He never did. He just nodded slowly, thumb brushing over your jeans like he wanted to believe you but didn’t.

Ilya noticed differently. He noticed the sharpness.

Where Shane saw the soft absences, Ilya caught the edges. The way your patience thinned. The way your jaw clenched when your phone buzzed. The way your answers got short, clipped, sometimes a little too cold. The way you stared at nothing some evenings, the TV flickering without drawing your eyes, your posture stiff like your mind had already left the room and your body forgot to follow.

He didn’t ask gently. He never did.

“What is wrong?” he asked one night, blunt.

He stood in the doorway of the bedroom while you were halfway undressing for bed, your shirt half over your head. His tone wasn’t accusatory—m but it wasn’t soft either. It was solid. Undeniable. Direct in that way only he could be without cruelty. Because Ilya never danced around things. He knew when silence did harm.

You snapped without meaning to. “Nothing’s wrong.”

And it was true, in the way that saying the word “nothing” could be a way to hide everything.

The silence afterward was heavy. Not just quiet. Thick. Like fog between you. Like gravity changed in the room.

You stood there breathing fast, shirt bunched in your fist, too aware of the way he didn’t move. Too aware of the way your voice had cracked at the end. And then—

You apologised too quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m just…tired.”

He forgave too easily. His shoulders loosened almost instantly and he stepped forward, brushing a kiss to your temple like he could undo the spike of tension with affection. He didn’t press. Didn’t frown. Just accepted the apology and kissed your hair again.

That scared you more than a fight would have.

Because it meant he was starting to expect it. To accept it. This version of you that recoiled and shut down. And if even Ilya - the one who never backed down - was starting to soften around your new jaggedness, then how far had you slipped?

The days blurred.

Emails stacked. Your boss’ name made your stomach clench even when you weren’t at work. Notifications filled your phone like hail. You stayed later and later at the office, not because you had to; because leaving felt harder than staying. At least there, your detachment could be useful. Expected. At home, it just hurt people.

At home, the boys adjusted around you without saying it out loud.

Shane started doing more of the cooking. You used to do it together. Now he just did it, humming a little under his breath while you scrolled through your phone on the couch, pretending to read. Ilya stopped teasing when you went quiet. Stopped pushing you to watch shows with them. Stopped brushing your leg with his under the table. They made space without withdrawing and somehow that made the guilt worse.

Because they loved you. And you could feel it, burning around you like heat you couldn’t absorb.

One evening, Shane reached for your hand and you didn’t notice. You were scrolling. Or zoning. Or somewhere in between. His fingers grazed your knuckles gently and your hand didn’t move. You didn’t even flinch.

He withdrew slowly, trying not to show it. Letting his hand fall to the couch cushion with barely a sound.

Later, when you came back into your body and noticed the silence, you said it again. “I’m fine,” too brightly. Too rehearsed. “I swear.”

Ilya watched you for a long moment, jaw tight. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just…held in place. Studying you the way he did opponents on the ice. Waiting to see the pattern in your movements, the rhythm of your defense.

“Da,” he said finally. “You always say this.”

And then he turned away, not unkind, but with something like resignation and you felt it down to your bones.

You went to bed early that night. The sheets felt too cold even with two blankets. The fan clicked every so often. You lay on your side and stared at the wall, eyes wide in the dark.

They stayed up, voices low in the living room, thinking you couldn’t hear.

But you did.

They weren’t fighting. Just talking. Trying to piece together a puzzle they didn’t have all the pieces for. Shane’s voice murmured first, the kind of gentle worry he tried to hide in logic. Ilya’s voice was harder, more frustrated; at the situation, not at you. He hated helplessness. Hated watching pain without a clear cause or solution.

And even wrapped in their concern, the ache in your chest didn’t ease. Because you weren’t fine. Not even close. And the worst part was that you didn’t know where the line was between tired and broken. The cracks had spread so slowly you hadn’t noticed them until they felt structural.

And somewhere deep down, you were terrified of what would happen when you finally admitted it.

Because what if they stopped waiting? What if you fell apart and there was nothing underneath? What if you said it out loud and it stayed true?

______________

The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful, quiet. Dead in the way that made you feel like a ghost inside your own life. Not invisible, exactly. Just weightless. Thin. Like the walls didn’t remember your name anymore.

Shane had flown out the day before. Some three-game road stretch you barely registered the details of when he kissed you goodbye at the door. He lingered, lips brushing your cheek, worried in the way he always was lately. That gentle frown in his brow like he was trying to memorise your face before he left it again. His palm on your hip, squeezing once. A question without words.

You waved him off with a too-big smile.

“I’m fine.”

He hadn’t believed you. But he’d left anyway. Like he always did. Like you always told him it was okay to.

Ilya was in a city only an hour or two away. One of those brutal overnight road jobs, quick in and out, no real rest between the drive and the hours spent hauling gear.

He’d texted you just after midnight:

we won. ugly game. i miss you.

You hadn’t answered.

You were still awake, staring at your laptop, an email half-drafted and blurry. Words smeared together like you were looking at them through water.

You’d been in your office clothes for fourteen hours now. Your blouse wrinkled and damp under the arms. A faint itch along your back that you hadn’t noticed until it became unbearable. Your skin felt stale. Uninhabited. Fingers heavy on the keys, clicking out nonsense and corrections you kept undoing. The kind of work that moved backwards.

The screen glared back at you. Empty boxes. Tasks. Pings. Reminders. Words that meant nothing anymore.

Everything was noise. Even your own thoughts.

At some point, you moved to the couch. Laptop balanced on your knees. Phone buzzing every fifteen minutes like a countdown you were always behind on. Another follow-up. Another missed deadline. Another reason to feel like you were always disappointing someone.

You hadn’t eaten since noon. Your stomach didn’t even hurt anymore. Just sat there, dull and dead, like the rest of you.

You stared at the blinking cursor and felt angry. Not at the work. Not even at your boss. At yourself. For not quitting. For not being stronger. For not screaming. For not—

You didn’t even realise you were crying until a tear hit the keyboard.

You scrubbed at your face with both hands. Sat up straighter. Tried to pull yourself together. Shoulders back. Chin up. That stupid little mantra someone once told you to repeat when things got bad.

You were better than this. Weren’t you?

_____________

The next evening, the door opened just past 6:30. You didn’t even hear it at first. Just the distant creak, the subtle thud of the deadbolt catching again.

Ilya’s voice followed seconds later. Low. Familiar. Warm in a way you used to feel first before hearing it.

“Malyshka?”

You jumped. You hadn’t realised how still the apartment had gotten. How frozen you were at the kitchen table, still in your work clothes, the laptop screen painting your skin in cold blue light.

He walked in fast, straight from the door to the kitchen, like he already knew something wasn’t right.

“Hey,” you said quickly. “You’re back early.”

He set his bag down near the door, didn’t bother taking off his jacket before crossing the kitchen to press a kiss to your head.

“You eat?” he asked, already opening the fridge.

You lied. “Yeah.”

He turned to look at you. Not with suspicion. Just sharpness. Precision.

“You lie badly.”

“I’m busy, Ilya.”

Your voice was flatter than you meant. Clipped. Defensive. It made his brow twitch slightly, that little sign he was biting something back.

He didn’t press. Just made a noncommittal sound and grabbed a bottle of water. Cracked it open. Drank slowly.

You went back to your screen. For a moment, the only sound was the click of the trackpad and the low hum of the fridge motor grinding on.

Then your phone lit up beside you. Another message from your boss.

Need that update tonight.

You groaned under your breath, grabbing the phone to answer. Your thumb swiped without thinking. Back into the inbox. Into the pit.

Ilya’s voice came from the other side of the room, calm but low.

“You work every night now?”

You didn’t look up. “It’s just this week.”

“Last week was the same.”

“Well, I can’t just stop showing up, Ilya. I’m not a millionaire with a contract to coast on.”

You regretted it the second it left your mouth.

Silence snapped tight between you.

You looked up slowly. He was standing stock still across the kitchen, water bottle in one hand. His eyes were darker now. Flat. Not cold, exactly, just closed. The door behind them had shut.

He said nothing for a moment.

Then: “This is what you think I do? Coast?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m just—” You exhaled hard. “—tired.”

“No,” he said. “You meant it.”

There was no heat in his tone yet but it was coming. You knew it like thunder before the lightning. He set the bottle down on the counter too hard, the plastic crumpling. “You think I don’t work hard?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, is exactly what you said.”

He stepped closer. Not threatening but firm. Physical. Like he couldn’t stand the distance but didn’t know how to close it without a fight.

“You think I just play games and come home to fuck around while you drown in email and do not eat?”

“I didn’t—Jesus, Ilya, listen to me—”

“I am listening!” He was louder now, not yelling, but full. “I’m fucking listening and all I hear is you tearing yourself apart and pushing us out while you pretend everything is okay!”

“Because if I don’t, who else will keep it together?” you shot back, finally standing. The chair scraped behind you. “You want me to fall apart right now? What the fuck good would that do?”

He blinked at you. “So we are what—extras in your burnout spiral?”

“Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t make this about you.”

“I am not. You are. You push me away, then throw that shit in my face like I am not breaking my back every week too—”

“Yeah? But at least you love what you do.”

The second it left your mouth, you knew you’d crossed a line.

Ilya’s expression went cold. Not wounded. Not furious. Still. He stared at you for a full five seconds, then turned and walked out of the room. Each step like an echo in your ribs.

He didn’t slam the bedroom door. That was worse.

That night, you both lay in bed, backs turned. You were pretending to sleep. He wasn’t even pretending.

There was space between you. Physical. Emotional. It pressed against your shoulder blades like frost on glass, spreading inward.

And all you could think was I made it worse.

You had never hated a night more than this one. You wanted to roll over. Apologise. Cry. Yell. Say anything. Break the air between you.

But instead you stared at the ceiling and begged yourself not to fall apart. Not yet. Not now.

___________

It wasn’t a big thing. That was the worst part.

There was no explosion. No defining moment you could point back to and say there: that’s when I lost it. No screaming match, no betrayal, no blood. Just another hour in another day. The same grind. The same slow, silent unmaking.

You were standing in the kitchen the next evening, barefoot on cold tile, staring into the fridge like it might offer answers instead of old Tupperware and condiments.

Ilya was in the living room, unpacking his bag from the road, the sound of zippers and fabric low and ordinary. Domestic. Normal. It should’ve been comforting. It should’ve felt like coming home.

But instead, everything just…echoed.

You pulled out a glass. Filled it with water. Took a sip. The cold shocked the back of your throat but it didn’t reach the rest of you.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. A single, short vibration but it struck you like a fist to the chest.

You didn’t even look at the screen before the tightness hit you. The invisible vice wrapping around your ribs, cinching in too suddenly. You already knew what it was. Another message. Another deadline. Another quiet accusation disguised as professionalism. As urgency. A reminder that you were behind. That you were always behind.

Your hand shook. The glass slipped. It hit the tile and exploded. The sound was sharp - violent in the stillness - and something in you just…went.

You dropped to a crouch immediately, hands flying to your face, breath coming in broken, ugly gasps. Not quiet crying. Not tears slipping down your cheeks with cinematic dignity.

The kind that hurt. The kind that stole your air and broke you open.

“Fuck—no, no, no—” you whispered, rocking slightly, arms curled around your head as if that could hold it in. As if maybe you could keep yourself from falling apart just by shrinking small enough.

You didn’t even notice Ilya move. But then he was there.

He crossed the apartment in three strides, dropped to his knees in front of you without hesitation. No hesitation, ever. His movements were fast but careful, precise in that way he always was when things got real.

He didn’t touch you at first. Just assessed. Grounded. Breathing deep and steady, trying to anchor you in it.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Stop. Don’t move.”

His voice didn’t waver.

You shook your head, sobbing harder. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said, voice firmer now. Not sharp. Certain. “I know.”

He reached to the side, grabbed a towel from the counter, folded it thick, and slid it carefully under your bare feet, shielding you from the glass you hadn’t even noticed. Then his hands found your elbows, gentle but unyielding, and he guided you slowly, carefully, back away from the mess.

You didn’t resist. Couldn’t.

He sat on the floor with you, legs stretched out, and pulled you into him like it was instinct. Like his body was built to catch you. Like you’d done this before in some other life and he still remembered how.

Only then did he hold you. And once he did, everything you’d been swallowing for weeks came pouring out.

“I can’t do it,” you choked. “I can’t—I’m so tired, Ilya. I’m so tired all the time and I don’t know why I can’t just—why I can’t be better at this—”

He wrapped both arms around you, strong and solid, grounding like earth. One hand pressed firm against the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair, anchoring you in place.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Breathe with me.”

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

Your sobs shook your whole body. Not dramatic, just unstoppable. It was as if every hour you’d gritted your teeth through had gathered in your chest and now burst open all at once.

“I hate it,” you whispered finally, voice scraped raw. “I hate waking up. I hate going there. I hate answering emails and pretending I care about things that feel like they’re killing me. And I come home and I’m empty and I don’t have anything left for you or Shane and I don’t—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands never left your body.

“Stop,” he said quietly. Not harsh. Absolute.

You hiccupped, frozen, startled still by the weight in his voice.

“You do not get to tell me you have nothing left,” he continued, thumb brushing under your eye. “You are bleeding inside and you still worry about us.”

You broke again at that. Because it was true. Because you hadn’t even realised it until he said it.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Ilya leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” he said. “Something is wrong around you.”

Your fingers clutched his shirt, needing something to hold onto. Not just for balance but to believe him.

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t fix tonight,” he said simply. “Tonight, you let me hold you.”

And for the first time, you did.

No arguing. No pretending. Just your body in his arms, your head against his chest, and everything else - your job, your panic, your guilt - drifting out of reach for one fragile moment.

He stayed there with you on the kitchen floor until your breathing slowed. Until the shaking eased. Until the world stopped tilting so violently beneath your feet.

Then he stood, careful not to jostle you, and scooped you up like you weighed nothing, one arm behind your knees, the other around your back. He held you tight to his chest, like he was daring anything else in the world to touch you tonight.

He carried you to the bathroom.

“No talking,” he said gently, mouth at your temple. “I will take care of this.”

He ran a bath. Warm. Not hot. He knew the difference. Knew your skin couldn’t take too much right now. He added something lavender-scented from under the sink: something Shane had picked out weeks ago, thinking it would help you sleep.

He helped you out of your clothes with slow, reverent care, like you were made of porcelain and this was the first time anyone had ever been allowed to see the cracks.

He didn’t leave you alone.

He sat on the floor beside the tub while you soaked, his knee pressed lightly against the tub, one hand resting on the rim. Fingers drifting occasionally to brush your leg. Silent reassurances: Here. Here. Here.

When you started to cry again, quieter, now, he didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. He just stayed.

Later, wrapped in towels and exhaustion, you crawled into bed beside him. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His arm was already waiting for you and you slid under it like a key in a familiar lock.

He pulled you into his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, his breath steady above your ear.

Neither of you slept much. But for the first time in weeks, you weren’t alone inside it. And even if the world hadn’t stopped hurting…you weren’t holding it alone anymore.

____________

You called in sick.

Your voice cracked when you did it and you nearly hung up twice, hand hovering over the red button like that would erase the weight of speaking it out loud. But you said the words.

“I can’t come in today.”

And then, softer, barely more than breath:

“I won’t be in tomorrow either.”

No one argued.

The call lasted forty-eight seconds. Long enough to confirm your employee ID and hear a pause at the other end. Not surprise. Not concern. Just…protocol.

The silence afterward was louder than anything. It stretched out, vast and airless, pressing into the walls of the apartment like fog. Like grief.

You didn’t get back into bed. You didn’t eat breakfast. Just sat on the couch in Ilya’s hoodie with your knees pulled up to your chest and stared at the floor for two hours, unmoving, unblinking. The hoodie smelled like him. The fabric was worn soft at the cuffs where he pushed up his sleeves and the collar was stretched from him yanking it over his head one-handed. It should’ve comforted you.

Instead, it felt like armour. Something to hide behind.

Ilya gave you space. Sort of.

He didn’t leave the apartment, not even to run errands. That alone was enough to say something was wrong. He was a man of motion, always fixing things, carrying weight, doing.

Instead, he moved around the kitchen making quiet tea you never touched. Started a load of laundry with calm efficiency. Sat on the opposite end of the couch with a book open but unread in his lap. Every once in a while, he turned a page. You didn’t think he noticed he was doing it.

He didn’t push. He didn’t speak. But every ten or fifteen minutes, he reached over and touched you. A palm to your ankle. A knuckle dragging slowly along your shin. One fingertip at the bend of your knee, a feather-light reminder: Here.

That’s what he was saying.

I’m here. You’re here. Still.

__________

Shane arrived midafternoon. You heard the key in the lock. The familiar, comforting click. The quiet grind of suitcase wheels across hardwood. Then his voice:

“Babe?”

You didn’t answer. Ilya did. A low murmured greeting in the hallway. Short words in Russian and English, too quiet to parse.

You didn’t try to listen. The world was too far away.

Then Shane walked in. He didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you - really looked at you - and crossed the room without hesitation.

He knelt beside the couch and pressed his lips to your forehead. One kiss, soft and steady. Then his arms wrapped around your knees like he was anchoring himself to you, like holding you was the only way to stop his own slow descent.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You nodded into his shoulder. Not relief exactly, just recognition. Like your name had finally been spoken after days of silence.

“Is she talking?” Shane asked quietly, lifting his head toward Ilya.

Ilya shrugged, not looking up from his book. “A little.”

Your breath hitched. You inhaled through your nose. Let it out slowly. Still folded in Shane’s arms, legs pulled in, voice muffled but clear:

“I feel like I’m failing.”

Shane pulled back slightly. His hands didn’t leave you. “At what?”

“At…everything.”

The answer hit the floor like a dropped plate.

Ilya made a quiet sound, not quite a word. Almost a growl. Not at you but at the world. At the systems chewing you up. At the invisible things he couldn’t punch.

Shane’s mouth tightened. His arms squeezed you closer.

You looked between them, chest tightening like a belt pulled one notch too far. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You need to,” Ilya said, softly but without room to deflect. There was steel behind it. A wire pulled taut.

You hesitated. Then finally, the pressure cracked.

“It’s my job.”

Both of them stilled.

You almost laughed, because of course they already knew. But saying it aloud still made it real.

“The work isn’t just work anymore,” you said, voice barely there. “It’s my whole day. It’s every hour. Every message. Every thing I do or don’t do. And I hate it. I hate that I’m so tired and I hate that I snap at you both and I hate that I keep pretending it’s fine when I know it’s not.”

Ilya didn’t say anything. Not yet. He didn’t interrupt pain. He let it land.

But Shane reached for your hand.

You stared down at your lap. The familiar curves of your fingers laced with his. One life line crossing another. His thumb moved in slow circles over the back of your hand.

“It’s not just endless,” you added, breath shuddering. “It’s monotonous. Empty. Like I’m wasting time I’ll never get back.”

Neither man moved. But the air between them felt charged. Like if your job had a face, Ilya would’ve broken it by now.

Shane’s voice was low. “Then you can’t stay.”

You let out a short laugh. Bitter. Dry. “Yeah, because quitting is easy.”

Ilya leaned forward now, elbows on knees. His voice was calm. But his jaw was tight.

“We did not say easy. We said can’t.”

“I can’t afford to walk away.”

Shane’s tone didn’t rise. “So we plan.”

Ilya: “And you rest.”

His words came out flat. Blunt. Like bricks laid in a row. Then, more softly, almost a whisper as he leaned his forearms on his thighs and stared at the floor:

“Yebat, detka…you are drowning.”

You blinked at them both, tears threatening again.

“I don’t know who I am without that job.”

Ilya’s face softened. He reached out and cupped your jaw in one big, warm hand, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone.

“You are not job,” he said, low and clear. “You never were. You are not what you give. You are not fucking machine.”

You broke then; not into sobs but into stillness. That tight, unbearable ache of holding back something massive. The burn behind your eyes. The echo of every day you told yourself just a little more, just until Friday, just until the next break.

“I don’t even know what I want anymore.”

Shane spoke up gently. “What did you want before?”

The question hung in the room like a thread.

You didn’t answer. Not yet. Because you weren’t ready. Because the memory felt locked away in a part of yourself you hadn’t visited in months.

But their eyes didn’t leave you.

And when you shook your head and said, “Can we just…stop thinking for a while?” voice small, exhausted, needing—

They said, “Yes.”

__________

That night, they drew you a bath. Not because you asked. Because they knew.

One of them washed your hair. Fingers slow, steady, massaging your scalp with quiet reverence. The other knelt beside the tub and held your wrist under the water, thumb brushing the pulse point.

They didn’t talk much. Just murmurs. Touches. A shared look between them over your head.

They helped you dry off: Shane with the towel, Ilya with his hands. They helped you into soft clothes, every motion careful. Not delicate. Devoted.

They tucked you into bed between them and turned off all the lights.

And when you turned to Ilya and said, “I’m scared of going back,”

He answered without pause:

“Then you won’t. Not yet. Pust vso k chertu gorit. Let it all burn for now.”

And when Shane kissed your temple and said, “You don’t have to smile,”

He added, “You just have to stay.”

So you did. Wrapped in their arms, heart still cracked wide, but not alone. Not anymore.

__________

It started with nothing more than Ilya’s fingertips.

You were lying between them in bed, one leg thrown over Shane’s hip, the low thrum of sleep not far behind. It had been a day of silence and breath, tea and warmth, small gestures and quiet steadiness. The kind of care you hadn’t known how much you needed until you finally let yourself take it. Until you stopped resisting the arms always waiting to hold you.

Then Ilya’s fingers brushed your lower back, just beneath the hem of your shirt. Slow. Barely there. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just checking. A question made of touch: Is this okay now?

And when your body didn’t flinch - when you let out a soft breath instead of tensing - he eased closer. You felt the heat of his chest at your back. His thigh slid against yours under the blankets, skin to skin.

Behind you, Shane murmured, “Okay?”

You nodded before you spoke. “Yes. Just…soft. Please.”

Ilya’s hand moved to your hip, steady and grounding. “Vsegda,” he murmured - always

His voice was low, gravelly in the way it always got when he was holding too much inside. Like gentleness took effort for him but he gave it anyway.

The first kiss landed at the base of your neck. Warm, barely open-mouthed, just a breath of tongue against your skin. Then another, lower, closer to your shoulder blade. He was behind you, supporting your weight with one arm, the other still curled around your waist like a rope tying you to the present.

Shane curled in tighter from the front, his palm splayed over your sternum, thumb brushing absently over the curve of your breast. His nose found your jaw; his lips pressed behind your ear.

“This okay?” he asked, quiet. Always checking.

You turned your face toward his and kissed him in answer - slow, deliberate, tasting the way he exhaled when you touched him.

“God, yes.”

It was slow. No rush. No fire. Just need. The quiet kind. The honest kind. The kind that said, ‘I still want to feel good in my body. Let me come back to it.’

Ilya’s hand skimmed your waist, dipping under your shirt. He dragged it up, inch by inch, knuckles grazing your stomach until the fabric bunched beneath your ribs. He helped you lift it over your head, his eyes locked on yours.

He leaned up on one elbow, gaze trailing over your torso like you were something sacred. You watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed. Shane kissed you again, deeper now, hand sliding up to cup your jaw as you sighed into his mouth.

You let your fingers tangle in his shirt. He let you tug it off without hesitation.

Ilya pressed closer from behind, his mouth moving down your shoulder, your spine, your waist. Every kiss was slow. Claimless. Just proof.

You are here. You are safe. You are not alone.

By the time you were bare between them, it wasn’t about sex at all. It was about contact. Skin. Proof.

Shane lay on his back now, gazing up at you as you straddled him - not to ride, not to take - but just to hold his gaze while you sank down onto him with aching slowness. His cock stretched you open in a way that made you whimper into his neck; not from pain but from the weight of feeling anything that deep again.

His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking your sides.

Your breath caught.

Ilya knelt behind you, guiding your balance with strong hands, brushing your hair off your shoulders, his mouth never far from your skin. He kissed your spine like a rosary, mouthing along every ridge with reverence.

You moved slowly, letting Shane fill you completely, letting your body adjust around him, letting the heat melt into your bones.

His lips parted on a breath. “Jesus…”

You bent down and kissed him again, your body flush to his chest. He held you tighter, one hand sliding up to your back.

Behind you, Ilya’s fingers traced your thighs, then slid up: your sides, your breasts, his palms cradling them with care more than lust. He kissed your shoulder, then your ear.

“Khoroshaya devochka,” he murmured. “You are my good girl…moy angel.” His hand cupped your jaw from behind. “Ty v bezopasnosti. You are safe. You are so fucking loved.”

You shivered.

Shane lifted his hips slightly beneath you, finding your rhythm. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep and slow, like each movement said, ‘We’ve got you. You don’t need to pretend anymore.’

Ilya’s mouth grazed your neck, his voice lower now. “Do you hear me?”

You nodded, gasping as your body clenched down.

He slipped a hand between your legs, found your clit with slow, maddening pressure, circling until your head dropped back with a cry.

You turned and kissed him: twisting at the waist, catching his lips over your shoulder. His kiss was darker. Deeper. But still not rough. Like he wanted to consume you but only at your pace.

The three of you were a knot of breath and warmth and skin. Your thighs trembled with each motion. Shane’s chest heaved under you. His fingers dug into your hips, not to hold you down, but to stay grounded with you.

“I can’t—” you whispered.

But you didn’t have to finish. They already knew.

Ilya’s lips pressed to the nape of your neck. “Let go.”

Shane’s voice was a rasp. “We’ve got you.”

And when you came, it was with tears in your eyes.

Not from pain. Not from pressure. But from release. The kind that didn’t ask for performance. The kind that didn’t require perfection. The kind that came only when you felt held.

You buried your face in Shane’s neck. His arms folded around you immediately, one hand splayed over your back, the other stroking your hair.

Ilya stayed pressed to your spine, whispering praise in Russian, trailing kisses down your shoulder blades, down your waist, until you felt yourself soften completely.

They didn’t let go.

There was no rush to clean up. No teasing. No talking. They just stayed with you. Touching you. Covering you with warmth. Hands on your calves, your arms, your ribs.

Not possessive. Not sexual anymore. Just, presence.

They kissed your forehead. Your hands. Your hipbones.

Ilya stroked your hair until your breathing evened out. Until your lashes grew heavy and your limbs loosened, boneless from more than just orgasm.

Shane cradled your cheek against his chest. His heart beat slow and steady against your ear.

And as you drifted there - soft, spent, safe -!you whispered the first true promise you’d made in weeks:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They didn’t answer out loud. They didn’t need to. Their hands stayed on your skin. Their warmth stayed wrapped around you. And for the first time in too long, you believed yourself.

_____________

The apartment was bathed in soft light that morning, the kind that felt like reward. No alarms had been set. No one had rushed. There was only the slow return to consciousness, warm and sweet and slow.

You woke tangled in the centre of the bed, one thigh slung over Shane’s hip, Ilya spooned against your back, his breath soft and warm against the curve of your neck. Shane’s arm was folded beneath you, his other draped lightly over your waist, fingers twitching now and then in sleep. Ilya’s chest rose and fell against your spine like an ocean you trusted.

For a long while, you didn’t move. You let it hold.

The steady rhythm of Shane’s heartbeat under your palm. The quiet weight of Ilya’s arm over your ribs. The sacred stillness of a morning where the world hadn’t knocked yet. It was the kind of peace that came after chaos, rare and hard-earned.

Eventually, Ilya stirred.

He kissed your shoulder lazily, his lips dragging across bare skin, and groaned into your hair. “Too early to be man of bus.”

You smiled. Really smiled. That still surprised you sometimes, how easy it came now.

“You’re always man of bus,” Shane mumbled into the pillow, voice gravel-soft and half asleep.

Ilya groaned louder this time, dramatic. “Cursed life. Ya klyanus—one day I vanish into woods. Leave phone. Raise goat.”

You curled deeper between them, nose pressed into Shane’s collarbone. “He’s lucky,” you murmured. “Because you look like you want to ruin something.”

Shane cracked an eye open, lazy and amused. “Yeah. Me.”

Ilya kissed the back of your head. “Next time. I destroy you both.”

“You promise?” Shane murmured.

“I will bend you like twig.”

“You say that,” Shane replied, lips twitching, “but last time you ‘bent’ me, you walked crooked for two days.”

Ilya made a strangled noise of offense. “Lies. Slander. You provoke me before I go.”

You yawned into the pillow. “Pretty sure he just wants a goodbye kiss.”

“I want satisfaction,” Ilya growled, then ruined it with a yawn of his own. “And coffee. But mostly satisfaction.”

Shane’s hand found your hip under the blankets. “He gets one of those.”

“You both get neither if you keep talking,” you mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep.

“Cruel,” Ilya said, mock wounded. “I suffer. I toil. I carry bags like mule. And what do I get? Rejection. Toast crumbs. Maybe lukewarm kiss.”

Shane laughed, full-bodied now. “You get coffee. If you behave.”

Ilya flopped onto his back with a sigh. “Unbelievable. I am legend. I deserve statues. Streets named after me.”

“Your street would be a dead end,” you muttered.

Ilya just cackled.

You all moved slowly. Breakfast was quiet - coffee and toast and soft conversation at the table, the occasional laugh slipping through like sunlight.

Ilya, as always, poured everyone’s mugs with exaggerated seriousness, murmuring “fuel for warriors” as he handed them out.

Shane made eggs, slightly burnt on the edges, and pretended not to notice. You actually laughed when he tried to flip one and it landed face-down on the burner.

That sound - your laugh - made both of them freeze.

It wasn’t fixed. It wasn’t over. But something had shifted. You were still here. Still breathing. Still…you. And they saw that. Heard it in your voice. Held it in the quiet glances they exchanged when you weren’t looking.

__________

When it came time to go, Ilya dragged his bag to the door with excessive theatrical grunting, then stood for a long moment, staring back at the kitchen.

You and Shane stood side by side at the counter, nursing second coffees, warm from the inside out. You raised your cup at him like a toast.

“You’re being weird,” Shane said softly.

“Shut up,” Ilya muttered. “I can be sentimental. You cry at Pixar but I am problem.”

“‘Up’ is emotional,” Shane protested.

Ilya ignored him and crossed the room.

He wrapped one arm tight around your waist, tugging you close enough to feel every breath in his chest. The other hand gripped Shane by the collar and yanked him in.

“I mean it,” Ilya muttered into Shane’s shoulder. “You take care of her.”

Shane kissed his jaw. “I always do.”

Then Ilya kissed you; not possessive, not hungry. Just steady. A kiss that said ‘you’re mine, you’re safe, I’m coming back’.

He rested his forehead against yours for a long breath. “I will be back tomorrow night,” he said. “You call me if you need anything. You message me if you do not.”

You nodded. “I’ll be okay.”

He kissed you again, longer this time. Whispered, “I know.”

And then, with one last curse under his breath about early buses and insufficient blowjobs, he was gone.

__________

Shane didn’t go far.

He took his coffee to the couch and sat like he owned it: legs spread, arm thrown over the backrest, the definition of casual confidence. But he was watching you out of the corner of his eye. Always tracking, always there.

You joined him slowly.

He let you take your time. Gave you his body to lean against but no pressure. When you curled into his side, head resting against his shoulder, he just sipped his coffee and exhaled slowly.

He didn’t ask anything. You were the first to speak.

“There’s something I never told either of you.”

Shane’s head tilted but he didn’t rush you. “Yeah?”

You traced your finger along the seam of his sleeve.

“I always wanted to be a photographer.”

His brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing. Just waited.

You took a deep breath. “Like…that was the dream. Not a side hobby. Not a weekend thing. The real dream. Galleries. Book covers. Magazine spreads. I wanted it so bad it made my teeth ache.”

He let out a breath, but still didn’t speak. It was perfect, his quiet patience.

You went on.

“I applied to school twice. Didn’t get in the first time. Got in the second. Didn’t go.” You laughed quietly. Bitter. “My parents were worried about stability, and I said okay. Took the job. The career path. The safe choice. Told myself I’d keep taking photos on the side.”

Shane’s hand found yours.

“I didn’t,” you said.

His fingers laced through yours without a word.

“I let it go. I watched people I knew from forums and local shows make it. And I just…kept working.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed. It felt like I failed.”

His grip on your hand tightened. Not hard, just sure.

You looked up at him, voice cracking. “I still want it, Shane. I want it so much it fucking hurts.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. “Then we go get it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

He cupped your cheek. “You’re not done. It’s not too late. You want it? We’ll help you figure it out.”

You shook your head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “You just have to say yes.”

You bit your lip. “Yes to what?”

He smiled. Kissed you slow. “Yes to the next try.”

And that’s where Ilya found you when he called later that night.

You were curled into Shane’s side again, both of you barefoot and cross-legged on the couch, laptop glowing in your lap, tabs open across the screen. Photography programs. Local workshops. Portfolio tips. A Canon lens you hadn’t let yourself look at in years.

The call came through with Ilya’s contact photo: smirking, wind-blown, smug as hell. You answered before the second ring.

He appeared, backlit by hotel lamplight, shirtless, towel around his neck, hair damp.

“Privet, moya lyubov,” he said.

You grinned. “Hey.”

Shane waved from beside you. “She’s been looking at art schools.”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

You turned the screen slightly. “Just looking. Don’t make it a thing.”

Ilya stared at the screen, eyes scanning the tabs. Then his mouth parted, and he swore low under his breath. “Seriously?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. I think so.”

His face softened, more than you expected.

“You have that look again,” he said.

“What look?”

“The one you had the first time I saw your photos. When you showed me that alley full of broken glass and graffiti and called it beautiful.”

You swallowed. “I thought you forgot that.”

“I forget many things,” he said. “Never that.”

You didn’t realise you were crying until Shane handed you a tissue.

Ilya leaned forward in the frame. “Chase it. Fuck the job. Fuck fear. You want it? We will carry you to it.”

You laughed through the tears. “You’re kind of intense on video call.”

“Get used to it,” he muttered. “I marry you both one day.”

Shane choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ilya said, deadpan. “Now show me program again. I want to see what we are planning.”

And just like that, the three of you stayed on that call for another hour - browsing, dreaming, planning.

Together. Because this time, you weren’t chasing it alone.

___________

You’d been laughing - flushed with warmth, stretched across Shane’s lap, Ilya still on video, shirtless and sprawled against cheap hotel pillows. The three of you had just finished comparing tuition like it was a sports stat and your cheeks ached from smiling.

Then Ilya tilted his head slightly. His voice dropped a little. He was watching you closely.

“Our girl,” he said quietly. “She is looking more like herself.”

You blinked at the shift in tone, at the softness under the words - our. Not my.

Shane’s hand stilled on your thigh.

“She is,” he said, glancing down at you with a quiet smile. “I can feel it.”

Ilya leaned closer to the camera, resting his jaw in his hand, and for a beat, there was only the sound of your breathing, of static, of electricity crawling under your skin.

“I am not there,” he said softly. “But you are, Shane.”

Shane’s fingers curled just slightly, grazing your skin through your cotton shorts. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, but you felt the tension shift in his body - leaning forward, alert.

“I want you to do something for me,” Ilya murmured.

Shane nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Take her apart for me.”

The words landed like silk. Quiet. Certain. Ilya’s accent thickened just slightly, his tone low and instructive, but never rushed.

“Start slow. Do not ask her what she wants. She wants to feel.” He looked at you then, eyes dark and full of heat. “You want to stop, you tell him. Otherwise, you take what we give you, da?”

Your mouth was already open. Breath catching. “Yes.”

Ilya smiled. “Good girl.”

Shane shifted under you, guiding you gently onto your back, your head resting on the throw pillow. You didn’t break eye contact with the laptop as you moved; didn’t want to. Ilya was watching. Tracking every breath. Every tremble.

Shane’s hands found your thighs, spreading you slowly, reverently. He leaned in and kissed the inside of your knee.

Ilya’s voice came again, calm and warm in your ear. “You remember how she shakes when you tease too long?”

Shane chuckled, mouth already moving down. “Oh yeah.”

“Do it,” Ilya said. “Make her beg.”

You felt fingers tug at the hem of your shorts, Shane peeling them down with gentle insistence. He didn’t rush. He lingered. His lips followed the waistband, kissing the skin as it was revealed. You were already wet, already shaking.

Ilya’s breath hitched on the other end of the call. He noticed it too.

“Look at her,” he murmured. “Kraviso…she’s so ready.”

Shane settled between your legs and kissed the crease of your thigh, then lower. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the couch. You arched instinctively, fingers clenching the fabric beside you.

“Slow tongue,” Ilya said. “Tip. Just that.”

And that’s what Shane did - one long, devastatingly slow pass over your clit, feather-light, like a secret being whispered into your skin.

You gasped.

Ilya growled. “That sound. Again.”

Shane did it again. Slower. Deeper.

Your back arched, hips stuttering.

“Do not let her squirm,” Ilya said.

Shane slid one arm fully under your thigh, forearm locking you in place. His tongue moved with unbearable patience - flicks, circles, wide flat passes. You whimpered. Your hand reached blindly for something to hold.

“Touch her,” Ilya said.

Shane reached for your hand. Interlaced your fingers. Kissed your inner thigh again before lowering his mouth and sucking - soft, hot, pulling sound from your lungs.

You looked at the screen.

Ilya’s eyes were locked on your face. His voice was velvet. “Ty chuvstvuyesheto, detka? You feel it?”

You nodded helplessly. “Yes—yes, I feel—”

“Don’t come yet,” he warned, gentle but firm. “Not until I say.”

Shane groaned against you. The sound made your body tighten, legs trembling.

“Another finger,” Ilya said. “She is close.”

You felt the pressure, the slide, Shane curling just right, and your whole body shuddered.

“Ilya—” you gasped, looking straight at the screen.

“Now,” he said.

And your orgasm hit like a wave.

You cried out, back arching, held fast by Shane’s hands, guided through every second with his tongue and Ilya’s voice. You came so hard your thighs shook around Shane’s head, sobs caught in your throat; not from pain, not even from pleasure alone, but from everything. The release. The being seen. The being held.

You collapsed back against the cushions, chest heaving, legs twitching.

Shane rested his head against your thigh, breathing hard, his lips brushing your skin in slow kisses.

Ilya was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I miss you both so fucking much.”

Shane looked at the screen, eyes still blown. “Come home.”

“I will,” Ilya said. “And next time?” His smile turned sharp. “You both kneel.”

You laughed, breathless, flushed, still shaking.

And Shane? He kissed the inside of your thigh again and said, “Yes, sir.”

___________

He came home the next night just after ten.

You knew it was him the second the lock turned.

Not because of the sound; because of the way your body reacted before your mind caught up. A tightening low in your belly. A heat along your spine. The instinctive lift of your head where you were curled on the couch with Shane, laptop forgotten, some half-watched show paused mid-sentence.

The door opened. Boots. A bag dropped. The faint clink of keys.

Then his voice, already rough from travel, from holding himself back all day.

“Gde moi lyubimyye?”

You were off the couch before you realised you’d moved.

He barely had time to straighten before you were in his arms. He caught you easily, one arm wrapping around your back, the other locking around your thighs as you jumped. Your face buried in his neck, breathing him in - soap, road, him.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your hair. “There you are.”

Shane was right behind you, hand landing warm and sure between Ilya’s shoulder blades. The three of you pressed together in the doorway, a knot of bodies and breath and relief so sharp it almost hurt.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at you.

Actually look. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs pressing into your ribs like he was counting you. His eyes were dark, intent, taking in the softness in your face, the way you were standing straighter than you had days ago.

“There,” he said quietly. Then, to Shane, without taking his eyes off you: “I told you. Our girl looks more like herself.”

Shane smiled, slow and proud. “She does.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. Something heavier. Hungrier.

“Good,” he said. “Because I have been thinking about her all day.”

You barely made it to the bedroom.

Ilya walked you there with his hand firm at the back of your neck, fingers threaded into your hair; not pulling, just guiding. Shane followed, already shrugging out of his shirt, eyes never leaving the way your breath kept hitching under Ilya’s touch.

Once inside, Ilya shut the door with his foot. The sound clicked something into place.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Good.” His thumb brushed your jaw. “Because I am not gentle tonight.”

A shiver went through you, not fear. Anticipation.

He turned his head slightly. “Shane.”

Shane straightened instantly. “Yeah.”

Ilya’s voice dropped, calm and commanding in the way that always made your knees feel weak. “Get her out of her clothes. Slow. Let me watch.”

Shane didn’t hesitate.

He stepped in front of you, hands warm, deliberate, sliding up your arms, lifting your shirt inch by inch. He kissed the skin he uncovered - your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts - before pulling the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

Ilya stayed close behind you, hands still at your neck and waist, his breath hot against your ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Show me how you take care of her.”

Shane sank to his knees.

The sight of it - him kneeling for you, for him - made your thighs tremble. Shane’s hands slid over your hips, thumbs hooking into your waistband. He looked up once, checking.

Ilya answered for you. “Do it.”

Your pants were gone. Then your underwear, peeled down with agonising slowness, Shane’s mouth following, kissing your inner thighs, the sensitive skin where your legs met your hips.

You gasped.

Ilya’s hand tightened at your waist. “Listen to her,” he said softly. “She needs you.”

Shane’s tongue met you without ceremony. Not teasing. Not light. A deep, hungry stroke that made your head fall back against Ilya’s shoulder with a broken sound.

“There,” Ilya said, pleased. “Just like that.”

He kept one hand anchoring you, the other sliding down your body, fingers brushing your breasts, pinching lightly until you whimpered.

“Open for him,” he told you. “Let him hear what he does to you.”

Shane groaned against you and went harder: tongue, mouth, hands working together, relentless and devoted. Your legs shook, one foot lifting off the floor as the pleasure built too fast, too sharp.

“Ilya—” you gasped.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “Not yet. I just got home.”

His fingers slid between your legs, not to replace Shane, but to add, to overwhelm. He watched your face as he touched you, tracking every tremor.

“Shane,” he said calmly. “Finger her. Slow. Deep.”

Shane obeyed, his fingers curling inside you just right, tongue never stopping. You cried out, body arching, hands clutching at Ilya’s arms like you’d fall without him.

“Krasivyy,” Ilya murmured. “You take it so good, my good girl.”

Your orgasm tore through you before you could stop it, shaking and breathless, legs giving out.

Ilya caught you easily.

He lifted you, carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing, laid you back against the pillows. Shane followed, already climbing over you, mouth finding yours, tasting himself on your lips.

Ilya stripped while he watched: unhurried, confident, eyes dark with want.

He joined you on the bed, hands on both of you now, pulling you into a tangle of limbs and heat and breath.

This time, there was nothing gentle about it. Only want Only relief. Only the deep, bone-settling knowledge that you were exactly where you belonged: between them, under their hands, held from all sides.

And when Ilya finally thrust into you, Shane’s mouth on yours, his hand locked with yours above your head, it felt like coming home in the truest sense of the word.

Not escape. Return.

Ilya didn’t rush it. That was the thing you noticed first, even as your body was still shuddering from what Shane had already pulled out of you. Ilya moved like a man who had waited long enough to savor every second, who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take his time claiming it.

He pressed in deep, slow, filling you until the stretch made you gasp again, your hands clawing at the sheets.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick, reverent. “Still open. Still wanting.”

Shane was there immediately, one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it higher so Ilya could sink in even further. The movement drew a sound out of you: half-plea, half-broken moan.

“That’s it,” Shane whispered against your mouth. “Let him feel you.”

Ilya set the rhythm: measured, powerful, unrelenting. Each thrust landed exactly where you were most sensitive, deliberate enough that you felt every inch, every pullback, every return.

You weren’t drifting anymore. You were here. Fully. Achingly present.

Shane kissed you deep and messy, swallowing the sounds you couldn’t stop making, his hand sliding between your bodies again, fingers finding you where you were already oversensitive, already wrecked.

“Shane,” Ilya said, breath rough now. “Touch her like she is ours.”

A growl vibrated in Shane’s chest as he obeyed, fingers circling you with just enough pressure to push you closer to the edge without sending you over yet.

You broke away from the kiss with a sob. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Ilya said, voice steady even as his control frayed. His forehead dropped to yours. “You have been holding so much inside. Let it go for us.”

Shane’s hand tightened in yours. “We’ve got you. All the way.”

Your body answered before your mind could argue.

The second orgasm tore through you harder than the first - deep, rolling, overwhelming. Your cry cracked the air as your back arched off the bed, your whole body clenching around Ilya.

“Fuck—” Ilya choked, his control snapping as you came apart around him. His thrusts turned sharper, needier, his breath coming in harsh bursts against your cheek. “Just like that—yebat—”

Shane watched it happen, eyes dark and blown, hand still stroking you through the aftershocks, drawing every last tremor out of you.

Ilya came with a broken sound, burying his face against your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, before he went still, shuddering deep inside you. His arms locked around you like he needed to make sure you didn’t disappear.

For a moment, there was nothing but breath. Then Shane let out a shaky laugh - soft, stunned, overwhelmed.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still dark but softened now, heat giving way to something almost tender.

“You are not done,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane swallowed. “Yeah?”

Ilya slid out of you slowly, carefully, hands never leaving your body as he guided you down against the pillows, tucking you into his side.

“You take care of her,” Ilya repeated, but this time it wasn’t a warning. It was permission.

Shane didn’t hesitate.

He leaned over you, kissing you once, slow and grounding, then moved lower, hands and mouth finding him with the same devotion he’d given you. His breathing hitched quickly he’d been holding back longer than he realised.

Ilya watched, one hand still stroking your hair, the other resting heavy on Shane’s shoulder like an anchor.

“Good,” Ilya murmured. “Don’t rush.”

Shane didn’t last long; not after everything, not with Ilya’s steady presence and your soft touches grounding him. When he finally came, it was with a sharp gasp and a laugh that sounded more like relief than anything else.

He collapsed sideways, half on top of you, half against Ilya, breathing hard.

For a while, none of you spoke. You lay tangled together, skin slick with sweat, hearts slowly finding a shared rhythm again. Ilya pressed a kiss to your temple, then to Shane’s shoulder.

“There,” he said softly. “All of us.”

You felt it settle in your chest - warm, solid, real. Not escape. Not distraction. Connection.

And this time, when you closed your eyes between them, it wasn’t because you were running from anything. It was because you were finally at rest.

Chapter Text

Ottawa, June

The sun filtered soft and gold through the towering trees as it dropped behind the pines outside Shane’s Ottawa cottage. A light breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of earth, cedar, and lakewater. Inside the house, you and Shane were on hour six of full-scale birthday prep.

Or rather, you were prepping. Shane had been pacing. Not anxiously. Not exactly. Just…constantly.

“Okay but what if he gets in a weird mood on the drive up?” Shane asked for the third time, peering through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows like Ilya might have teleported through the trees instead of actually texting his location like a normal person.

“He’s already in a weird mood,” you replied from your spot on the massive leather sectional, fingers flying over your phone keyboard. “He’s in Montreal doing a press shoot. On his birthday. He’s boiling in his own rage.”

Your screen pinged with a new message from the group chat.

Ilya:

Leaving now.
If this road has traffic I will turn whole forest to ash.

You:

You’ll be fine. Shane baked you a cake.
It’s got actual chocolate in it and everything.

Ilya:

That better not be code for sex.

Shane:

It is ABSOLUTELY NOT

Ilya:

Shame

You snorted. “You know he’s going to hate that we planned anything.”

“Uh-huh. And he’s going to love it five minutes later,” Shane said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Especially once he sees what we picked out.”

You both glanced at the side table where two boxes sat - black, matte and utterly harmless to the naked eye.

They weren’t. Inside: matching lingerie sets. One for you. One for Shane.

Carefully chosen. Silk and lace. Delicate and bold at once. Yours deep wine red. Shane’s slate black.

You’d picked them out together, giddy in the boutique, half-serious, half-daring, but entirely united on one goal: give Ilya everything.

“You know he’s gonna make us wait,” Shane muttered. “Like—actually wait. Just because he can.”

You smiled up at him. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Shane’s ears pinked. “I hate how much I love that.”

“I know.”

The ping came again.

Ilya:

Cake better have three layers and not be metaphor

You:

You’ll get your cake.
And your presents.
…but only if you follow the rules tonight.

There was no reply for a long moment. Then:

Ilya:

Rules.
Is that what we are doing.
You make me rules.

You:

Only for your birthday, Russian.

Ilya:

Then you better be ready to break

Shane groaned and flopped face-first into the nearest cushion.

“We’re going to die,” he said into the pillow. “He’s going to destroy us.”

“Yeah,” you said, stretching out lazily. “Isn’t that the whole point of a birthday celebration?”

_____________

The driveway gravel crackled under tyres.
Shane practically levitated off the couch.

You turned toward the entryway, your heart kicking hard and fast as the silhouette moved through the trees - tall, broad, somehow already annoyed despite having just arrived. The front door opened a beat later, and in walked Ilya Rozanov, wearing dark joggers, a fitted t-shirt and the sort of scowl that could burn down a press conference in six seconds flat.

“Hi,” you said, smiling too sweetly. “Welcome to your nightmare.”

His eyes narrowed as he closed the door behind him. “What did you do?”

Shane raised both hands. “Nothing.”

“Lies,” Ilya said immediately. His gaze swept the open-plan living room, the flickering candles, the half-cleared wine glasses on the dining table, the boxes on the sideboard. Then he looked at you.

More precisely: your mouth. Your neck. Your eyes. Then, finally, back to your mouth.

He exhaled like he was already exhausted.

“Takeout or cooking?” he asked, wandering toward the kitchen island.

“Takeout,” Shane said, already following him. “You think we’re cooking in this heat?”

“Is not hot,” Ilya grumbled, pulling open the fridge and finding the cold water bottle you’d left for him. “Is pleasant.”

“Yeah, pleasant if you’re made of granite.”

You leaned against the archway, watching them banter, the tension unwinding in slow curls from Ilya’s posture. He always did this: entered a room like he was fighting ghosts, only to ease into something softer once he had both of you in sight.

Dinner was casual: low music, shared bites, and you and Shane doing a poor job of hiding your anticipation. Ilya noticed. Of course he noticed. He just didn’t mention it - didn’t even look at the boxes on the table again - until dinner was over.

And then, without a word, he stood. Walked to them. Picked one up.

“You did not,” he said flatly, holding the box out toward Shane.

“Actually we did,” Shane said, looking almost smug now.

Ilya raised one eyebrow and turned to you. “You are both so full of yourselves.”

“Yes,” you said, stepping forward, finally close enough to reach for his belt loop, tugging just once before letting go. “But tonight’s not about us.”

He went quiet at that.

It took Ilya a full beat to respond. When he did, his voice was lower, heavier with something thick and unreadable.

“Tonight is mine,” he said.

You nodded.

He tilted his head, looking at you like he might bite.

“You say this like you’re ready.”

“I am.”

“And you?” he asked, turning to Shane, who looked like he wanted to nod and bolt at the same time.

Shane cleared his throat. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Ilya’s smile was slow. Dangerous.

“Good,” he said. “Then here are the rules.”

He moved back to the centre of the room. The open fireplace flickered behind him. The last of the golden light from the setting sun kissed his shoulders. He looked like something carved out of stone and heat.

“You do not touch unless I say,” he began, gaze sweeping between the two of you.

You shivered.

“You do not speak unless I tell you,” he continued. “Unless it is my name. Or hers.”

You caught Shane’s hand at your side. Squeezed once.

“You do not come tonight,” Ilya said last, tone absolute. “Not until I say. Not unless I watch.”

Silence. He crossed his arms.

“And you will follow every command.”

The air was sharp with anticipation. You and Shane stood side by side, hearts pounding, breath a little shallow.

Then Ilya stepped forward, so close you could feel the heat of him.

He kissed your temple. Then kissed Shane’s cheek.

“And if you do all that…” he murmured, “I will make this birthday the one you never forget.”

_____________

Ilya’s fingers brushed the top of the box like he was already suspicious.

Matte black. Minimal branding. A single blood-red ribbon tied around yours, a silver one around Shane’s. He narrowed his eyes at the bows like they might explode, then shot a glare at you across the room.

You raised your brows. “Open it.”

He did. First yours, then Shane’s. The reaction was quiet; too quiet. No gasp. No groan. Just stillness. But his whole body changed.

He stood straighter. His jaw ticked once, then again. And when he finally reached into the first box and drew out the lace - wine red, sheer, structured with boning and delicate panels - his mouth went completely flat.

You could feel Shane watching him, just a little twitchy, like he wasn’t sure if this counted as a win or a tactical mistake.

Then Ilya opened the second box.

Pulled out black lace briefs and a matching strappy harness so sheer, so minimal, it barely qualified as clothing at all.

He held both sets up like weapons. “You two want me dead.”

You smiled sweetly. “Only a little.”

Shane cleared his throat. “In our defense…you’re the one who said the night was yours.”

Ilya didn’t smile. He looked at you. Then at Shane. And when he spoke, his voice dropped into something dangerous.

“Go,” he said. “Put it on.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Now.”

Shane opened his mouth, like he might joke or stall, but then Ilya gave him that look, all slow-burn command and buried heat, and Shane practically tripped over himself following you into the bedroom.

______________

You shut the door behind you.

The energy shifted immediately - no longer under Ilya’s gaze, but still feeling it, thick in the air, wrapped around both of you like a velvet rope.

Shane exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Jesus.”

You set the boxes on the bed and turned to face him. “Still glad we planned this?”

He gave you a look - half wild, half delighted. “I don’t even care if he touches me tonight. I just want to see what that does to him.”

You giggled, heart racing, already reaching for the zipper on your dress. He caught the motion and froze for a moment, eyes tracking your fingers as the fabric peeled away.

“Hey,” he said softly, “let’s…do it together.”

You nodded, smile softening. “Okay.”

You both moved at the same time; slow, deliberate. Peeling layers. Undressing without hiding. You in your set - lace and soft lines, the fabric hugging your ribs and waist like it had been made for you. The matching garters clipped to thigh-highs you’d nearly forgotten about.

Shane let out a breath when he saw you.

“You’re not real,” he muttered. “You look like a fucking sin.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He stepped into the black briefs, then the harness, fitting it over his shoulders, adjusting the straps as he turned in the mirror. It framed his chest, his stomach, everything - shadows and lines and a hint of mischief where the lace dipped just below his navel.

You both just stared for a second. Not speaking. Eyes locked. And then Shane started to grin.

“Okay,” he said, breathless and flushed and humming with nerves. “Now I want to watch what this does to you.”

You crossed the floor and kissed his cheek, fixing one of the straps at his shoulder.

“Wait until we open the door,” you whispered. “He’s going to lose it.”

Outside, you could hear Ilya moving in the living room.

Pacing. Waiting.

The air between you two practically buzzed.

You looked down once more - at the matching lace, the way your bodies were meant to be seen together. And then you turned toward the door.

Ready to show him. Ready to wreck him. And he had no idea what was about to hit.

_______________

You stood there, both of you in lingerie, side by side like a gift unwrapped just enough to tempt.

And still, Ilya hadn’t said a word.

His eyes swept over both of you slowly, cataloging every detail - the way your thighs pressed together, the way Shane kept shifting his weight like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, the way your breath caught when he finally stepped forward.

He came to you first. His hand lifted, fingers grazing your shoulder.

“Turn,” he said softly.

You obeyed, turning slowly in place. Giving him the full view. Lace. Skin. Want.

When you completed the turn, he hummed. “Stay.”

Then he walked to Shane.

“Yours doesn’t match,” he said, circling him once.

“This was her idea,” Shane muttered. “I panicked.”

Ilya laughed - low and rough - and stepped close enough to press a kiss to Shane’s throat. “Panic looks good on you.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

You didn’t move. You knew better.

Ilya returned to the centre of the room, let the pause stretch, the silence weigh.

Then: “Get on your knees.”

You and Shane dropped in tandem. The rug was soft beneath you but your body was already trembling from restraint.

Ilya approached slowly. He stopped in front of you and tipped your chin up with one finger.

“You ready to show me how much you love me?” he asked, low and sharp.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Prove it,” he said, voice dropping an octave.

You leaned forward and kissed the inside of his thigh, just above the waistband of his joggers.

Shane followed without prompting, mirroring you on the other side. He kissed the same line of skin. Your eyes met briefly: both of you breathless, wanting, waiting.

Ilya’s hands threaded into your hair.

“Shane,” he said. “Take her mouth.”

You blinked, startled, but already burning.

Shane’s eyes widened.

Ilya didn’t wait. He stepped behind you, hands pushing lightly at your shoulders. “On all fours.”

You moved quickly, breath coming in gasps now, thighs already slick, heart pounding.

“Shane,” Ilya said again. “Her mouth.”

Shane dropped in front of you, hard now - strained against the sheer black. His hands brushed your jaw, his eyes wide, vulnerable.

“Okay?” he whispered.

You nodded.

Ilya’s voice was soft but deadly: “Did I say you could speak?”

Shane swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Then fuck her mouth.”

Shane guided himself out, thick and flushed, and your lips parted willingly, already aching to please. He slid in slow, trembling as he pushed deep, one hand braced against your cheek.

Behind you, Ilya dropped to his knees and dragged your panties down without a word.

Your moan choked on Shane’s cock as Ilya’s mouth found you. No teasing. No warm-up.

His tongue was ruthless: long, precise strokes, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He licked you like it was his, groaned into your pussy as you shook around his mouth.

Your body started to tremble almost instantly.

Ilya pulled back, spit wet on your thighs, and slapped your ass once, sharp. “Don’t come.”

You whimpered.

“Shane,” he said. “Deeper.”

Shane did exactly that - pushed harder into your mouth, hips jerking forward, eyes squeezed shut.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised. “You both look fucking beautiful like this.”

You could barely breathe. Between Shane’s cock, Ilya’s tongue, and the pressure building behind your ribs, your limbs were shaking.

And then—

Ilya pulled back.

“On the bed,” he snapped. “Now. On your back. Both of you.”

You obeyed instantly, clambering up, Shane beside you.

Ilya stripped as he followed; slow now, letting you watch. Letting you see just how badly he needed this.

You and Shane lay side by side, panting, eyes fixed on him.

He climbed onto the bed between you.

“Touch her,” he ordered Shane. “Everywhere but where she wants.”

Shane nodded, rolling toward you, fingers exploring your breasts, your stomach, your throat. His mouth pressed to yours again, deep and grateful.

Ilya kissed you too - claiming and hot - then took Shane’s jaw in his hand and kissed him just as fiercely.

Then—

“Her first,” he said. “I want to watch.”

He guided Shane between your thighs, one hand fisting in your hair as he watched you fall apart again under Shane’s mouth.

This time, he let you come.

He told you to. Whispered it low and Russian and raw against your temple: “Come for us. Come now, devochka moya”

You shattered - loud, unrestrained, clutching Shane’s hair, Ilya’s arm, the sheets.

When it passed, you were floating. Boneless. Done.

But Ilya wasn’t. He rolled Shane onto his back and mounted him, slow and devastating.

You watched Shane arch, mouth open, gasping.

Ilya leaned down, biting at his neck.

“You still mine?” he growled.

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Then take it,” Ilya snapped, hips pounding now. “You want to come?”

“Please—”

“Then hold her hand while you do it.”

Your hand reached for Shane’s instinctively, his grip desperate.

Ilya kissed your wrist as he fucked him, rough now, deep enough to make Shane cry out.

And when they both came - hard, shaking, loud - it was your name Shane gasped, and Ilya’s name you moaned.

And then? There was only breath. Three bodies tangled together. Sweat-slicked. Sated.

Ilya kissed your shoulder. Kissed Shane’s jaw. Bit down lightly on both.

“Happy birthday to me,” he murmured.

And then he laughed - low, dark, full of satisfaction. Because he knew it wasn’t over yet.

______________

The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin, but also - now - chocolate.

You were the one who’d planned ahead.

While Ilya was in the shower, cooling off, catching his breath and washing your combined sins from his skin, you’d padded barefoot into the kitchen, pulled the cake from the fridge and carried it back to bed on a cutting board like some kind of depraved room-service gremlin.

Shane watched you with wide, vaguely terrified eyes as you plopped it beside him on the sheets.

“You brought it?”

You raised a brow. “I didn’t bake a chocolate birthday cake with extra ganache for it to sit in the fridge.”

He leaned up on one elbow, blinking down at the cake like it might bite him. “You know we’re all naked, right?”

You stuck a candle in the top, grabbed the lighter from the bedside table, and lit it with a flourish. “Do you want to tell Ilya we skipped the birthday tradition?”

Shane grimaced. “Fair.”

The bathroom door creaked open then - steam curling out in lazy fingers - and Ilya walked into the room like a man freshly reborn. Towel around his hips. Hair damp. Skin flushed from heat and pleasure. He stopped when he saw you both.

He took in the cake. The single flickering candle. The naked bed. And narrowed his eyes.

“I fear nothing,” he said flatly, “but that looks dangerous.”

You smiled like a problem. “Happy birthday, Captain.”

“Sit your ass down,” Shane added, patting the mattress. “We’re doing this.”

Ilya sighed like it was such a burden being adored, then dropped the towel and climbed in between you both, glancing suspiciously at the cake.

“I will not sing,” he warned.

“You don’t sing on your own birthday,” you said, lighting the candle again. “Just make a wish.”

He leaned in, paused, locked eyes with you both. Then blew it out in one steady breath.

“What did you wish for?” Shane asked.

Ilya licked chocolate off his thumb. “Already got it.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. “Gross.”

“True.”

It started with frosting. More specifically: you, scooping some onto your finger and smearing it across Shane’s chest.

He looked down at it, then up at you, mouth open in betrayal. “Did you just…”

“Ilya,” you said innocently, holding out the frosting-covered finger like an offering. “Don’t you want your birthday dessert?”

Ilya didn’t answer. He moved. One arm wrapped under Shane’s thigh, dragging him down the bed just enough. The other pressed to his chest, pinning him in place.

Shane barely had time to yelp before Ilya’s mouth was on him, tongue hot and flat against the frosting, licking it off with deliberate, obscene slowness.

“Jesus—fuck—Ilya—”

Ilya growled low in his throat. “You taste better than cake.”

You watched, heat blooming between your thighs again.

Ilya’s mouth trailed lower.

You reached for the frosting again.

“Don’t you dare—” Shane began.

You dabbed it on his hipbone.

“Unreal,” Shane muttered. “Both of you.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed up. “Keep talking, I will spread it somewhere else.”

Shane froze.

Ilya licked the frosting from his skin, then nipped the spot lightly. “Good boy.”

Shane made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a threat.

Then Ilya reached for the frosting himself, scooped a thumbful, and looked at you with the devil in his smile.

“Your turn.”

Round Two. It was slower this time. He had his cake. Now he wanted devotion.

He kissed down your spine, coating you in afterglow heat, chocolate still lingering on his tongue. Shane stayed close, one hand stroking your hair, the other resting on your thigh, his own body lazily hard again.

Ilya turned you on your back, spread your legs, and settled between them like it was his throne.

“I want to taste every part of you,” he said. “But will fuck you first.”

You moaned.

He didn’t let you up from there.

His hands were steady - thumbs dragging down your ribs, his mouth marking your throat, your collarbone. Shane kissed you as Ilya lined up and sank in again, deep and aching.

This time, you weren’t screaming. You were sobbing his name.

He fucked you like a promise.

Shane watched, hands in your hair, letting you hold him while Ilya wrecked you both again.

You lost count of how many times you came.

Ilya didn’t.

He tracked them, counted them in Russian against your skin, whispering every time he felt you start to shake: “Raz….dva…tri…”

And when Shane couldn’t take it anymore and begged to be touched, Ilya guided you between their bodies, let Shane take over while he watched.

Watched you ride Shane, watched your eyes roll back, watched both of you come undone together while he stroked himself, groaning against your back, lips on your shoulder.

When Ilya finally came - again - it was all over your stomach and thighs, his body trembling, Shane’s arms around you, your mouth gasping for breath.

And after? There were smudges of chocolate on your hip. Frosting on Shane’s chest. And Ilya? He licked them both clean before collapsing between you.

“I am birthday king,” he muttered.

You buried your face in his chest.

Shane just laughed. “Next year, we top this.”

You all lay there breathless, sticky, sore.

And Ilya said, “I will need bigger cake.”

___________

The room still smelled faintly like frosting, sweat, and sex.

You meant to get up right away. Really. But somehow the three of you ended up melted together in a pile of sheets and heat, Ilya’s arm slung over your back, Shane’s thigh tangled with yours, the only sound the slow tick of cooling bodies and the soft hum of breath returning to normal.

Eventually, Shane shifted.

“Okay,” he muttered into Ilya’s chest. “We are disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ilya said, not moving an inch. “I smell like champion.”

You huffed a laugh against his ribs. “You smell like cake and sex.”

“What is wrong with that?”

“You’re literally stuck to my thigh.”

“I am bonding with you,” he said. “Do not ruin it.”

Shane groaned and sat up. “I’m getting the shower first before I fuse to the sheets and we have to call the fire department.”

Ilya grabbed him around the waist before he could stand and yanked him back down, grinning when Shane cursed and elbowed him. “You will wait your turn.”

“We could just shower together,” you offered, stretching lazily across Ilya’s chest.

He perked up immediately. “This. Yes. This I like.”

Shane looked between the two of you, eyes narrowed. “I swear to God if one of you tries to start round three, I’m locking you both out and bathing alone with my dignity.”

Ilya looked appalled. “Cowardice.”

“Survival.”

You rolled off the bed with a groan. “Five-minute truce. Real truce. No groping.”

Ilya held up a hand solemnly. “On my honour.”

He broke the promise sixty seconds into the shower.

⸻

By the time the three of you were dried off, dressed in the bare minimum and curled up back on the couch, the sky had gone from pink to deep blue. You’d ordered Thai - something fast, greasy, easy. The only decision you had to make was whether to get two orders of noodles or three.

(You got three: Ilya ate half of everyone’s anyway.)

The TV played something mindless - some cooking competition you weren’t really following. The lights were off except for the flicker of the screen. Shane had settled against Ilya’s right side, his cheek resting just above Ilya’s collarbone. You were on his left, legs curled under yourself, your face tucked against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It was warm. Quiet.

Every now and then, Ilya’s fingers moved: stroking Shane’s hair, running slow patterns across your spine. He wasn’t speaking. He hadn’t said much since the food arrived, except to argue briefly about whether pad see ew was “the superior noodle.”

You didn’t mind the quiet. Not really. But after a while, you looked up.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand moved slowly down your back, then paused.

“I never thought life would be like this,” he said finally, his voice barely above the sound of the TV.

Shane stirred beside him, lifting his head. “Like what?”

Ilya looked at you both. His expression wasn’t sad but it was soft in a way that made your chest ache. Like he’d stumbled on something delicate and didn’t quite know how to hold it.

“Like this,” he said again. “Warm. Quiet. Full.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

“I love you,” he added, and his voice cracked a little on the words. “Both of you. I hope you know that.”

Your throat tightened. You reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly at the edge of his beard. “We know.”

Shane pressed closer. “We love you too.”

Ilya closed his eyes for a second. Then nodded. Just once.

You let the silence settle again, softer this time. More whole.

Then you smiled and said, “Good birthday?”

Ilya opened one eye, narrowed it at you, and pulled you tighter against him.

“The best,” he said. “Yebat. The best birthday.”

And in the quiet that followed, with your bodies tucked around his, with Shane’s hand finding yours under the blanket and Ilya’s heartbeat thudding steady in your ear - you believed him.

Chapter Text

It started with Ilya muttering darkly about the indignity of economy-class coffee. Which was impressive, really, considering the three of you were flying first.

“Why does it taste like sadness?” he asked, giving the paper cup a scowl like it had insulted his ancestors.

“Because it is sadness,” Shane said, yawning as he tried to balance his own drink, the boarding passes and the small mountain of snacks he’d insisted on buying just in case the plane food was “weird.”

You juggled your own coffee, your carry-on, and the passport wallet - plus both of their sunglasses, since neither man seemed capable of remembering basic accessories once inside an airport. You were herding two overgrown, broad-shouldered toddlers with expensive luggage and championship rings.

And God help you, you loved it.

Ilya’s baseball cap was pulled low over his brow. Shane, ever polite, had already thanked the gate attendant twice for absolutely no reason. He smiled nervously every time someone looked at him too long. Ilya, by contrast, had perfected the art of ignoring humanity.

You? You just wanted to get through security without anyone realising exactly who you three were.

“Gate C17,” you reminded, nudging Ilya’s arm as you walked toward it.

“Already know,” he said. “Is on screen. I can read.”

“And yet you missed the part where liquids over 100ml are banned,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow at the half-full protein shake you’d had to fish out of his bag earlier.

“That was juice,” he deadpanned.

Shane snorted.

You grinned.

By the time you boarded, all three of you were loose with anticipation, sleepy and sun-hungry. You’d picked seats in the first row of business class: plenty of legroom for long limbs and no nosy seatmates.

Shane took the window. Ilya claimed the aisle. And you? You were the lucky soul in the middle.

“Strategic,” Shane whispered as you buckled your seatbelt. “You’re the truce line.”

“Between what?” you asked.

“Ilya’s mood,” Shane replied, “and the rest of humanity.”

Ilya raised one brow but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back, arms folded behind his head, long legs stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam. You could already see the Boston stress rolling off him. He hadn’t stopped complaining about the press event yesterday - “Why does they ask same questions every time?” - but the second the plane taxied onto the runway, his breathing evened out.

You tilted your head toward Shane. You reached for his hand, hidden low between the seats. He squeezed yours gently. Your shoulders brushed. A familiar warmth settled low in your belly.

He leaned over to murmur, voice barely audible over the hum of the engines:
“Best idea you ever had, this trip.”

Ilya cracked one eye open. “If you whisper, it makes me suspicious.”

You leaned over, smiling too sweet. “You’ll survive.”

The seatbelt sign dinged off somewhere over North Carolina. Ilya didn’t move, just exhaled slow and heavy like a hibernating bear stirred by spring sunlight. He hadn’t spoken in almost half an hour. His sunglasses were back on. His legs were splayed wide in the aisle and a flight attendant had already politely tapped him once with the drinks trolley.

You sipped your ginger ale and tried not to stare at the way his forearms flexed when he stretched, shirt sleeves pushed up like he was just asking for attention.

Next to you, Shane scrolled through his phone on airplane mode, thumb hovering over the camera roll. You caught a glimpse - screenshots from last night’s group chat. Flight info. A blurry pic of your suitcase with the caption “is this enough for 5 days or am I dead?”

You nudged his knee. He didn’t look up, just smiled like he’d been caught.

“Still nervous?” you asked.

Shane tilted his head, considering. “Not nervous. Just…” He paused. “Ilya’s got that look.”

You followed his gaze across you to where the Russian in question now had one arm flung over the seat divider and the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What look?” you asked, even though you knew exactly what he meant.

Shane lowered his voice. “The I’m going to ruin you one.”

Ilya turned his head lazily. “I hear everything.”

“You’re welcome,” you said sweetly, reaching across to steal a bite of his biscotti.

__________

The descent was smooth. You watched the turquoise coastline appear below like it had been conjured just for you.

By the time you stepped off the plane, the heat hit like a kiss. Heavy. Humid. Salt-sweet on your tongue.

A private car was waiting. Black SUV, leather seats cooled from the inside. The driver took your bags while you slid into the backseat, pressed between two bodies that radiated heat even in linen and cotton.

The drive was short. Palms swayed above narrow streets. Colourful signs blurred past - fruit stands, little bars, people dancing barefoot on patios at midday.

Shane kept one arm behind you the whole time. Ilya watched the coastline, his fingers resting casually on your knee. Nothing urgent. Just claiming.

At the resort gates, the SUV slowed. And then—

“Jesus,” Shane breathed.

White stone buildings. Cascading balconies. Blue-tiled infinity pools. And in the distance, the beach: pale gold and stretching wide, with that kind of privacy money couldn’t buy.

The concierge greeted you with champagne flutes and cold towels. Shane’s ears turned pink. Ilya muttered something in Russian about luxury making him suspicious.

You didn’t care. You were already kicking off your sandals by the time the porter led you down a shaded path to the villa at the far end of the resort.

It took your breath away. Private entrance. Lush greenery all around. Whitewashed wood. Floor-to-ceiling glass. One wall slid open entirely to the sand.

Inside: one massive bed. No walls between the bedroom and the sea-facing balcony. A rainfall shower big enough for all three of you. A plunge pool. A bottle of champagne chilling beside a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.

Ilya walked in and immediately dropped his bag.

“This is dangerous,” he said.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Shane sat on the edge of the bed, tested the mattress, then leaned back on his elbows. “This is perfect.”

You stood in the centre of the room, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. They looked at you - both of them - and you knew.

Five days. No games. No rules. Just this. Just them.

Ilya stepped up behind you, his hands settling on your hips like they were already home.

“So,” he murmured, low and Russian-rough in your ear, “you ready for vacation?”

__________

It didn’t take long to settle into the rhythm of paradise.

By late afternoon, the villa smelled like sea salt and sunscreen. Music played low on Shane’s speaker - some indie summer playlist full of echoey guitars and soft percussion. The balcony doors were wide open, sunlight pouring into the one-room expanse like honey.

Ilya had claimed the plunge pool immediately. He was in the water before your sandals were even off - stripping down to black swim trunks, then diving clean in, silent and deadly like a missile. He resurfaced with a splash and a muttered “fuck” at the temperature, then proceeded to stretch himself out like a sun-drenched tiger, swimming lazy laps that made sure everyone knew exactly what six-foot of wet Russian muscle looked like in afternoon light.

You and Shane claimed the lounger.

You were facedown on your stomach, propped on your forearms, wearing sunglasses and one of your more modest bikinis. Shane was behind you, bare-chested in slate-blue board shorts, a bottle of sunscreen in one hand, his warm, lotion-slicked palms dragging slow over your back with more care than your overworked skin had felt in months.

“This is obscene,” you mumbled, cheek to your towel, eyes closed in bliss. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“I’m being helpful,” Shane said, thumbs brushing over your shoulder blades. “You’re going to thank me when you don’t fry like bacon tomorrow.”

“I am bacon,” you said into the lounger.

He huffed a laugh and pushed your hair off your neck to get at the last bit of skin.

In the pool, Ilya surfaced at the far end, leaned his arms on the tile edge, and called across, “Unacceptable.”

Shane turned. “What is?”

“You,” Ilya said, pointing an accusatory, dripping finger. “Stealing all the good skin.”

You lifted your head. “He’s rubbing in sunscreen.”

“That is my job,” Ilya said, slapping water. “I like this job. You cannot steal.”

“She’s right here,” Shane said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“No,” Ilya declared. “Now I must wait. She is already greasy. You taint her with your soft Canadian hands.”

“I think he’s jealous,” you murmured.

“I’m making it up to him,” Shane replied casually, rubbing in a slow circle. Then, louder, for Ilya’s benefit: “He can do me next.”

You could feel the way Shane froze a split second after he said it. The silence that followed. Like the resort itself was holding its breath.

Ilya’s head turned. He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead with one slow, considering motion.

Then he grinned.

“Gladly.”

Shane made a strangled noise. You laughed so hard your sunglasses slipped off.

“I hate you both,” Shane mumbled, still smiling, face flushed.

“No, no,” Ilya said, standing up in the pool and wading toward the steps like it was nothing. Like he didn’t fully know what he looked like half-naked and dripping. “You started this. I will finish.”

“I was being nice!”

“I will be nicer.”

You laughed even harder, rolling to your side to make room as Ilya emerged, sunlight catching on the droplets sliding down his chest.

“Did we bring enough sunscreen?” you teased as he grabbed a towel.

“I brought two litres,” Shane grumbled. “Because I’m responsible.”

“I brought stamina,” Ilya said smugly.

You pulled your sunglasses back on and tipped your face toward the sun.

__________

That night’s dinner was easy - grilled fish and fruit salads at a quiet restaurant on the beach. You sat between them, sipping from a cold glass of white wine while the surf crashed soft in the distance.

Ilya’s knee pressed against yours the whole time. Shane kept stealing pieces of pineapple from your plate. You caught them watching each other more than once - and then watching you.

By the time you got back to the villa, it was full dark outside. The bed was made, the lights were low and the ocean was a distant hush through the open doors.

Shane pulled off his shirt. Ilya raised a brow.

And you? You kicked off your sandals and turned toward them both with a look that said exactly what you were thinking:

Why waste a single second of this trip?

Ilya sat at the edge of the bed. His eyes were already on Shane.

Shane, who stood shirtless across the room, chest rising fast, that familiar look on his face: part challenge, part surrender. Waiting for the shift. Waiting to be told.

You stepped back, just once, letting the silence fill the room like gravity. You didn’t need to say a word. Not when Ilya reached out and curled his fingers in Shane’s waistband.

“Come here,” he said.

And Shane went.

The moment crackled - unhurried, molten. Ilya didn’t rush, didn’t demand. He touched Shane like he’d waited long enough to savour it. One hand slipping over his hip, the other sliding up his spine.

You moved to the armchair near the foot of the bed, legs curled under you, wineglass balanced on the arm, heart thudding. Watching.

Shane climbed into Ilya’s lap, straddling him, hands braced on his shoulders. Ilya’s mouth met his without hesitation, all teeth and breath and slow, bruising heat.

“Tell me what you want,” Ilya murmured, his voice low, rasping.

Shane didn’t answer right away. Just kissed him harder.

You bit your lip, watching their mouths, their hands; how Ilya held Shane by the waist, how Shane rocked into him like he couldn’t help it.

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane whispered, forehead pressed to Ilya’s. “Want you to make me feel it.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to you for a second - like he needed to make sure you were still watching.

You were.

And then it shifted. Clothes gone. Shane braced on all fours, head bowed, back arched just slightly. Ilya behind him, slow at first, so slow, just the bare press of him, just enough for Shane to make that sound you loved, that ragged, broken thing that was half-need, half-relief.

You pressed your hand between your thighs through the silk of your dress.

Ilya didn’t fuck gently. Not when Shane asked for more. Not when he begged for it. He moved like he meant it; like he knew what Shane needed before he said a word.

“You feel that?” Ilya growled, one hand gripping Shane’s hip, the other stroking down his spine. “You take me so fucking well. Look at her.”

Shane’s head turned, just enough to find you in the low light.

You didn’t move. You wanted him to see.

“You look so good like this,” you said softly. “Getting everything you need.”

Ilya reached around to stroke Shane, matching rhythm with rhythm, voice low and Russian again, all filthy praise and possessive heat.

Shane came hard, gasping your name like it was the only thing he remembered.

Ilya followed with a curse, teeth at Shane’s shoulder, one hand still holding him so tight it was going to bruise.

You sat there, breathless. Your wine forgotten. Your dress damp.

And when they collapsed in a tangle, both turning toward you at once - ruined and open and still hungry—

You smiled. And stood.

You didn’t even make it to the bed before your body betrayed you: heat curling deep, breath catching, legs already trembling just from the way they looked at you.

Wrecked. Hungry. Still hard. Still yours.

You’d barely stood up when Ilya reached for you, fingers closing firm around your wrist, thumb stroking the inside like he was grounding you; like he needed grounding. Shane’s gaze tracked the slide of your dress as it slipped to the floor, pooling at your feet. He swore softly, reverently.

“Fuck…look at her.”

You stood bare before them, chest rising fast, lips parted, your thighs still slick from watching them come undone and both of them moved at once.

Ilya pulled you down between them with a rough kiss: his mouth all heat and pressure, tongue sweeping deep while his hand braced behind your neck, keeping you locked to him. You moaned into him, already shaking, already losing track of time.

Shane dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your thighs, cheek brushing your belly like he was worshiping skin and scent before even tasting.

“I missed this,” he murmured. “You taste like both of us.”

Ilya’s mouth curled into a grin against your lips. “Takaya sladkaya, moya zvezdochka.” - So sweet, my little star.

And then—

Shane’s tongue. Low, deliberate, a slow drag through your pussy that made your knees buckle instantly. His grip on you tightened as you gasped aloud, one hand fisting in his hair, the other reaching blindly behind you; seeking Ilya, needing the feel of him.

Ilya caught your wrist and brought your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles like he had all the time in the world. Then he trailed kisses across your shoulder, down your spine, all while Shane started to devour you.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t gentle, either. It was focused. Shane’s tongue circled your clit with perfect rhythm, relentless, soft and firm in turns; just enough pressure to make your stomach twist, just enough speed to keep you suspended on that edge. He ate you like he’d been waiting all night for this, like he had something to prove.

And fuck, he was proving it.

You whimpered, hips rocking forward.

“Shay—fuck, yes, like that—”

Ilya growled behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady while Shane’s fingers joined his mouth: two, sliding in with a wet, obscene sound that made your whole body jerk.

He curled them just right.

You nearly cried out.

“Takaya mokraya dlya nas,” Ilya whispered at your ear - So wet for us.

You could barely breathe.

Shane pulled back just enough to speak, mouth shining, voice wrecked. “You feel how tight she is? How she clenches when you talk like that?”

Ilya’s hand came to your breast, cupping, teasing, thumb flicking over your nipple until it peaked hard against his palm. “She likes when I talk dirty,” he muttered against your skin. “Moya gryozhnaya devochka. Tell him what I say.”

You whimpered, trying to focus. “Your filthy girl. You said I’m your—”

He pinched lightly. “Say it all.”

You gasped. “You said I’m wet…that I’m—”

“A suka,” Ilya finished for you, biting down just hard enough on your neck to make your whole body jolt. “Moya shlyukha. Takaya poslušnaya. Vsegda otdaet sebya.” - My slut. So obedient. Always gives herself up.

Shane groaned, dropping his head again, sucking your clit between his lips and moaning like the taste of you was driving him crazy.

You shattered. You came hard, full-body shaking, hips rocking helplessly into Shane’s mouth, sobbing something that was half-Russian, half-begging.

Ilya held you together. His arms were around you before your legs gave out, lifting you effortlessly as Shane kissed your thigh, your stomach, your trembling knees.

“Ne ostonavlivaysya,” Ilya said to him. “Don’t stop.”

Shane looked up, glassy-eyed, pupils blown wide. “She’s still coming.”

You were. They kept you there.

Ilya eased you onto the bed, laying you back against the sheets with obscene care, your chest heaving, hair damp with sweat. Shane climbed up beside you, mouth finding your nipple while his hand moved between your legs again: slow, teasing strokes through the mess he’d made of you.

“So fucking soft,” he whispered. “Still shaking.”

Ilya knelt beside your head, stroking your hair back with a gentleness that made your heart twist.

“You take everything we give,” he said, like it was sacred. “Vot zachem ya tebya lyublyu.”- That’s why I love you.

You reached up to touch him, tears in your lashes, pleasure still pulsing through your bloodstream.

“Ilya—”

He kissed your palm.

“Yest yesche, moya krasavitsa,” he murmured - There’s more, my beauty. “We’re not done.”

And from the look on Shane’s face, already moving down your body again? They weren’t even close.

You were still breathless, body loose and humming, sweat slick on your skin where Shane had kissed you open. He lay beside you, lips still parted, eyes glassy with the afterglow, one hand stroking idle circles on your thigh like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you.

But Ilya—

Ilya hadn’t moved far.

He sat back against the headboard, legs splayed, chest rising slow and heavy, hair a mess, flushed and glistening with heat. His cock was hard again - thick, flushed, already leaking against his stomach. The look on his face was unmistakable: hunger, restraint fraying at the edges, and something deeper, something territorial.

“Come here,” he said, voice gone rough with need. “Come ride me.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your legs were still trembling, thighs slick, but you moved - crawling into his lap, straddling him slow, your knees bracketing his hips, hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. His hands came up instantly, gripping your waist, sliding lower to your ass, fingertips digging in like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“That’s it,” he muttered, guiding your hips forward until you felt the thick press of him beneath you. “Take what you want, solnyshko.”

You reached down between your bodies, breath catching as you lined him up and sank down inch by inch, your whole body crying out in a sharp wave of aftershock.

Ilya’s head dropped back.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “So tight. You feel that, krasavitsa?”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the stretch, at the way your body welcomed him even after all that, like you’d been made to take him just like this - slow, deep, completely.

He didn’t rush you.

One hand held your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone while the other gripped your hip, controlling the roll of your body against him. You set the pace: rocking slow, drawn-out, every movement obscene with slick heat, your thighs already starting to tremble again.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered softly. “Look at me.”

You did. And fuck, the way he looked at you - like he’d burn down the world just to keep you here, like this - made your stomach twist, made your pussy clench tight around him.

His voice dropped, his praise in Russian becoming as natural as breathing by now. You recognised every word, felt them in your soul.

“Vot tak, moya devushka. Ty dlya menya. Vsegda.” - Just like that, my girl. You’re mine. Always.

You whimpered and leaned forward, your hands sliding into his hair, your mouth catching his: tongue tangled, kisses messy and deep, full of heat and possession. Shane was behind you now, his hands smoothing over your back, lips trailing along your shoulder, murmuring his own quiet praise that made it all sharper, sweeter.

“God, look at you,” he said, voice thick. “You look so fucking good on him.”

You clenched again, hips stuttering.

Ilya growled.

“You will come again for us, solnyshko?” he whispered against your lips. “Still greedy?”

Your answer was a gasp, a grind, a desperate moan against his mouth.

Shane’/ hand slipped down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit - rough and perfect, matching the rhythm of your body, your gasps turning into helpless sobs as the pleasure curled up hot and fast again, unbearable in the best way.

“You are close,” Ilya growled. “I can feel it. Don’t hold back. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

You came again. Head thrown back, fingers digging into his shoulders, every muscle locking as your orgasm tore through you with shuddering force - louder this time, no control, no shame.

Ilya swore viciously in Russian and drove up into you once, twice, and came with a low, wrecked growl, arms crushing you to his chest, your name broken on his lips as he pulsed inside you.

You collapsed against him, boneless, still pulsing around him, skin slick with sweat, mouth open against his neck.

Shane kissed your spine. “You two are gonna kill me.”

Ilya didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

He just held you there, breathing hard, voice rough in your ear as he whispered:

“Best way to die.”

____________

Day One

You woke to the weight of one.

Shane draped behind you, warm and lazy, one leg hooked between yours, his arm curved under your ribs, hand splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your head stayed on the pillow for a long time, cheek pressed to the linen, body half-numb with satisfaction. You could still feel the echo of the night in every inch of you: your thighs sore, your skin kissed raw, your mouth dry from all the moaning, all the kissing, all the gasping that had come with letting yourself be wrecked by both of them.

The air was heavy with heat, quiet except for the waves brushing against the sand and the slow, steady sound of Shane breathing.

He hadn’t moved.

You reached back blindly and brushed his thigh with your fingertips. He groaned into your shoulder, voice low and useless.

“No.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “It’s morning.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Ilya’s up.”

“Fake news.”

You laughed softly. Then kissed his knuckles where they curled under your ribs.

“I can smell coffee.”

A beat of silence. Then, bitterly:

“Ilya is a traitor.”

You twisted in the sheets, just enough to catch sight of the balcony doors cracked open and a glimpse of him outside.

He was shirtless, of course.

Still in the same black briefs from last night, the ones now stretched in the front where his cock had half-hardened in the morning heat. His feet were bare, legs spread wide in the lounge chair, a mug perched on one knee while he scrolled his phone with the other hand. Relaxed. Completely still.

Like a fucking painting.

You blinked. Then sighed.

“I’m going to him,” you whispered.

Shane grunted and rolled further into your space, dragging the blanket with him. “Coward.”

You peeled yourself out from under him, slow and precise and trying not to wake the beast.

He slapped your ass.

“Rude,” you hissed.

“Have fun with your coffee.”

“I will.”

“I’ll be here. Not being awake.”

You padded out barefoot, skin still tacky from sex, hair wild, wearing only Ilya’s t-shirt from the night before - the one that clung to your hips like it didn’t want to be taken off, ever.

The air outside was warm. The wind off the water brought the smell of salt and sunscreen and a little bit of sun-warmed stone.

Ilya didn’t look up. He took a slow sip from his mug, thumb flicking something on his screen.

You dropped into the second lounge chair with a sigh.

“Morning.”

His eyes lifted. Slow scan. T-shirt. Bare legs. Lips twitching.

“You look like girl who made bad choices last night.”

“Excuse you,” you said, stretching like a cat. “I made excellent choices. I just can’t walk properly.”

Ilya grinned over the rim of his coffee. “Good. That was the goal.”

Your laugh turned into a groan as you pulled your knees to your chest and tucked your feet under the hem of the shirt. “He’s not moving.”

“He won’t,” Ilya said simply, returning to his phone. “He pretends he’s nocturnal. Is lie.”

“I told him you were already up.”

“And?”

“He said you’re a traitor.”

“Also true.”

You reached for his mug. He passed it to you without looking. It was scalding, dark, exactly the kind of savage roast Ilya always made: no sugar, no cream, just bitter heat and masculine rage.

You took a sip anyway. Then hissed.

He smirked. “Weak.”

“You’re the worst.”

He glanced at you sideways. “And yet.”

And yet.

Your chest warmed.

It was quiet again for a while. Just the ocean. Just the buzz of the day building around the villa. You sat like that, side by side, until the sun had climbed higher and the scent of breakfast carried from the kitchen. The housekeeper moved quietly in the distance, the smell of fruit and eggs and fresh tortillas winding through the open windows.

Ilya stretched - long and lazy, arms over his head, back arching, biceps flexing with deliberate ease.

Your eyes trailed the movement. He knew. He absolutely knew.

“I’m wearing the bikini today,” you said idly, sipping again.

He stilled.

“Which one.”

You grinned. “The best one.”

He turned fully to face you.

“You do realise we will be arrested.”

“Why?”

“Indecency.”

“I wore it last summer.”

“Exactly. You survived wearing it last summer. You may not be so lucky twice.”

You shrugged. “Not my problem if people stare.”

“You should let me fuck you on the beach.”

You blinked.

He was still sipping his coffee. Entirely calm.

“What.”

“Just once. Middle of the day. Fast. Hidden.”

“You’re unhinged.”

He shrugged. “You are the one wearing bikini.”

You opened your mouth to respond but the screen door banged open and Shane stumbled out, bleary-eyed, hair stuck up in wild tufts, wearing only a pair of obscenely low sweatpants and one sock.

He glared at you both like you’d personally offended him with the concept of daylight.

“I can hear you,” he muttered. “And I regret it.”

Ilya raised his mug in greeting. “Morning, princess.”

Shane flipped him off without heat, then dropped into your chair and tucked his face against your thigh, groaning.

“I hate the sun.”

You ran your fingers through his hair. “You’ll love it once you’re in the water.”

“I want pancakes.”

“There are eggs.”

“I want pancakes.”

Ilya handed him the phone. “Order them.”

Shane lifted his head. “You’ll let me Postmates at the villa?”

“No,” Ilya said. “But you will do anyway. So at least be fast about it.”

You leaned back in your chair and smiled at the two of them: the way Shane grumbled under his breath, the way Ilya stole back the mug of coffee, the way the sunlight hit the edges of their hair and caught on their skin and made it look like the start of something golden.

God, it was going to be a good day. And you hadn’t even hit the beach yet.

____________

It took until mid-morning to get out the door.

Not because you were slow dressing. But because Shane insisted on pancakes, Ilya insisted on making fresh margaritas “for hydration,” and somewhere between making the bed and applying sunscreen, you’d lost a full twenty minutes letting Shane talk you into letting him “test” your SPF with lazy kisses and tongue.

By the time you were all finally heading down to the beach, you were flushed, humming and blissfully full of citrus and sugar.

Shane was in pale linen shorts, sunglasses so expensive you were afraid to breathe near them and a wide-brimmed hat he absolutely hadn’t paid for: it was yours, stolen the second he saw it and now worn with enough panache that you didn’t bother protesting.

Ilya wore black. Swim trunks low on his hips, aviators on, and a deep V-cut tank that did absolutely nothing to hide the ink along his ribs or the way his back flexed when he carried all three beach towels and the cooler by himself.

He refused sunscreen.

“Your Russian genes are not immune to the Caribbean sun,” Shane warned, rubbing lotion into his own chest like a Greek god sunbathing on Olympus.

“I burn once,” Ilya said casually. “Then I become immortal.”

You just rolled your eyes and tugged your bikini top into place: black string, gold accents, the bottom tied high on your hips. The one they’d both vetoed last year for being “a public hazard.” The one you were absolutely wearing now.

Ilya took one look at you and muttered something vicious under his breath.

Shane choked.

“I mean—fuck,” he said, eyebrows up, biting his lip. “Do we let you outside like this?”

“It’s the beach,” you said sweetly. “People wear less.”

“Not people we have to share you with.”

You breezed past them with your towel over your shoulder and hips swaying.

“I’m going for a swim,” you called.

Shane groaned. “This is how I die.”

The beach was tucked just below the cliff path from the villa: quiet, palm-shaded, crescent-shaped with a stretch of white sand that felt like it belonged only to you. A few locals walked it now and then. A couple families far down the other end. But this morning it was yours.

The water was perfect. Turquoise and clear, shallow for a long way out. You swam out first, diving under the break, salt and sun tangling in your hair. When you surfaced, Ilya was waist-deep and watching you, arms folded across his chest.

“You are going to be stared at,” he warned again.

“You’re staring.”

“I earned it.”

Shane was already running full speed into the water. “Incoming!”

You shrieked as he tackled you backward, arms around your waist, both of you going under. When you came up, laughing and sputtering, he was grinning like a devil, hair soaked and plastered to his forehead.

“You asshole.”

He kissed your nose. “You love it.”

You tried to shove him but he caught your wrists. “You think I won’t dunk you again?”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

He spun you into his arms, then held you tight. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

Ilya waded closer, jaw ticking.

You turned in Shane’s arms and wrapped one around Ilya’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss while you were still dripping.

He tasted like lime and sea salt. He growled low when your teeth scraped his bottom lip.

__________

Later, you laid out on the towels. Shane dozed under a half-umbrella with his hat over his eyes. You were on your stomach, head resting on your crossed arms, back bare, bikini strings undone.

Ilya sat behind you, thighs wide, knees bent, methodically drying the water off your back with one of the towels.

You felt every careful swipe. Every lingering second where his palm followed the cotton just a second too long. He didn’t say much, just moved with slow patience, like he was memorising your spine one vertebra at a time.

“Still no sunscreen?” you asked, eyes closed.

“Only if you put it on me.”

You smiled.

“Later,” you said.

“You always say that.”

“And you always fall for it.”

It was only mid-afternoon when the camera phones started coming out. Nothing invasive. No pap long-lens nonsense. Just a few passersby, a couple tourists who clearly recognised the two men flanking you and couldn’t not sneak a photo when they saw the three of you together.

You weren’t trying to put on a show. But then—

Shane tossed you into the water again and you screamed laughing.

Ilya hauled you both out, towels flying everywhere.

You ended up in his lap on the lounger, him trying to re-tie the bikini top he swore was a danger to society, while Shane offered you pineapple chunks with his teeth.

When you went for a walk - all three of you, side by side, arms draped like it was the most natural thing in the world - it was inevitable that someone would get a shot. The photo.

Sun-warm skin, bare feet, Ilya’s hand on the small of your back. Shane’s mouth curled up in that private little smile you only ever saw when he was in the moment.

_____________

The villa was dusky gold when you returned.

You showered. Rubbed aloe into Shane’s shoulders. Made drinks. Ilya grilled something on the patio while Shane napped again, still salt-rough and half-sunburnt.

And when the sky turned navy blue and you curled up on the outdoor couch with your phone, damp-haired and wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big—

The internet had exploded.

It started with one tweet. Not even a scandalous one. Just a photo - a little blurry, sun-drenched, too beautiful to be candid and too chaotic to be staged. You, Shane, and Ilya walking down the beach: barefoot, loose-limbed, bronzed, smiling like you didn’t have a single care in the world.

Shane in his designer sunglasses, smirking at something just out of frame. Ilya with his hand tucked over the small of your back like he’d carved the place for himself. You, looking up at both of them, grinning.

Whoever snapped it had decent taste. And internet reach. By the time the sun finished sinking into the sea, your mentions were a problem.

You were curled on the couch in one of Shane’s hoodies, legs bare, phone glowing against your thigh. Hair still damp. Shane was stretched across the cushions with his head in your lap, eyes closed, mouth parted slightly like he was seconds from dozing again.

Ilya, across from you, was barefoot and shirtless, reading something in Russian on his tablet. His sunglasses were slipping down his nose.

God help you, you were obsessed with them both.

You refreshed the screen. And choked on your wine.

“Oh my god.”

Shane cracked one eye. “What?”

You held your phone up with both hands like it was a declaration of war. “We’re trending again.”

Ilya looked up. “Hm?”

“Look.”

He reached for the phone. Shane beat him to it, lazily snatching it and squinting at the screen. A beat. Then another.

Then:

“Oh my god.”

“I told you.”

The post had been picked up by everyone. Comments spiraling into memes, hot takes, thirst reposts, Instagram stories and god knows what else. Headlines starting to bubble on gossip sites.

Throuple of the century.

Hockey MVP’s poly power play.

Soft porn and strong forearms: what a world.

Ilya set his tablet down and stood.

“Where.”

Shane turned the phone so he could see. Scrolled once. Then again. Then again.

Ilya read in silence. Then leaned against the wall with arms crossed, looking smug as hell.

“I look amazing,” he said.

You burst into laughter.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“Ilya Rozanov trending worldwide,” he said calmly. “As it should be.”

Shane groaned, burying his face in your thigh. “I hate the internet.”

“I love it,” you said, scrolling again. “Oh god—listen to this one: ‘I’ve never wanted to be a towel more in my life.’”

Shane muffled a snort against your leg.

You kept going.

“‘This is what happiness looks like. No notes.’”

Shane sat up abruptly. “Oh wait—no notes? We made no notes Twitter?”

Ilya nodded solemnly. “Highest honour.”

Your phone buzzed with a text from your sister:

WHO are you and why have you never looked this hot in your LIFE??

You threw your head back laughing.

Ilya walked behind you and leaned over the couch to read it upside down. “Tell her it’s because you are regularly fucked within an inch of your life.”

You elbowed him in the ribs.

Ilya wandered to the fridge, still reading comments on Shane’s phone. “This one says they’d ‘let all three of us ruin their life.’”

Shane raised a brow. “Did you reply?”

“I bookmarked it.”

You snorted wine.

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

Ilya turned, drink in hand, leaned against the counter with all that easy, dangerous charm. “You take me everywhere.”

Shane groaned. “God, that was bad.”

“I’ll take you both again tonight,” he added, deadpan.

You and Shane both pointed at him in unison.

“Nope.”

“Too far.”

But it was too late: Shane was laughing, dropping his head against your shoulder, and Ilya’s smile had turned real, deep in the corners, his eyes warm behind the glasses.

___________

The door to the bedroom closed with a soft click.

That was all the warning you got.

The room still smelled like salt and sunscreen and warm skin. Your phone lay abandoned on the couch behind you, the echo of laughter and notifications still buzzing in your head.

The shift was immediate.

He reached out and took Shane’s chin between his fingers, tilting his face up, forcing eye contact. Shane’s smile faltered; not from fear, but recognition. He knew this version of Ilya.

“You think is funny,” Ilya said calmly, “how they look at you.”

Then, in Russian, low and deliberate:
“Smotryat, kak na veshch.” - They look at you like an object.

Shane swallowed.

“And you,” Ilya continued, turning his gaze to you now, eyes dark, steady, unblinking. “You sit there reading comments, letting strangers imagine things they do not get to touch.”

He stepped closer. His hand slid into your hair, fist closing - not yanking, just enough pressure to remind you exactly where you were. He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Moya,” he murmured.

Your breath stuttered.

Behind you, Shane shifted. Ilya didn’t look at him but his voice carried anyway.

“On your knees.”

Shane obeyed instantly.

The sound of it - knees hitting the rug - sent a jolt straight through you. Ilya did look then, one eyebrow lifting slightly in approval.

“Good,” he said. “You remember how this works.”

He guided you down next to Shane, one hand still in your hair, the other pressing between your shoulder blades until you were both kneeling, close enough to feel each other’s heat.

“You belong here,” Ilya said, voice even. “Both of you.”

He paced in front of you slowly, like he was inspecting something precious. Dangerous. His fingers brushed under Shane’s chin, then yours.

“So beautiful when you listen,” he murmured. “Takie poslushnye.” - So obedient.

Shane exhaled shakily. “Ilya—”

Ilya stopped in front of him. Crouched. Gripped the back of Shane’s neck - not cruel, not gentle.

“You do not speak unless I tell you,” he said quietly. “Understand?”

Shane nodded.

“Words,” Ilya said.

“Yes,” Shane whispered. “I understand.”

Ilya smiled. Then he turned to you.

“You,” he said, softer but no less commanding. “Look at him.”

You did.

Shane was flushed, eyes blown wide, breathing uneven; kneeling at your side like he’d been placed there on purpose.

“You see how he waits?” Ilya asked.

His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to tilt your face back up to his.

“You both want to be taken apart,” he said, voice dropping. “Slowly. Thoroughly. With no doubt about who is in control.”

He leaned in close enough that you felt his breath on your lips.

“And I will. But only because you trust me.”

A beat.

“Da?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Yes,” Shane echoed.

Ilya straightened, satisfied.

“Good,” he said simply. “Then stay right there.”

And the way he looked at both of you - like he owned the moment, the room, the way your bodies were already responding - you knew.

The night wasn’t going to be gentle. But it was going to be perfectly and completely his.

The silence stretched.

You stayed on your knees beside Shane, the carpet warm beneath your thighs, the air thick with tension. Ilya stood above you, his breathing controlled, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of how tightly he was wound.

He pulled his shirt over his head slowly. Deliberate.

You watched muscles flex, that inked line of Cyrillic just above his waistband catching the light. Shane made a soft, involuntary sound beside you - part hunger, part reverence - and Ilya heard it.

He smiled. Not nice.

“You missed this,” he said, eyes never leaving Shane. “Didn’t you.”

Shane nodded once.

“Words.”

“Yes,” Shane said hoarsely. “Fuck—I missed this.”

Ilya moved closer. He reached down, cupped Shane’s jaw again, firmer this time.

“Skuchal po mne, moya krasavets?” He growled, “Did you miss me, my pretty boy?”

Shane’s mouth parted, breath stuttering.

“Yes.”

Ilya glanced at you now. You, still kneeling, still watching. Waiting.

“Don’t think I forgot about you,” he said, stepping between you both. “You sit so fucking pretty when you are ready to be used.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

He could see it all over you: how your body thrummed with anticipation, how your thighs had already shifted closer, instinct pulling you toward him without thought.

Ilya ran a hand through your hair, then tugged - not hard, just enough to feel it in your spine. Your mouth fell open. He didn’t even need to say the words.

He turned to Shane first.

“Touch her.”

Shane’s hand came up immediately, cupping your thigh, fingers brushing under the hem of the hoodie you were still wearing. His eyes met yours - wide, dark, burning - and his touch made your breath catch.

“Like that,” Ilya said. “Nice. Gentle. She will thank you for it.”

Then, he grabbed Shane by the back of the neck and pulled him into a kiss. Hard. Deep. A clash of teeth and tongues, not careful, not soft: desperate.

You watched it with parted lips.

Ilya broke the kiss first, breath ragged.

“On your back,” he told Shane.

Shane obeyed, stripping his shirt as he moved, sprawling across the bed.

Ilya looked at you.

“Up.”

You climbed onto the bed, body vibrating with heat, settling beside Shane like it was instinct. Ilya came behind you again, all heat and control, one hand running down your spine before sliding around to cup your breast.

His voice came low, gravel-rough in your ear.

“Put your hand on him.”

You did.

Shane sucked in a breath.

You smiled.

“Now ride my hand,” Ilya said, palm already between your thighs. “Nice and slow. Let him watch.”

And you did - grinding against Ilya’s fingers while your hand stroked Shane’s cock hard, steady, teasing. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, mouth slack, sweat beading at his temple.

Ilya kissed your shoulder.

Then looked down at Shane.

“Do you want me, krasavets?” he asked, voice thick.

“Yes,” Shane groaned. “Please—I need you, Ilya—”

Ilya’s voice sharpened.

“Ty budesh’ vspomnat’ eto.” - You’re going to remember this.

And then he pushed you forward - firm but careful - until you were straddling Shane’s hips, breasts brushing his chest, mouths barely apart.

“Hold him,” Ilya ordered. “Kiss him. Keep his eyes on you.”

And while you did, he moved behind you. One hand on your hip. One hand on Shane’s thigh. And then—

He pushed into Shane slowly, ruthlessly, filling him inch by inch.

Shane’s whole body jerked.

You whispered soft, filthy things against his cheek, your hands on his chest as Ilya rocked into him from behind. He moaned, wrecked already, eyes fluttering as you kissed him through it.

“Ilya,” he gasped.

“Right here,” Ilya growled. “You take it. You always take it.”

And he fucked him like he meant it - deep, rough, reverent - his hand sliding up your back to grip your nape, keeping you both locked together while he took his time driving Shane into the mattress.

You didn’t look away. Neither did Shane. It was too much, too good - your body still sore from the night before, heat curling through your spine again just from watching, from hearing it, from knowing.

You belonged to him. And he would never let you forget it. Not when he moved like this.
Not when he broke you both open and put you back together with nothing but control and teeth and Russian filth between kisses.

He made you watch. He made Shane feel. And when he came, biting Shane’s shoulder with a grunt and holding you tight like a tether—

You swore you could feel it in your soul.

___________

Shane was on his back, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles. His lips were swollen. His hair was a mess. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, but his fingers still curled around your hip like he needed to know you were real.

You were half-draped across him, head on his shoulder, cheek against his throat. Skin-to-skin, breath syncing slow, the warmth of him grounding you where you floated just on the edge of sleep. Your whole body buzzed, over-fucked and full, every nerve open, raw in a way that somehow made you feel held.

And Ilya?

He stayed behind you for a long moment, one hand still on your back, the other braced against Shane’s thigh. His breathing was uneven, jaw slack, but his eyes stayed open.

Watching. Possessive. Present.

When he moved, it was without a word. He slipped free, rolled to the side and collapsed onto the mattress behind you with a grunt of exertion. His hand stayed on your hip as he pressed in close, chest to your spine, his legs tangling with yours beneath the rumpled sheet.

His voice was the first to break the silence. Low. Unapologetic.

“Fucking beautiful.”

You made a soft sound - something like a laugh, something like a whimper - and didn’t bother trying to move. Shane let out a quiet groan of agreement and lifted his hand to thread his fingers through your hair.

“You okay?” Shane asked quietly, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. Couldn’t even get a word out.

Just yes.

“Of course she is,” Ilya murmured, mouth against your shoulder. “You saw her.”

“She could be in shock.”

“She came twice.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

You did too.

“Fine,” you rasped, not moving. “A little bit of shock. But it’s the good kind.”

“Mm.” Ilya’s hand slid up your stomach, across your breast, then back down to your hip. Not sexual. Just his. “You said you wanted both of us.”

“And I got both of you,” you whispered. “Thoroughly.”

“You gonna survive the night?” Shane murmured, turning his head just enough to kiss your forehead.

“I don’t know. I might be ruined.”

“Hope so,” Ilya muttered, closing his eyes. “Would not want effort to go to waste.”

You snorted, burying your face against Shane’s chest, warmth blooming behind your ribs.

“You’re a menace.”

“Da,” Ilya murmured. “Your menace.”

He pulled you closer, until there wasn’t an inch between you, his thigh tucked between yours, one arm across your waist now, hand splayed across Shane’s ribcage too. Holding you both. Anchoring all three of you.

No one moved for a long time.

You drifted somewhere warm and sweet, wrapped in muscle and heartbeat, in bruises and breath, in familiar voices brushing over your skin like prayers that didn’t need god.

When you started to doze, you heard Ilya again, so soft it was almost a secret:

“Vot tak. Moya devushka. Moy paren. Moё vse.” - Just like that. My girl. My boy. My everything.

And you answered for both of you:

“We know.”

____________

Day Two

The boat was smaller than you expected - just enough room to stretch out across the padded seats at the back, to strip down to swimsuits and sun-drenched skin. Shane climbed on first and immediately knocked over the wine cooler. Ilya muttered something under his breath and rescued the fruit platter.

“Are you sweating already?” Shane teased.

“Your presence makes me sweat.”

“You love my presence.”

You leaned on the edge of the boat as the captain steered out into deeper water, breeze whipping your hair, sun turning the world gold. Shane was beside you, nose pink already, sunglasses crooked. Ilya stayed toward the back, watching both of you like a lifeguard in designer swim trunks - cautious, unbothered, looking like sin.

It didn’t take long before you were all in the water.

Floating, drifting, trading bites of mango and cold grapes like something out of a music video. Shane tried to dive and came up spluttering. Ilya treaded water beside you, his hand skimming your waist under the surface, mouth brushing your temple as he whispered: “You are happy here.”

You turned into his touch.

“Of course I am.”

He nodded like that was enough.

Back on the deck, Shane sprawled across one of the benches, two glasses of wine deep and already melting into the vinyl. His skin glowed. His mouth was parted.

You watched him for a minute before lifting your phone.

Click. Another angle. Click.

Ilya caught you in the act. He plucked the phone from your hand, flipped through the gallery.

He paused on one: Shane drowsy and glowing, your legs stretched beside him, Ilya’s shadow in the corner of the frame.

“I like this,” he murmured.

“Give it back.”

“No,” he said easily, flipping the camera and turning it on you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Smile, kiska.”

You did.

He took three. Then leaned down and whispered, “Now one for me,” and slid your bikini top aside just enough to catch the nipple. No one around to see. Just sun and sea and your laugh twisting up as he took it.

Then another - mouth parted, head tilted back, his hand curled around your throat with casual affection.

“This one is mine,” he murmured. “No one gets this one but me.”

____________

Later, back at the villa, everything turned slow.

The sun had dropped. Dinner was a quiet thing - barefoot in the kitchen, cold wine, bites of grilled fish and salted fruit passed between open mouths.

And when the three of you finally ended up in bed, the heat turned reverent. No rush. No show. Just praise.

Your body had barely hit the mattress before Ilya had you on your back, spreading you open with his hands like something sacred, eyes dark and patient, mouth brushing the inside of your knee as he murmured:

“Look at you. Takaya krasivaya…so soft for us. You know what you do to me?”

You whimpered when his fingers grazed between your legs, not even inside you yet; just teasing. Worshipping. His voice dropped into Russian again, every word dragging through you like silk and fire.

“Takaya mokraya. Goryachaya. Eto vsyo dlya nas, da?” - So wet. So hot. All of this for us, yes?

Shane’s mouth was on your throat, whispering sweet nothings to contrast Ilya’s filth. His hands cradled your face while Ilya licked into you like a man with a single purpose: make her feel adored. Make her scream.

Your legs shook by the time he worked his fingers inside you - just two, slow and perfect, curling right there, right there, until Shane whispered, “She’s close,” and Ilya’s breath broke against your clit.

“Come for us,” he said. “Let them hear you scream, krasivyye.”

You shattered, just wet heat and frantic breath, your voice breaking as you bucked against Ilya’s mouth, Shane kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips like you were a miracle made flesh.

But they weren’t done.

Ilya lifted his head, chin wet, eyes dangerous.

Shane met his gaze.

And then switched places.

He settled between your thighs like he’d been born to it, already tasting Ilya on your skin, already panting as he licked into you greedily, desperate to make you come again.

Ilya sat behind you now, one arm around your chest, holding you to his body while Shane fucked you with his mouth.

He growled, “You give him everything. All of it. I want to see him drown in it.”

You sobbed, trembling, hand in Shane’s hair as he sucked and licked and groaned against you. Your body jerked once, twice, then fell into that sweet spiral again, a second orgasm crashing through you like thunder under water.

You barely registered the sound you made. Only that Ilya caught it, caught you, and kissed your shoulder with something terrifyingly tender.

When it passed, you curled between them, sweat-damp and glowing, Shane’s hand stroking your thigh while Ilya tucked your hair back and whispered into your ear:

“We are not done, devushka. Not close. But you rest now. I will make sure of it.”

And you believed him. Because Ilya never promised anything he didn’t deliver.

You didn’t rush back into it. Ilya wouldn’t let you.

He made you drink the water first: his hand wrapped around the glass with yours, his thumb pressing lightly into your wrist when you tried to gulp it too fast.

“Slow,” he said. “I need you steady.”

Shane sat close, one hand on your knee, the other smoothing over your back like he was keeping you anchored while Ilya watched.

When the glass was empty, Ilya took it from you and set it aside. Then he tilted your chin up.

“Open,” he said.

Not asking. You did.

He stood, pulling you with him, guiding you down between his legs with a firm hand at the back of your neck. The shift was immediate - your pulse jumped, heat pooling low, your breath already going uneven just from the way he looked at you.

Dominant. Focused. Intent.

“Good,” he murmured, voice dark. “Takaya umnitsa.” - Such a good girl.

His hand tighten{| slightly in your hair while the other rested heavy on your shoulder, grounding you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Shane watched from the bed, eyes dark, mouth parted, completely undone by the sight of you kneeling like this; by how willingly you offered yourself, by how naturally you fit into Ilya’s control.

Ilya leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You like when I take your mouth,” he said quietly. “Don’t you.”

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue. “Words.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I like it.”

His praise was immediate.

“Da,” he murmured, “I know.”

He guide; you closer, setting the pace, the angle, the rhythm - never rough enough to hurt but never gentle enough to forget who’s in charge. His grip stayed firm, protective even as he used you, his voice a steady stream of low praise and filthy reassurance.

Your hands braced on his thighs. Your breath stuttered. You felt him everywhere - his presence, his heat, his control - until the world narrowed to the sound of his voice and the way he held you exactly where you belong.

Behind you, Shane shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on your back, thumb tracing slow circles like he was sharing the moment, part of this too.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “God—you’re perfect like this.”

Ilya’s voice dropped lower.

Then, soft, dangerously so:
“Moya devushka.”

When he finally eased you back, his hand stayed in your hair, thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness.

You were breathless. Shaking. Open.

He cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him.

“Still okay?” he asked, not a test, but a promise.

You nodded.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved in something like satisfaction.

“Good,” he said.

And the way Shane exhaled behind you told you exactly how much trouble you were in.

You barely had time to catch your breath. Ilya didn’t give you that luxury.

Still kneeling, your hands on his thighs, you looked up - lips swollen, pulse racing - and the moment your eyes met his, it shifted again.

His fingers slid from your hair down to your jaw, thumb dragging across your lower lip like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or push you back down again. But instead, he turned - slow, deliberate - toward Shane.

“Shane,” he said, voice like gravel and smoke. “Come here.”

Shane was already halfway there, wide-eyed, flushed, pupils blown. He crawled forward on the bed, still shirtless, still unsteady from watching you and when Ilya reached for him, he went willingly.

Ilya didn’t kiss him.He held him. Fist in the collar, mouth at Shane’s ear, tone low and possessive:

“You think you are just going to sit there and watch? Net, krasavets. You are too sweet for that.”

Shane swallowed hard.

Ilya’s hand slid to the back of his neck, thumb stroking the short hair there before he pushed him forward, toward you.

“Kiss her,” he said. “Touch her. Let her feel how much you want her.”

You were still on your knees.

Still dazed from being used. Still undone from praise.

And now Shane was in front of you, trembling and hard and hungry, and Ilya was behind you both like a storm waiting to break.

Shane kissed you like he couldn’t stop: messy, hot, breath shaking against your lips while his hands slid down your arms, gripping tight like he needed something to hold on to.

Behind you, Ilya moved closer.

He wrapped one arm across your chest, dragging your back against him, his mouth near your temple now, murmuring low in Russian, filthy and reverent in equal measure.

You gasped as Shane’s hands moved lower, exploring, reverent and desperate.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised behind you. “She is yours too, isn’t she?”

Shane nodded, voice caught in his throat. “Yes.”

“You want to make her come?”

Another nod. “Yes—God—fuck—.”

“Do it,” Ilya said. “Take her apart.”

You barely registered the shift; only knew Ilya laid you down across his lap like you weighed nothing, holding you open for Shane like an offering, his arms solid around you, your head resting against his chest while his breath filled your ear.

“Touch her like you love her,” he murmured. “Eat her like you own her.”

Shane obeyed. Eager. Unrelenting. His mouth on you was molten, every sound you made feeding his own wrecked arousal, every moan from your lips turning Ilya’s breath hotter against your skin.

But you couldn’t move. Not in Ilya’s grip. He kept you locked in place, made you feel every second, whispering filth and praise in a loop:

“ She’s so perfect like this. Let her come on your tongue, malysh. You hear her? She’s ours. That’s for us.”

You shattered hard. It hit like a wave, back arching, a cry caught in your throat, your thighs trembling against Shane’s shoulders as he pushed you over, pulled you through, worshiped every second of it.

And Ilya never let go. He held you steady the whole time, one hand over your heart, the other stroking your thigh now - slow, grounding, reverent.

You sagged against him, panting, spent.

And Shane - still between your legs, face flushed, mouth glistening - looked up with something like awe.

Ilya leaned forward, kissed your shoulder.

Then reached for Shane’s chin.

“Now,” he said. “You lie back. She takes you. I fuck her again.”

He smiled when both of you shivered.

“Both of you,” he said softly. “Mine. Right now.”

And you knew—

You were about to be wrecked all over again.

The second Ilya gave the order, the room changed.

Heat pulsed back to life under your skin - sharp, electric. Shane lay back obediently, chest heaving, mouth parted, hair wild from your thighs just moments ago. His eyes were locked on you, dark and desperate, pupils blown wide.

Ilya didn’t rush.

He helped you shift - hands steady, purposeful - as you crawled over Shane and settled onto his hips, guiding him inside you with a broken sigh that dragged out of your chest like it had been waiting there all day.

“Good,” Ilya said, voice low behind you. “Take him.”

Shane groaned like he was going to fall apart just from the feel of you around him, already wrecked from giving and needing more.

You rocked your hips slowly at first, savouring it, savouring him but you didn’t get to keep the rhythm for long.

Ilya’s hands were suddenly on your waist. Heavy. Unyielding.

“Now I take you,” he growled against your ear. “You take him for me.”

You gasped as he pulled you back, spine arching instinctively - his chest pressed to your back, cock hard and insistent where he rubbed against you, lining up like a promise you weren’t ready for.

“Fuck—yes,” Shane gasped beneath you, hands gripping your thighs. “Do it—please—God, I want to feel both of you.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

Ilya slid in behind you - slow, thick, stretching you to the edge of what you could take. Your whole body seized with the intensity, breath punched from your lungs, every inch of you pulsing, filled, grounded between them.

He gave you no time to adjust. None of his usual slow build. Just grabbed your chin and pulled your head back, his mouth hot and possessive against your ear:

“Take it. Take us. Open for us. Be good girl.”

And you were. You did. You let them move you, guide you, use you - Shane’s hands gripping your hips now, Ilya’s pace brutal and controlled behind you, both of them pressing deep and perfect from opposite sides until you couldn’t think, couldn’t beg, couldn’t even moan properly.

Just…sound. Just shaking. Just them. At some point, you stopped knowing where one of them ended and the other began; stopped knowing which name you were crying out, which hand was on your breast, which voice was praising you in Russian or wrecked English.

Only that you were owned. Claimed. Perfectly full and held exactly where you belonged.

Ilya pushed you harder, faster, sweat dripping down your spine as he bit your shoulder and growled into your skin:

“Ty moya. Look at him—look how much he needs you. We own you.”

Shane was gasping now, close - so close - his nails leaving prints on your thighs, his voice a broken string of your name and “please—please—fuck, I can’t—”

You came first. Hard. Too hard. You shattered between them with a cry you couldn’t bite back: your entire body locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, thighs shaking, vision white around the edges.

Shane followed with a cry, hips snapping once, twice, then burying deep as he spilled inside you again with a wrecked sound that sent Ilya over the edge too.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a curse so filthy you barely recognised it as Russian - his hands gripping your waist, owning your body, his breath broken as he growled into your skin:

“Konechno ty moya. Navsegda.” - Of course you’re mine. Forever.

___________

Day Four

It was barely past ten when the sun hit your skin like silk and the island fell quiet in that hush reserved for late-morning laziness. The three of you had claimed a private cabana tucked at the far end of the beach, shaded with gauzy curtains, cool drinks already sweating in tall glasses and the ocean stretching endless.

Shane had passed out in one of the loungers ten minutes after applying sunscreen with all the grace of a drunk toddler. Now his arm dangled over the side, his face hidden under an absurd straw hat he’d absolutely stolen from the bar.

Ilya had vanished for coffee. He always did. Something about needing it “to tolerate your chaos,” which he muttered every morning with zero heat behind it and a kiss to your shoulder.

Which left you stretched on your stomach on the cabana’s plush mattress, bikini bottom wedged deliciously between your cheeks, your legs bare, and your nose buried in Bratva Obsession: Bound by Blood & Need.

It was trash. Utterly, gloriously depraved trash. You turned the page with your heart pounding. The boss had just ordered her to crawl. Again. He hadn’t even undone his belt yet. You bit your lip.

The sheets of the book were sun-warmed in your hands. You were halfway into a page where the heroine had to apologise in Russian - with her mouth - when the breeze shifted. You didn’t hear Ilya’s footsteps. Not until his shadow blocked the sun.

You jumped. The book nearly flew from your hands.

Then Ilya’s voice, low, lethal with amusement:

“…You are reading this?”

You turned onto your back in horror, holding the book to your chest. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

He plucked it from your fingers effortlessly. “Bratva Obsession? Are you fucking serious?”

Your face burned.

“I—it’s just smut. Don’t—don’t read that!”

He ignored you. Flipped it open to the page you’d dog-eared.

You lunged for it.

He lifted it above his head. And began to read—out loud.

“‘His hand closed around her throat as he growled in her ear—’”
A pause. A wicked look. “‘Skazhi mne, komu ty prinadlezhish?’ - Say it. Who do you belong to?’”

“Ilya—”

He laughed, biting his lip like it was taking everything in him not to lose it completely.

“Are you—” he wheezed, reading lower. “Are you seriously getting off to this cartoon version of Russian man? What is he, six-foot-nine with tattoos of Kalashnikovs and no emotion?”

You snatched for the book again. “Give it back!”

“Does he speak only in violent metaphors?” He held the book behind his back, completely ignoring you. “‘Her knees hit the concrete as he unzipped his pants with the precision of a sniper—’ I can’t. I can’t. This is what you think I am like?”

“I’m not saying it’s you—” you sputtered.

“Oh no, you are saying is better. That you prefer this dark, brooding bastard who tells you to kneel—”

He dropped onto the mattress beside you suddenly, one hand pressing to your thigh, the other still flipping the book open.

“—and puts his gun on the table while fucking you from behind.”

You slapped at his chest, blushing furiously. “Shut up! You’re ruining it!”

“Detka,” he drawled, thick with mocking lust, “if you wanted me to hold you down and interrogate you with my cock, all you had to do was ask.”

“Oh my God—”

“Wait—what’s happening?” Shane’s voice piped in, slurred with sleep. “Why is Ilya laughing like a hyena? What’d I miss?”

You pointed at him. “Don’t come over here. You don’t need to know.”

Shane lifted the hat from his eyes, squinting. “Is that a—wait. Are you reading mafia smut?”

You groaned. “You two are insufferable.”

Shane practically rolled off his lounger and stumbled over, snatching the book from Ilya and flipping to the page like it was his life’s purpose.

“‘Her wetness clung to his knuckles as he slipped two fingers in—’ oh my God. This is fucking poetry. Why is this so hot?”

“Exactly!” you cried.

“Wait—wait, it gets better—‘He whispered in Russian as he bent her over the desk, her moans echoing in the empty warehouse.’ Warehouse! This girl’s living my dreams!”

Ilya buried his face in his arm, wheezing.

You yanked a towel over your face. “I hate you both.”

“Tell me you didn’t highlight this part.” Shane gasped. “You highlighted it. You dog-eared it! Ilya, she bookmarked the finger scene!”

Ilya was choking with laughter now. “You do not need fiction, detka. You have me.”

“Ugh, not like that! He had a scar and a past!”

Shane dropped onto the lounger beside you, holding the book dramatically in one hand like it was a sacred text. “So what you’re saying is…we need to up our villain game.”

Ilya leaned close, kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Say the word,” he murmured in Russian, low and deliberate. “And I will throw you over my shoulder, lock the door and show you exactly what bratva would do.”

You stared at him, flustered.

Shane leaned in from the other side. “What’d he say?”

You cleared your throat. “He said I’m not allowed to read anything ever again.”

“Fair.”

The sun had gone from blazing to benevolent by the time you slid off the cabana cushions and padded barefoot toward the water, towel in one hand, sunglasses askew. The pages of Bratva Obsession were mercilessly hidden - beneath Shane’s hat, which Ilya had thrown over it with a smirk and a muttered “evidence secured.”

You didn’t care. Not when the water sparkled like molten glass and the boys were already ahead, wading in - Shane with his shorts halfway soaked and a grin like trouble brewing; Ilya deeper in, water curling at his waist, body sharp and wet and unbothered.

“Get in,” Shane called. “It’s perfect.”

You didn’t run. You sauntered.

And Ilya, watching, already looked like he wanted to ruin something.

You waded in until the water reached your hips, skin pebbled with goosebumps despite the heat. Ilya turned to face you, arms open.

“Up,” he said simply.

You raised a brow. “Up?”

He didn’t wait. He grabbed you by the waist, yanked you up with infuriating ease, and hoisted you onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing.

You shrieked, laughing. “You are so obnoxiously strong.”

“I know,” he said, voice smug under your thighs. “Now hold on.”

He moved through the water easily, the muscles in his back flexing under your legs as he waded deeper. Shane followed, splashing at both of you, trying to unbalance Ilya.

“I’m going to take him down,” Shane said, grinning like a madman.

“You couldn’t,” Ilya taunted, arms braced under your calves. “You are soft. Weak. Your abs are only for show.”

“Says the man afraid of sunscreen.”

You gasped. “Thank you. Finally, someone said it.”

Ilya snorted. “It smells like chemical death.”

“You play hockey for a living.”

Shane moved fast, lunging toward Ilya’s side, and for a moment it looked like it might work. You squealed as Ilya staggered slightly, one foot slipping in the sand below.

But then? He pivoted. Swift, smug, and soaked. And dragged Shane under. Water exploded around you as Shane flailed, came up spluttering, his hair in his eyes, face full of outrage.

“You bastard!”

“Try harder next time,” Ilya said calmly, adjusting you on his shoulders. “Or kneel.”

____________

Later, the sun slid toward the horizon, the sky all soft golds and burnt oranges, and your bikini was still damp from the sea. You wandered down the beach barefoot between them, your arms looped through both of theirs, salt drying on your skin, the three of you laughing like kids.

Then Shane slowed, eyes on the endless surf.

“I dare you to skinny dip,” he said, pointing toward the water, voice deceptively casual.

You raised a brow. “Me?”

He nodded, smirking.

You hummed thoughtfully. Then turned your head, eyes glinting.

“Only if you do too.”

Shane hesitated.

Ilya didn’t.

He was already pulling his shirt over his head. “You are both cowards,” he said flatly, stepping out of his shorts like it meant nothing. And just like that - bare and unapologetic - he walked straight into the ocean.

You blinked. “He just—he’s already—”

“Ilya!” Shane called, half-horrified, half-awed. “You’re insane!”

Ilya turned waist-deep, water slicking down every inch of him. “Your turn.”

Shane looked at you. You looked at Shane.

Then, wordless, you both started stripping. Squealing laughter echoed out into the surf as the three of you dove in under the glow of dying sunlight, bodies sleek and laughing, salt water everywhere. Ilya caught you first, dragged you under, kissed you wet and breathless as Shane swam circles around you both.

_________

The rooftop bar was dim, the lights low, everything golden with fire pits and hanging bulbs strung like stars overhead. A bottle of something expensive sat sweating in a bucket beside you and your legs were tossed across Shane’s lap while Ilya leaned back in the opposite chair, watching both of you like he was already plotting something filthy.

Shane had had two drinks. Which, for Shane, was catastrophic.

He was flushed. Loose. Giggling at nothing.

You were sipping from your own glass slowly, your hand tracing light patterns across his thigh.

Then—

“I dare you to kiss me,” he said suddenly, grinning, eyes half-lidded.

You blinked.

He looked at you. “What? It counts as a dare.”

You raised your glass in mock salute. “Fair.”

Then you leaned forward and kissed him.

Properly.

His breath hitched.

Ilya watched. Still, quiet. Eyes burning.

Then your gaze slid to him.

You licked your lips.

“Now you.”

His brow arched. “A dare?”

“A choice.”

He stood. Leaned over your chair. And kissed you. Slow. Deep. Possessive.

When he pulled back, Shane was staring.

Ilya turned to him, silent, dark.

And held out a hand.

“Come here.”

Shane didn’t hesitate.

The kiss they shared wasn’t playful. It was claiming.

The fire crackled beside you. The night stretched out infinite above. Your heart beat in your throat. You knew what was coming when you got back to the villa. And for once? You weren’t even pretending not to beg for it.

___________

The walk home was slow.

The kind of slow that came with warm skin and sticky wine-sweet mouths and the hush of the sea brushing against stone below the cliffs. Streetlights flickered golden on the cobbled paths, throwing shadows behind you as your sandals clicked gently between the boys’ bare feet.

Shane’s fingers brushed yours first. Tentative. Pinky to pinky.

You caught it. Twined your hand into his properly, fingers interlocked.

He smiled. That soft, crooked one that always made your chest ache a little. Not the camera one. The real one.

Ilya came next. He didn’t ask. Just reached out and took your other hand like he was claiming something permanent, thumb rubbing once across your knuckles before settling into silence again.

You glanced between them.

Shane looked flushed from wine and something more. Ilya looked like he was cataloguing every second. And then, without breaking pace, Shane reached over behind you and caught Ilya’s hand too.

The three of you walked like that - a single line of interlocked hands, warm and real, a little ridiculous. Shane started humming something under his breath. Ilya rolled his eyes but didn’t let go.

“I look like tourist,” Ilya muttered eventually.

“You look like someone who’s getting laid in the next ten minutes,” Shane said breezily.

You squeezed both their hands. “Optimistic.”

“Confident,” Ilya corrected.

You grinned. “Fair.”

The villa came into view as the ocean thundered below. You reached the door with quiet laughter still in your mouths, wine humming in your blood. And none of you let go.

____________

You kicked your sandals off with a sigh and walked barefoot across the cool tile, Shane’s hand still in yours, Ilya’s following close behind.

Shane pressed against your side, loose and warm and tipsy. His mouth found your shoulder first - lazy kisses at your strapline, slow and damp.

“Shower,” you murmured.

He nodded, resting his forehead against your neck. “Sticky.”

Ilya passed you both with a glance, already stripping his shirt off as he went. “You are both disgusting,” he said mildly, disappearing toward the bathroom.

“Speak for yourself,” Shane called after him. “You still smell like sunscreen, defeat and sex.”

Ilya’s voice echoed faintly from the other room. “You are welcome.”

You laughed, breathless. Then followed.

The steam was already curling upward by the time you stepped into the wide glass-walled shower. The tiles were warm beneath your feet, the water perfect.

Ilya stood beneath it, head tipped back, water rolling down the thick lines of his shoulders. Shane was behind you, peeling his shirt over his head, kicking his shorts into a corner. You reached behind to unclasp your top and let it fall, then stepped in without hesitation.

Ilya didn’t move at first. Just looked at you. Then down - slow, possessive, his eyes dragging over every inch like he hadn’t seen you a hundred times before.

His voice was low. “Look at you.”

Your breath caught. Then his hands were on your waist, pulling you under the spray, sliding soap slow over your ribs, your arms, your back. Not sexual. Not yet. Just thorough.

Shane ducked in after you both, and for a moment all you did was stand there - three bodies under warm water, letting the day rinse off, letting touch replace words.

Ilya’s mouth was at your neck again but gentler this time. His fingers working shampoo into your scalp with maddening patience.

Shane lathered your thighs. Down to your calves. He kissed your shoulder from behind, lingering.

You sighed. Melted between them. And they didn’t rush. Because for once, there was no rush.

The water had gone from warm to steaming. Steam coated the wide glass walls. The pressure beat steady from above, pooling and streaming down bodies too close, too slick to stay gentle for long.

You were the one who started it - your fingers dragging over Ilya’s abdomen as you turned, wet and shining, lifting your mouth to his chest and mouthing over his heart, tongue flicking at salt and soap. Shane’s hands were still on your hips, trailing after the lathered slide of your skin but when you turned between them, it was Ilya you kissed.

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you back - deep, tongue claiming your mouth like it was already owed. You moaned into it, fingers digging into his shoulders, while Shane kissed the back of your neck, mouthing along your spine like he was chasing breath.

Ilya’s hands roamed, wide and firm, soapy and greedy, dragging over your ribs, cupping your ass. He pushed you back against Shane’s chest, using him to hold you in place as his hand slipped between your thighs.

“Soaked already,” he rasped against your mouth, voice thick with heat. “You want this again?”

You nodded, breath catching.

Shane reached for your breasts, rolling one nipple between his fingers while you arched with a gasp.

“Say it,” Ilya said. “Say it in Russian.”

Your brain swam but you gave him what he wanted.

“Khochu tebya,” you whispered - I want you.

He smiled like sin. “Good girl.”

Then he dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, broad shoulders between your thighs, pushing them apart. Shane held your arms gently behind your back, lips on your jaw, your temple, while Ilya leaned in and devoured.

One slow lick. Then another. Then his mouth fastened over your clit and the sound you made was something wet and gasping and half-wrecked already.

Shane pressed closer. “That’s it,” he murmured, hand stroking down your belly. “Let him take you apart.”

You bucked into Ilya’s mouth.

He growled, grabbing your thighs, holding you still.

“Takaya vkusnaya,” he muttered between licks. “Moya shlyukha. Moya devushka. Look at Shane. Let him see how you fall apart.”

You did.

Shane caught your mouth in a hot kiss as Ilya doubled down: tongue curling, lips pulling, fingers sliding inside you slow and deep.

You cried out into Shane’s mouth, moaning, trembling, heat building until your legs were shaking.

Ilya’s voice was pure filth. “Krichi. Ya khochu uslyshat eto.” Scream. I want to hear it.

You did.

And then Ilya stood.

Hard. Dripping.

“On the bed,” he said, voice sharp with need. “I am not done with you.”

He turned to Shane.

“And you—” he grabbed him by the jaw, kissed him hard, licking into his mouth like he needed to taste you on his tongue. “You are next.”

The water was still running. But no one even noticed anymore.

The bedroom was dark and cool when you finally stumbled into it, skin still damp, towels abandoned somewhere behind you. The windows were open to the sea, curtains lifting and falling like breath.

Ilya didn’t bother with the lights.

He guided you down onto the bed with one hand at your lower back then followed, pulling Shane with him so the three of you collapsed together in a tangle of warm limbs and quiet laughter that didn’t quite mask how wrecked you all were.

For a moment, no one moved. Just breathing. Just hands finding familiar places again.

Shane pressed his face into your shoulder, voice muffled. “I’m going to need…like…an entire nap.”

Ilya huffed, low and satisfied. “You are fragile.”

“You’re the one who said we weren’t done.”

A pause.

Then Ilya’s arm wrapped around both of you, pulling you in until you were pinned gently between chests and heartbeats. His mouth brushed your temple, then Shane’s hair, unhurried.

“I didn’t say now,” he murmured.

You smiled into the dark, exhaustion and contentment settling deep in your bones. Outside, the ocean kept up its steady rhythm, the night thick and warm around the villa.

You fit there. Between them.

And as sleep crept in - slow and heavy - you knew tomorrow would bring more sun, more teasing, more trouble.

But for now?

This was enough.

_____________

Day Five

The last morning came too soon. The kind of early where the sky was still the colour of pearl, and the air hadn’t remembered it was summer yet. The fan above the bed stirred gently. Somewhere outside, the first gulls cried like someone was telling them no.

You blinked awake slowly - face buried in a warm chest, your thigh thrown over someone’s hip, your whole body a little sticky with sweat and sleep. The sheets were tangled. The breeze was warm.

Ilya was already awake, his arm heavy across your lower back, eyes open and soft in the dim light. He didn’t speak. Just brushed his knuckles along your spine, lazy and slow.

Behind you, Shane stirred, groaning. “No.”

You smiled.

“No what?”

“No waking. No moving. No plane. No pants.”

You laughed quietly into Ilya’s chest. “That’s a lot of no.”

Shane muttered something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow, his hand sliding up your side, anchoring himself without even thinking.

Ilya’s mouth curled at the corner. “I agree with Shane for once.”

You lifted your head, kissed his chest. “We have to be out by noon.”

“Net,” Ilya said. “They can evict us.”

“They can try,” Shane slurred. “Let’s live here. Right here. This bed. No leaving.”

You exhaled, still smiling. “We’ve eaten all the good snacks.”

“We’ll live off each other.”

“That already happened yesterday,” you said dryly. “Multiple times.”

Ilya kissed your forehead. “Then we are practiced.”

A pause. A breath. Then Ilya slid his hand up to your jaw, tilted your face, and kissed you fully - slow and steady and certain, the kind of kiss that said he was already remembering how this tasted before it was even over.

Shane sat up behind you eventually, sleep-flattened hair and swollen lips, blinking at the sight of it.

“You two are disgusting,” he said hoarsely.

You pulled back from Ilya, turned to Shane, and grinned. “You’re jealous.”

He smirked. “Obviously.”

Ilya reached for him with one hand, dragging him down into the space between. “Get over here.”

Another kiss. Another tangle of limbs. No urgency. No rush. Just touch and taste and memorising the feel of all of it one last time.

The salt in your hair. The ache in your thighs. The sound of them breathing.

____________

The suitcases were too full. Ilya couldn’t fold anything. Shane found sand in his bag and blamed you. You broke down laughing while trying to roll a swimsuit that had no business ever drying fully.

The photos on your phone? Atrocious and perfect.

One of Shane asleep under a towel like a dead man. One of Ilya lifting you half out of the water with you screaming. One where you were clearly about to fall over with laughter and they were both watching you like you were the centre of gravity.

Your flight home wasn’t for hours yet. But the sun outside was already higher than you wanted it to be, and the driver had texted a very punctual “I am here :)” that Ilya growled at like a threat.

When you walked back into the bedroom one last time - empty now, windows wide to the sea - you stood in the middle of the floor for a moment.

Both of them flanked you, quiet.

“What are you thinking?” Shane asked, sliding his hand into yours.

You looked around the space. The bed. The curtain still fluttering. The pale mark of sunscreen on the tile near the door.

Then you smiled softly.

“Just…how full this place feels. Like we didn’t just stay here. Like we fucking lived here.”

Ilya kissed your temple from behind.

“Good,” he said. “Let it haunt next guests.”

__________

The airport was a disaster.

The line for customs had taken a hundred years. Ilya had argued with the check-in agent about carry-on limits (“This bag fits, do not insult my intelligence”) and Shane had lost his sunglasses somewhere between security and the lounge - he was sure they were in a bin and not his fault.

You were all running on island fumes: over-sunned, underfed, still sticky with the lotion and sweat and salt of yesterday. You’d barely slept. Your bag was overstuffed with damp bikinis and memories.

You were still glowing.

And Ilya? He was standing next to you in line for coffee in the lounge, hoodie low over his forehead, hands in his pockets, eyes barely open.

You nudged his hip with yours. “What’s your order?”

He grunted. “Strong. Hot. Russian.”

You smirked. “That’s not a drink.”

“It should be.”

You turned toward him, lips tugging up. The air conditioning inside the terminal was too cold, and his body was the only warm thing for miles. You leaned closer.

“I have something better for you than coffee,” you murmured.

He cracked one eye open, curious.

You whispered it:

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

He froze. Not a dramatic, gasping kind of pause - no. Ilya Rozanov didn’t freeze like that. He stilled. Entirely. Like a blade sheathed mid-movement.

Then his eyes dragged open fully, dark and wide and stunned.

“What did you say?” he said, voice low and thick.

You smiled up at him.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

The air shifted. His hands came out of his pockets in an instant, one sliding around your back, the other catching your jaw. He didn’t kiss you - not right there, not yet - but he stared at you like he might. Like he couldn’t believe you’d done this here, now, casually in a fucking Starbucks line after all this time.

He leaned in close. His mouth brushed your ear.

“I am going to ruin you,” he whispered.

You laughed under your breath. “You already did.”

__________

Shane was in one of those ridiculous lounge armchairs, feet kicked up, coffee balanced dangerously on the armrest.

When he saw you coming - your hand wrapped tight in Ilya’s, your face flushed - he arched a brow.

“What’d I miss?”

Ilya didn’t answer. He pulled you straight into his lap as he sat down across from Shane, wrapped one arm around your waist, and turned to face his teammate like he was showing off a trophy.

“Tell him,” he said.

You blinked, half-laughing. “What?”

Ilya grinned now, all teeth. “Tell him what you told me.”

Shane looked between you, suddenly alert. “Wait, what’d you say?”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks on fire.

“Come on,” Ilya purred. “Be a good girl.”

You smacked his shoulder, biting your lip.

But you said it:

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

And this time, you looked at Shane as you said it.

Shane blinked once. Then leaned forward, elbow on his knee, eyes warm and full of something enormous and awestruck.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Say it again.”

Ilya groaned, pressing a kiss to your neck. “We both want it now. Look what you started.”

You laughed. “Good. You deserve it.”

They did. They both did.

Chapter Text

The Raiders were up 3–1.

Second period, six minutes on the clock, the puck was flying with purpose and pressure, and the man you loved - impossibly fast, infuriatingly confident - was carving up center ice like he owned it.

Which, technically, he did.

This was New York. Away turf. And still, the sound lifted when he caught a pass from Keller and launched into a sprint, streaking down the boards like a storm.

You were in the lower bowl, three rows back from the penalty box, wearing one of Ilya’s older jerseys knotted at the waist and a Raiders cap pulled low, half for disguise, half because you loved the weight of it. His number - #81 - was inked in red across your back. You hadn’t stopped fidgeting since warmup.

He was so locked in tonight. You could tell. His shoulders were looser. His hands quick. His jaw unclenched. The kind of night where the ice didn’t just respond to him; it obeyed him.

You let your gaze linger every time he passed by. On the jolt of his thighs in motion. The way his stick moved like an extension of his body. The glint in his eyes through the cage. Like he could taste blood and was already smiling.

Beside you, a couple in Admirals jerseys were arguing about line changes. You barely noticed.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Shane:

god he’s flying tonight
you seeing this?
i’m dying a little bit

You smiled and typed back:

he winked at the bench after that goal
cockiest bastard alive

A moment later:

ours tho
our cocky bastard

You tucked the phone back in your coat pocket, heart too full, nerves buzzing like sugar in your veins. This wasn’t just a game. It never was. Not with Ilya.

You loved him best like this. Alive in his body. Unstoppable.

___________

They came out of intermission hard. Admirals scrambling now, pressing in desperate bursts, Raiders holding their line. You saw the shift in Ilya’s skating - less showy, more calculated. He was protecting the lead now. Reading plays, shifting defense, shutting down the middle ice like a surgeon.

And then the moment hit.

It didn’t look dangerous. Not right away. A puck along the boards. Ilya reaching. An Admiral forward cutting wide.

And then—

Impact.

You heard it before you saw it. A thunderous CRACK, the boards groaning under pressure, glass shivering—

Ilya’s body slammed high and hard, shoulder to the plexi, helmet snapping back at a brutal angle. His skates caught. He went down like he’d been dropped, not hit.

And he didn’t get up.

He didn’t even move.

You stood before your brain could catch up. One moment you were seated, fingers warm around your drink, and the next, your entire body was ice.

Ilya didn’t move.

Not a twitch. Not a roll. Not the usual arm lift to wave off the medics and play the tough guy. He was facedown, limbs sprawled, one glove loose against the ice.

Someone was yelling. Maybe the commentator. Maybe the people behind you. You didn’t hear a word.

You were already pushing forward.

Security didn’t notice at first: just another fan on the stairs. You fought your way past the drink vendor, past the girl in front of you who flinched when your shoulder knocked hers. Down the steps. Fast. Unthinking.

On the ice, trainers were already sprinting out, crouching beside Ilya, checking for movement.

But there was no movement.

Your heart pounded. Too hard. Too much.

People were standing around you now, murmuring. Phones in hands. Chatter too loud. You were halfway down the lower bowl when the usher stepped in front of you.

“Ma’am, you can’t—”

“I’m with him,” you snapped, voice cracking, hand fumbling inside your coat. “I’m—I’m family.”

“Everyone says that.”

You yanked your wallet from your pocket, flipped to the photo you knew was there - an old one of the three of you, tangled together in Ilya’s kitchen, laughing so hard Shane was crying.

Now it might be the only thing that got you to him.

The steward looked. Blinked. Looked again.

“Oh,” he muttered.

“Please,” you said. “I need to—he’s not moving—”

He pulled back the barrier.

“Go.”

The tunnel was cold.

You sprinted the last stretch of concrete toward the bench, nearly slipping in your flats, your coat half-open, your heart screaming.

By the time you reached the gate, they were rolling him onto his back.

You saw it. The slackness in his face. The blood just beginning to bloom at his hairline. The way his eyes fluttered but didn’t open.

“No,” you whispered, stumbling down the short set of stairs onto the ice-level mats.

One of the medical staff turned.

“You can’t—”

“She’s with him,” said the trainer, recognising you immediately. “It’s okay.”

You dropped to your knees beside the gurney as they lifted him.

His lips were pale. His helmet was gone. He looked, God, he looked wrong.

“Ilya,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his brow, over the smear of blood that curved just under the hairline. “Baby, I’m here, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

He didn’t answer. His eyelids fluttered. His body convulsed slightly on the board as they strapped him in.

“He’s breathing,” said the EMT. “We’ve got vitals. We need to move now.”

“Where are you taking him?” you asked.

“Presbyterian. Midtown.”

“I’m coming with you.”

The EMT hesitated. Then nodded once. “You ride with him.”

You gripped Ilya’s hand.

It didn’t grip back.

_____________

Shane

The living room was filled with soft light and secondhand tension.

The TV blared low with French commentary but Shane barely heard it. He was already halfway through his second LaCroix, legs draped over the coffee table, hoodie bunched at the elbows. The score ticked into the bottom corner: Raiders 3, Admirals 1. Still holding.

His mom sat across the room in her robe, knitting something impossibly complicated in blue yarn. His dad was asleep in the recliner.

It felt weirdly domestic. Like too quiet.

“Ilya’s flying tonight,” Yuna said without looking up. “He’s in one of those moods.”

Shane smiled faintly. “Locked in.”

“Like a dog on a steak.”

Shane was about to text you again - some little joke about Ilya’s last goal celebration - when he saw it.

On screen. Mid-play. Nothing special. Nothing wild.

And then—

Collision.

Loud. Brutal. Wrong.

Shane sat up so fast his drink hit the floor.

“No—wait—wait—”

On-screen, Ilya hit the boards with horrifying force. Shane flinched. The camera panned too fast, then cut to a wider shot. He wasn’t moving.

“Shit,” Shane whispered. “Shit.”

Yuna looked up immediately. “What?”

“Ilya. He’s down.”

The room changed. Like air got sucked out of it.

Yuna’s knitting fell into her lap. She stared at the screen.

Shane was already fumbling for his phone, his hands slick with panic. He dialled your number - once, twice, again - and it went straight to voicemail.

“No. No, no—pick up.”

He tried Ilya’s phone next. Nothing.

“Turn it up,” Yuna said sharply, already reaching for the remote.

The sound jumped. French commentary - faster now, tighter. Shane heard the words immobile, inconscient, évacuation.

They were bringing out the gurney.

Shane was already on his feet, moving.

“Where are you going?” Yuna asked, standing too.

“I have to get to him.”

“But you have a game tomorrow—”

“I don’t care,” Shane snapped. “If he’s hurt, if she’s alone down there, I’m not fucking staying here.”

He was halfway to the front hall, dragging on jeans over his boxers, shoving things into a duffel with frantic, half-broken energy.

Yuna followed. “Then I’m driving you.”

“I’ll Uber.”

“You’ll waste thirty minutes and miss every flight. No. You’re both my sons. Get in the damn car.”

He stopped at the door, turned toward her.

Her eyes were wide but steady.

“I’ll call ahead,” she said, grabbing her coat. “We’ll find something direct.”

He hugged her hard, brief, a burst of adrenaline and gratitude and fear.

“I can’t get hold of her,” he said.

Yuna’s voice softened. “She’ll be with him.”

Shane nodded once. Eyes full. Hands trembling.

And then they were gone: out the door, into the freezing Montreal night, toward the one flight that might get him there fast enough.

______________

You

The first thing he did was breathe wrong. It wasn’t dramatic. No gasp. No sudden lurch back to life. Just…off.

A shallow inhale that hitched halfway through, like his body had forgotten the rhythm and was testing it again. You noticed because you’d been counting his breaths without realising it. One. Two. Three. Still breathing.

You were sitting at his side, close enough that your knee pressed against the gurney, one hand wrapped around his, careful not to tug against the tape and sensors. The ambulance lights painted everything in alternating red and white like a heartbeat externalised.

“Ilya,” you said quietly. Not loud. Not urgent. Just present.

His fingers twitched. Not a grip. Not yet. Just a faint, involuntary flex, like a nerve firing somewhere deep and far away.

The EMT glanced over from the head of the gurney. “That’s good,” she said, not smiling but not worried. “That’s something.”

You nodded, because nodding felt safer than asking questions.

Another breath. Slightly deeper this time. Uneven but there.

His brow furrowed. That’s when the sound came, so soft you almost missed it. A syllable without shape. A sound pulled up from somewhere older than English.

“…chort…”

You leaned closer immediately.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, switching without thinking. Your Russian wasn’t perfect, but it was his. “Vso khorosho. Ya zdes.” - Everything’s okay. I’m here.

His lips moved again, slower now, effortful. His eyes stayed closed, lashes fluttering faintly like they were too heavy to lift.

“Gde… gde eto…” Where… where is this…

“You’re in ambulance,” you said gently, stumbling over the grammar but not stopping. “Ty udarilsya. Ty v bezopasnosti.”- You were hit. You’re safe.

His breathing stuttered again, chest rising too fast, panic trying to surface before consciousness fully arrived.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Igra…shayba…” Game. Puck.

“I know,” you said, squeezing his hand just slightly. “Igra zakonchilas. Ty vyigral.” The game’s over. You won.

That did it.

His breathing slowed - not immediately, not cleanly - but enough. Like the word won anchored him. His head shifted a fraction against the stretcher, pain cutting across his face in a way that made your throat close.

He tried to open his eyes. Failed. Tried again.

One eye cracked open, unfocused, dark. He looked past you at first, gaze skating over the ambulance ceiling like he didn’t recognise the shapes.

Then his eyes slid back. Found your face.

Recognition didn’t come all at once. You saw it arrive in pieces - the tension easing from his jaw, the panic draining from his shoulders, the way his thumb finally, finally curled around yours.

“…Moyà,” he murmured.

You swallowed.

“Da,” you whispered. “Ya zdes. Vso khorosho.”

He breathed out, long and shaky, like he’d been holding it since the boards.

The EMT glanced back again. “He talking?”

“Yes,” you said quietly. “He’s confused.”

“That’s normal,” she said. “You’re doing good. Keep him calm.”

You nodded, even though your hands were shaking now that he was awake enough for it to matter.

The ambulance hit a bump. He winced, a sharp sound tearing out of him before he could stop it.

“Tishe,” you said immediately, stroking his knuckles with your thumb. “Medlenno. Dyshi so mnoy.” - Slow. Breathe with me.

You breathed where he could see it - deliberate, exaggerated, patient.

In. Out.

He followed. Badly at first. Then better. His eyes drifted closed again, not unconscious this time; just exhausted, overwhelmed, body retreating where it could.

Before he slipped fully under, his lips moved one last time.

“…Шейн?” _ Shane.

Your chest tightened.

“He’s coming,” you said, voice steady even as your heart broke a little. “On yedet.”

His grip tightened once more. Then loosened.

And you stayed exactly where you were as the siren wailed into the night, translating not just words, but home, back to him, one breath at a time.

____________

The hospital swallowed him whole.

The gurney disappeared through a pair of swinging doors. The medics barked vitals to a nurse in scrubs. A doctor scribbled notes without slowing down. They didn’t look back.

They didn’t let you go with him.

“Not yet,” the nurse said, gently but firmly, blocking your path with a hand to your shoulder. “We’ll come find you as soon as we can.”

“But—”

“He’s in good hands. I promise.”

That was it. That was how it ended: with a door, and a hallway, and you standing there like a piece of furniture someone forgot to move.

The silence that followed hit harder than the sirens had.

Your knees didn’t quite buckle, but they wanted to.

You made it to the nearest chair and sat down fast, coat still hanging half off your shoulders, your hands still coated with the ghost of Ilya’s skin.

Your phone buzzed once.

Shane.

You didn’t even look, just answered it, already shaking.

“Hello?”

“Baby.”

His voice. His voice. Tight. Low. Edged with panic he was trying to swallow.

“I’m at the gate,” he said. “Flight leaves in thirty.”

Tears started, immediate and sharp.

“I can’t—I can’t go back there—”

“Hey.” Firm. Steady. “You don’t have to. You don’t move until they let you, okay?”

“He was talking,” you whispered. “Before they took him. In Russian. I don’t think anyone else understood. But I did, Shane. I understood him.”

“I know you did,” he said, and God, you could hear the pride in it. “You were amazing. You’re still amazing. You’re doing so good, baby.”

That broke something. The first sob ripped through your chest like a muscle tearing.

“I need you here.”

“I know.”

“I can’t—Shane, he asked for you. He said your name.”

“I’m coming,” he said. “Two hours. That’s all. I land and I’m there. Nothing’s going to stop me, okay?”

You pressed your palm over your eyes, hard enough to hurt. “I just—I need you to hold it together when I can fall apart.”

His breath hitched. “I’ve got you.”

Your hand shook as you gripped the phone tighter.

“He needs you too.”

“I’ll be there,” Shane said. “You won’t have to say it twice.”

You didn’t want to hang up. You also couldn’t breathe.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you,” he said back. “So much.”

And then the line went quiet.

You sat in that chair for twenty-two minutes. The clock ticked loud above the vending machine. The lights were too bright. The coffee in the waiting room carafe smelled burned.

You didn’t care.

You couldn’t stop replaying it- his voice slurred with blood and pain, yours clumsy in Russian but real, the way his fingers had squeezed yours before he let go.

You didn’t move again until you heard it:

“Family of Ilya Rozanov?”

You shot to your feet.

A nurse stood in the doorway. Kind face. Steady hands. Clipboard at her side.

“Yes,” you said, too loud. “That’s me.”

She looked down at the form, then back up. “And you are…?”

There was a beat. You didn’t think. You just said it.

“His wife.”

It slipped out like water over stone. No hesitation. No correction. Not from you. Not from the nurse.

She nodded once. “Come with me.”

And just like that—

The door opened again.

__________

The nurse led you through the narrow corridor, past a glass wall of triage bays and into a quieter hallway. A soft chime echoed every time a door opened. The scent of antiseptic hit hard and clean.

“I’ll take you to the consult room,” she said gently. “Doctor Nguyen will meet you there first before we bring you in.”

You nodded, silent, your chest tight but steady now - like a rope pulled taut. You were done shaking. You were done crying.

Now you needed answers.

The nurse opened a door just off the main hall and gestured you inside. A small consultation room: neutral chairs, neutral lighting, a single framed photo of a maple tree in autumn. Nothing personal. Nothing risky.

You sat.

Your hands found each other and stayed locked, fingers twisting and pulling until they hurt.

A minute passed. Then two. Then the door opened.

“Hi,” said the doctor, stepping in and offering you a hand with warm eyes and a clipped but gentle tone. “I’m Dr. Nguyen. I’m the attending neurologist on call tonight.”

You stood fast. Shook her hand. “Is he okay?”

Dr. Nguyen didn’t sit. She opened the folder in her hands—paper, not digital. Unusual. Personal. Then she looked up at you.

“Let’s walk through it.”

You nodded, holding yourself still.

“He regained consciousness in the ambulance, correct?” She asked.

“Yes. I was with him. He was disoriented, but talking.”

“In English or Russian?”

“Mostly Russian.”

“That tracks. Native language tends to resurface under neurological stress.”

You wanted to scream what’s wrong with him but you held back. Let her keep talking.

“We’ve completed initial imaging—CT, MRI, full spinal precaution protocols. There’s no sign of fracture to the skull, no cranial bleeding.”

You exhaled. Hard.

“But—” she continued, carefully, “—he’s been diagnosed with a moderate concussion. A grade two.”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So—loss of consciousness, confusion but no prolonged amnesia?”

She blinked at you, surprised.

“Exactly. You’re well-read.”

You ignored the compliment. “Hockey wife. How long was he out?”

“Three to four minutes, best estimate from the rink team. That’s concerning, but not catastrophic.”

Your hands clenched tighter. “Is he in pain?”

“He’s conscious. Responsive. Alert in intervals. Complaining of head pressure and rib pain, which we’re managing.”

“Ribs?” you asked quickly. “Bruised?”

“Likely from the impact. The protective gear mitigated most of it but he took the boards at an unfortunate angle. X-rays show no breaks.”

You swallowed. “Is he lucid?”

“More and more. Some short-term memory fuzziness—what city he’s in, why—but he recognised your photo when we showed him your ID. His eyes lit up, by the way.”

That hit you harder than anything. You cleared your throat. “What’s the treatment plan?”

“Neurological monitoring overnight, minimum. No screens, no stimuli. Quiet environment. After that, several weeks of cognitive rest. Symptom tracking. No return to play until cleared by a specialist. The league will have their protocols. I’ve worked with them before—they’ll be involved.”

“But he’s going to be okay?”

Dr Nguyen finally sat. Folded her hands. Looked you in the eye.

“He’s lucky. This could have gone very differently. But yes. If recovery goes well—and he follows instructions—he’ll be okay.”

You nodded slowly. “And long-term risk?”

“Always a possibility with concussion history. One increases likelihood of another. But right now? He’s in the clear.”

You took a long, slow breath. Let it out through your nose.

“And I can see him?”

Dr. Nguyen smiled. “He keeps asking for you.”

You stood, fast.

She opened the door. “Right this way.”

____________

You heard him before you saw him.

Down the short hallway to Room 312, past the quiet murmur of nurses’ sneakers on linoleum, past the soft beep of machinery. His voice carried: a low, aggravated rumble laced with Russian that crackled like static under fluorescent lights.

“…Gde ona? Chto za chertovshchina? Just let me…” - Where is she? Why the hell?

You turned the corner and stepped into the doorway just in time to hear a startled male nurse say, “Sir, I just need to check your IV line—can we stop swatting at—”

“Ilya Rozanov,” you said, sharp enough to cut through the air.

His head jerked toward your voice so fast he winced. The nurse looked visibly relieved.

You stepped into the room, arms crossed, face calm. Barely.

“Let the poor man do his job before you start trying to stage a prison break.”

A beat of silence.

Then Ilya exhaled, slumping back against the raised hospital bed like every last ounce of fight drained out of him.

“Moya lyubov,” he muttered.

You moved to the side of the bed, setting your bag down without looking away from him. “Don’t ‘moya lyubov’ me while you’re playing whack-a-mole with the staff.”

“I did not hit,” he grumbled. “Swatting.”

“You are swatted,” you said gently and reached for his hand.

The moment your fingers wrapped around his, his grip tightened; not too hard, but fast. Immediate. Like his body remembered before his mind could catch up.

You looked at him properly now.

God, he looked rough.

His hair was damp with sweat, flattened awkwardly on one side. A bruise already bloomed across his temple, dark and angry. His right eye was slightly swollen. His colour was wrong - pale under too-warm lighting, lips chapped, jaw tight.

And beneath the hospital gown, you could see the rise and fall of his chest, shallow, uneven. Ribs.

But his eyes—

His eyes were alive the second they locked on you.

Raw. Relieved.

“Ty zdes,” he murmured. - You’re here.

“I’m here,” you said softly, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.

He reached for your wrist and pulled your hand to his chest, resting it over his heart like he needed to prove something.

The nurse cleared his throat from the other side of the bed. “Vitals are steady now. Pain meds are kicking in. If he gives you trouble, just press the call button.”

You smiled faintly. “I’ll wrestle him myself.”

“Please do,” the nurse muttered on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Ilya didn’t let go. His eyes closed for a second, jaw flexing.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate not knowing where you are.”

“I was twenty feet away, you drama queen.”

“Too far,” he muttered.

You laughed under your breath and ran your fingers gently through his hair, trying to find a part that wasn’t tender.

He sighed.

“What hurts?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “Yes.”

Your throat ached.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

“I scared myself.” He blinked slowly. “Everything…blinked. Gone. Then your voice.”

He opened his eyes again. Locked on you.

“Your Russian is very bad,” he said thickly, “but it worked.”

“You understood me?”

“I would understand even if I was dead.”

“That’s horrifying.”

He smiled. Crooked. Fading. His hand slipped into yours again.

“Shane?” he asked.

“On a plane. He’s coming.”

“Good,” Ilya whispered. “He should see I am not dying.”

“No, you’re just being a menace.”

He huffed once, a half-laugh that ended in a wince.

“Do not make me laugh. Ribs are shit.”

You squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back. His eyes started to close again, long lashes brushing his cheeks.

“You will stay?” he asked, almost slurred now, the meds creeping deeper.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

His mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Good.”

And with your hand over his heart, he finally let go enough to rest.

__________

Ilya was dozing again by the time you reached for the water pitcher. Not deeply; just that uneven haze of pain meds and adrenaline crash. His eyes would flutter closed, only to drag open again like he wasn’t ready to give in.

You filled the hospital cup halfway. No straw. He’d never use one.

“Here,” you murmured, coming back to the bed and curling your fingers gently around his.

His eyes opened immediately. Fuzzy, unfocused. Then clearer.

He frowned. “What?”

“Drink.”

“I can.”

“You didn’t last time.”

“I do not need help.”

You held his gaze, unimpressed.

“Ilya. Baby. You got body-checked into the underworld. Take the water.”

His scowl deepened. But he shifted slightly on the pillow, wincing, and let you bring the cup to his lips.

You tilted it gently.

He drank slowly. Swallowed harder than you liked. When he finished, he let out a breath like he was expecting that to hurt more than it did.

“See?” he muttered. “Can do.”

“Mm-hm.”

He closed his eyes again but didn’t let go of your hand this time.

You watched his jaw unclench, then his brow.

His breathing eased.

Your phone buzzed softly on the tray table. You turned to check it, careful not to jostle the bed.

Shane:
Landed. On the way. Update?

You looked back down.

Ilya’s lips moved just faintly. Not a word. Not a full thought. His hand flexed once on your thigh but his face stayed still.

You kissed his temple gently.

“I’ll be right outside,” you whispered. “One minute.”

He didn’t stir.

The hallway was half-lit now. One of the nurses dimmed the panels near the patient rooms, casting everything in a soft golden haze that made your reflection in the window look tired. Flushed cheeks. Wild hair. Lips bitten raw.

You stepped just far enough away to keep your voice low and hit call.

It rang once.

“Hey,” Shane said, breathless.

“He’s alive,” you said, before he could ask. “He’s okay. Awake. In pain. But he’s going to be okay.”

Shane exhaled hard. “Jesus. Okay. Okay.”

“He has a concussion. Grade two. No skull fracture. Bruised ribs but no breaks.”

“How’s he doing?”

You looked back through the glass. Saw his outline under the white blanket.

“He’s fighting everything,” you murmured. “Being helped. Being still. Being in that bed. He’s trying not to show it but he’s…frustrated.”

Shane went quiet.

“I gave him water,” you said. “He acted like I’d handed him a loaded gun.”

A soft huff on the other end.

“And just now, when I told him I’d be gone for one minute to call you, he held my hand tighter. Like he wasn’t even awake for it. Like his body just didn’t want me to go.”

Shane’s voice was quieter now. “He’s scared.”

“So am I,” you said, more softly than before.

A pause. Then Shane’s voice, tender, steady:

“You’re doing everything right.”

“I’m trying.”

“Tell him I’m coming.”

“I will.”

“Tell him I’ll yell at him for being difficult in person.”

You smiled. “He might need that.”

“But hey,” Shane added, his tone shifting, “just—be ready, okay?”

“For what?”

“For how much he’ll hate being helpless. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

“And when he says something stupid, like he doesn’t want us waiting on him or he doesn’t need us—”

“I’ll tell him to shut the fuck up.”

Shane laughed, short and warm.

“Exactly.”

You leaned against the wall for a second. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself be held by his voice, even across distance.

“See you soon?”

“Fast as I can,” he promised.

You ended the call. And then you slipped back through the door.

Ilya stirred when he heard you, eyes cracking open, voice scratchy:

“Gone too long.”

You came back to him with a soft smile and your hand in his again.

“I was reporting to your other half.”

He grunted. “Tell him I want soup.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Do you?”

“…No. But I want him to suffer.”

You kissed his knuckles. And sat with him there, through the ache, through the silence, through the slow, difficult work of healing.

You had just eased the blanket up over Ilya’s knees again - he kept kicking it off, stubborn even in sleep - when his eyes cracked open.

He blinked once. Twice. Focused.

“You are still here,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Obviously.”

“I thought maybe I dreamed you.”

“Not unless your dreams involve me arguing with nurses about who’s more intimidating.”

That got him to huff, which turned quickly into a wince.

You sat back in the chair beside him and brushed your fingers through his hair again. You’d found the safe spot - right at the crown, where it was soft and untouched by bruising. He leaned into it instinctively.

A quiet moment passed. Then you said it.

“I told them I’m your wife.”

His eyes opened a little wider.

“You what?”

“Just in case anyone asks,” you said, fighting a smile, “I’m your wife. That’s how I got back here.”

He groaned. “Do I even want to know?”

“I had to say I was family. And there was no way in hell I was going to try to sell ‘sister.’” You raised your eyebrows. “Have you seen the way you look at me?”

That did it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then lifted. A sound came out of him - half laugh, half groan. “Chyort…that’s true.”

“Exactly.”

He tried to school his face but the grin kept coming.

“You’re not wrong. If anyone believed that, they’d need a psych eval.”

You tucked the blanket tighter under his side. “So. Wife it is.”

He looked at you. And something shifted behind his eyes - flickered, warm and quiet and settled.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Wife.”

The word sat between you like it belonged there.

___________

It was ten minutes later when you heard footsteps outside.

You turned as the door opened, and Shane burst in, flushed from the wind, curls wild, backpack half unzipped.

His eyes landed on Ilya instantly. Then on you.

His whole face cracked open.

“You—fuck, you’re both okay—”

Before you could say anything, Ilya spoke first.

“Oh good,” he grumbled. “Brother is here.”

You choked on a laugh.

“Do not make me laugh,” Ilya said immediately, voice pinched. “Ribs are shit.”

Shane stared at the two of you like you were unhinged.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, already crossing the room. “You’re both actually insane.”

Then he leaned down and kissed Ilya, slow and careful, his hand cupping Ilya’s jaw like it was breakable.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

Ilya didn’t say anything. Just let his eyes close for a second.

Then Shane turned to you. And kissed you too. Less careful - hungrier, like he’d been waiting to do it since the second he boarded the plane.

When he pulled back, you were the one smiling.

“I missed you,” you said, breathless.

“Missed you both,” he murmured, dropping his bag and pulling the chair closer to the bed.

__________

The hospital chair beside Ilya’s bed wasn’t built for comfort.

It barely reclined. It creaked every time Shane shifted his weight. But none of that mattered now; not when your legs were tangled with his under the blanket, not when Ilya’s hand stayed clasped in yours, never letting go even as he drifted in and out of sleep.

Shane had kicked off his sneakers an hour ago. His hoodie was balled up behind your back and he’d tucked one arm around your waist, fingers tracing slow, idle circles over your ribs.

Ilya stirred, once, murmured something in Russian that you didn’t catch.

“He okay?” Shane whispered into your hair.

“Yeah. Talking again.”

“What’d he say?”

You smiled faintly. “Something about not liking the hospital pudding.”

Shane huffed a breath near your ear, his laugh more exhale than sound.

“Guy gets rocked into a coma and wakes up bitching about dessert.”

“Tell me that’s not peak Ilya.”

“You’ve got a point.”

Ilya’s hand twitched again in yours.

You looked down and saw his eyes flutter open. Still hazy. Still swimming from the meds. But clear enough to recognise you.

His mouth curved, slow and faint. “You both here.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to Shane, then back to you.

“You will stay?”

You nodded.

Shane leaned closer, bracing a hand lightly on the bedrail.

“As long as they let us,” he said. “We’re not leaving.”

“Good,” Ilya whispered, his voice sandpaper rough. “Good.”

His eyes closed again, lashes brushing pale skin. He didn’t let go of your hand.

__________

It was nearly midnight when the door opened again.

You were still on the chair, head on Shane’s shoulder, half-asleep, when the soft knock pulled you upright.

Dr Nguyen walked in. Confident, composed.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said in a low voice. “Wanted to give you another update before shift change.”

Shane stood as you did, both of you instinctively protective now.

You stayed close to Ilya’s bed, one hand still on the blanket over his ribs.

“How is he?” you asked.

Dr. Nguyen consulted her tablet but her voice stayed direct, kind.

“Stable. Pain is being managed. Still some disorientation, but his language is improving - less slurring, more clarity. That’s a good sign. He’s metabolising the meds well, and there’s no sign of increased cranial pressure.”

You nodded slowly. “So we stay the course?”

“For now, yes. We’ll re-evaluate in the morning with another neuro check. If that goes well, we’ll move toward gradual stimulation—low light, soft sound, more movement.”

Shane cleared his throat. “And the ribs?”

“No breaks. Just bruised. The pain may actually slow him down enough to prevent him from pushing too hard too fast.”

You snorted. “One can hope.”

Dr. Nguyen smiled faintly. “Any questions?”

“Can we stay the night?” Shane asked, stepping closer.

She didn’t even blink. “You’re the family?”

“Yes,” you both said at once.

She nodded. “Then yes. Just keep things calm. Lights low. No TV, no phone. Talk to him, touch is okay. That’s often better than anything.”

You looked at Ilya again, at the way his fingers curled tighter around yours even in sleep.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ve got him.”

Dr. Nguyen paused in the doorway.

Then - almost too quietly to catch - “He’s lucky. Not just for how he landed. But for having you.”

Then she was gone. And the three of you were left alone again. Together.

The lights were low now. Just one dim fixture above the sink and the soft green pulse of the heart monitor beside the bed.

Shane sat in the second chair, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, one hand resting over Ilya’s shin through the thin blanket. His fingers kept moving, just a little twitch now and then, like he couldn’t not touch.

You were perched again on the edge of the mattress, Ilya’s big hand still folded in both of yours. It had been hours like this. You’d do it for a thousand more.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned. The rhythm of the machines. The occasional sigh from Ilya. The sound of Shane shifting, then stilling again.

You were almost asleep - head tipped toward Ilya’s arm - when you felt his fingers twitch.

You straightened immediately.

“Ilya?” you said softly.

His head turned slightly toward the sound. Then his eyes opened. Still dark. Still rimmed with fatigue. But clearer than before.

“Ty…ty zdes?”

You smiled, nodding. “Vsegda.” - Always.

Shane leaned forward. “Hey, hey,—look who’s up.”

Ilya blinked again. Tried to focus.

He wet his lips. “Mnye snova khrenovo.” -I feel like shit again.

“Yeah, well, your face met the boards at like sixty miles an hour,” Shane said gently. “You’re allowed.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” you added, stroking the back of his hand. “But you’re okay. We talked to the doctor.”

Ilya’s brow creased. “Doctor?”

You nodded. “Dr. Nguyen. She said no fractures. Bruised ribs. Grade two concussion. You’re doing okay.”

He took that in slowly. Everything about him was slow now: his eyes, his breath, even the way his fingers curled in yours.

He blinked again. “You talked to her.”

“Yeah.”

“Spoke for me.”

“Of course I did.”

His gaze flickered to Shane. “Both here.”

“We’re not leaving,” Shane said.

Ilya swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed. Then, rasping:

“Not scared. When you are here.”

You didn’t realise you were crying until Shane brushed the back of your hand with his.

“We’re not going anywhere,” you said again, firm now. “You don’t have to fight this alone.”

He didn’t answer. He just moved your hand to his chest again, where his heart beat unsteadily against your palm.

Shane leaned across the bedrail, one hand curling around Ilya’s shoulder.

“Get some sleep, Rozanov. We’ve got you.”

“Da,” Ilya whispered. “Got me.”

_____________

The clock on the wall blinked 5:57am.

The hum of the floor had changed from night sounds to morning ones: shift change whispers, wheels on linoleum, a cart of supplies clattering two rooms down.

You were curled in the chair beside Ilya’s bed, hoodie pulled over your knees, one hand still tucked in his. Your head kept tipping back against the wall, then jerking upright again like your body refused to admit defeat.

Shane was stretched out across two chairs, long legs in a tangled knot, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t spoken in almost an hour. Only stirred once when a nurse came in to check Ilya’s vitals. Now his eyes were open again, watching quietly from behind lashes smudged with sleep.

Ilya was still. Or he had been. Until the slow drag of breath caught in his chest.

You looked over just in time to see his eyes blink open again - slow, steady, clearer than they’d been all night.

He squinted at the ceiling. Then at the monitor. Then at you.

And groaned.

“You look like shit.”

You snorted before you could stop it. “Good morning to you, too.”

He turned his head slightly. Winced. “Why are you still here?”

“Because you almost died yesterday?”

His scowl deepened. “You still look like shit.”

Shane sat up, stifling a laugh behind one hand. “She’s not going to like where this is going.”

“You,” Ilya said, pointing weakly at Shane. “Take her. Hotel. Shower. Sleep.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, straightening.

Ilya’s voice was dry but sharp. “Not asking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You want me to leave you?”

“I want you to not collapse in chair.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You are pale. Your eyes are red. Your hair looks like crime scene.”

Shane whistled under his breath. “Brave man.”

Ilya looked at him again, more serious now.

“Take her,” he said. “Do not let her argue. Sick man’s orders.”

You hesitated.

He softened just slightly.

“I will be here. When you come back. But right now?” He tugged weakly on your hand. “Go be human again.”

You looked at Shane. He was already rising.

“Come on,” he said gently, hand outstretched. “We’ll eat something. Take turns with the shower. Sleep a little. Then come back better.”

“Ilya—”

“Go,” he said again, quieter this time. “Please.”

So you kissed his temple. Tucked the blanket higher. Brushed his hair back from his brow. And left him with one last promise, voice near his ear:

“You need anything—call. Scream. Telepathically summon me.”

He cracked the barest smile. “Deal.”

_____________

The hotel room barely registered.

The door closed. The lock clicked. The world went quiet in that way that only happens when you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long and finally don’t have to anymore.

Shane dropped the bag by the wall and turned to you. His eyes softened immediately.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You shook your head. “No. But…I need you.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Come here.”

You caught his wrist before he could step away toward the bathroom. “With me. Please.”

He searched your face carefully, like he always did when things blurred between want and need. “This isn’t about distracting yourself, right?”

You swallowed. “It’s about feeling real again.”

That was enough.

He nodded once. “Then yeah. I’m with you.”

The bathroom filled with steam quickly.

Clothes came off without ceremony - slow, tired movements, skin baring skin. Shane stepped into the shower first, testing the temperature with his hand, then turned and held his arm out to you.

You stepped under the spray together.

The water hit your shoulders, warm and steady, washing down your back, your ribs, your spine. Shane pulled you in immediately, arms circling you, forehead resting against yours.

You stayed like that for a long moment; breathing together, water drumming against tile, the sound loud enough to drown out everything else.

You slid your hands up his chest, felt the familiar planes of him under your palms. He shuddered; not from arousal yet, but from relief.

“Hey,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to,” you said softly. “I need to.”

His hands stilled on your back. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He kissed you then - slow, open, unhurried. Not trying to take, just trying to be close. You melted into it, your mouth parting, your body fitting against his like it remembered how to breathe when he was there.

You reached between you first.

Your touch was gentle, your fingers wrapping around him with care instead of urgency. He sucked in a breath immediately, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“God,” he whispered. “You don’t even know how good that feels.”

You smiled faintly. “I think I do.”

His hands slid down your sides, reverent, thumbs brushing over your hips, your stomach, your ribs. He touched you like he was checking you were still there.

When his fingers found you, you gasped.

“There,” he said softly, like praise. “Just like that. You’re so responsive.”

You leaned back into the wall, water cascading over you, your head tipping back as he touched you more deliberately now; slow circles, patient pressure. He watched your face the whole time.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “What do you need?”

“Don’t rush,” you said. “Just…stay.”

“I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’m right here.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand steadying you, the other moving with quiet confidence, coaxing, never demanding. Your breath started to hitch. Your body loosened under his hands like it finally trusted the moment to hold it.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

You came with his name on your lips, knees trembling, body folding forward into his chest as the water washed over you. He held you through it, arms tight, murmuring soft, steady praise into your hair.

“Good,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When you caught your breath, you reached for him again; this time with purpose.

He groaned quietly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Please.”

He nodded, jaw tight, hands bracing against the tile as you stroked him, your movements slow and sure, mirroring the care he’d given you. You watched him unravel - watched the tension drain from his shoulders, the way his breath stuttered.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed. “You know that?”

You smiled softly. “Come for me.”

He did - quiet, shaking, pressing his forehead to yours as his body went heavy against you, relief rolling through him like a wave. He laughed breathlessly afterward, almost disbelieving.

“Wow,” he murmured. “Okay. Yeah. I needed that.”

You both stood there for a while after, water cooling slightly, bodies still pressed together.

Later, wrapped in towels and exhaustion, you crawled into bed and pulled the curtains closed against the morning light.

Neither of you let go.

Shane tucked you against his chest, one arm heavy around your back, his chin resting in your hair.

“We’ll go back soon,” he whispered. “We’re just refilling first.”

You nodded, eyes already closing. And for a little while longer, held tight in the quiet—

You rested.

____________

The room was dim but warm when you stirred, tucked beneath the thick hotel comforter, skin warm from sleep, cheek pressed against Shane’s chest.

You blinked blearily.

Shane was already awake. One arm around you, the other holding his phone at an angle where he could scroll through something quietly without waking you.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb pausing mid-swipe. “You slept.”

You groaned. “Barely.”

“But you did.”

“Only because you didn’t move.”

He kissed your forehead. “Didn’t want to.”

Your stomach growled right then loud and undignified.

Shane laughed softly. “Well, that settles it. Time for the breakfast of champions.”

“Please don’t say—”

“Shitty room service bagels,” he confirmed, already reaching for the hotel phone.

You groaned again, flopping onto your back. “This is Ilya’s fault.”

“Everything is Ilya’s fault,” Shane agreed easily. “Even the fact that this hotel thinks a bagel counts as a ‘deluxe continental experience.’”

Ten minutes later, the food arrived. Dry bagels. Questionable cream cheese. Over-steeped tea. Coffee so acidic it could take rust off a bike chain.

It was perfect.

You both ate sitting cross-legged on the bed, balancing the plates on your knees, chewing in relative silence until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shane,” you said, suddenly frozen mid-bite.

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“You’re supposed to be in Montreal. Tonight.”

He blinked. And then shrugged. “I’m not.”

You sat up straighter. “You have a game tonight—”

“Had,” he corrected, sipping his death-coffee. “I’m scratched.”

“What? You can’t just—”

“Personal time,” he said simply. “Family emergency. I’m allowed. They know I’m not screwing around.”

You were staring at him now. “You left the night before a game. Took a flight before dawn. For us.”

“Damn right I did,” Shane said, suddenly serious. “He went down. You were with him. Where the hell else would I be?”

Your throat went tight.

You reached across the bed and grabbed his hand. He squeezed back, warm and solid.

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured.

He grinned but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. He’d do the same.”

The smile faded between you.

You both sat there, fingers tangled, half-eaten bagels in your laps and the same unspoken question hanging in the air:

What the hell do we do now?

You voiced it first. “Okay. Planning time.”

Shane nodded. “Hit me.”

“We know the basics,” you said, ticking things off on your fingers. “The doctor said he needs rest. Quiet. Zero physical strain. And probably therapy down the line.”

“Right. They’ll probably do some baseline testing again once the symptoms stabilise.”

“We’re not letting him rush it,” you said. “I mean it. Not even a gym visit until he’s cleared.”

“Agreed. You saw how out of it he was. He’s not gonna bounce back in three days.”

You sighed. “He’s going to hate it.”

“Oh yeah. He’s going to be insufferable.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t think I realised how fragile this all was until I saw him lying there.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then: “We keep it from falling apart.”

You looked at him. And there it was again - that low, anchored confidence that Shane always carried, even when his whole life was shuffling sideways.

“We make a schedule,” he said. “Trade off time, make sure he eats, takes his meds, doesn’t get bored.”

You nodded. “We go home. All of us.”

“We stay on him. Bed rest. Monitoring. No training. Nothing stupid.”

You bit your lip. “And what about you?”

Shane shrugged. “I’ll go back once we have him stable. But I’ll stay as long as I need to.”

Your heart twisted. “This is going to be hard.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you and me? We’re harder.”

______________

The elevator dinged softly as you stepped onto the hospital floor. Same grey carpet. Same muted tones. Same antiseptic air that made your skin itch.

Shane walked beside you, backpack slung over one shoulder, a cup of vending machine coffee in his hand and the same barely-contained worry in his eyes he’d worn since landing in New York.

You reached his room. The door was half open. And before you could even knock, Ilya’s voice rang out from inside:

“I do not need help to pee, Jesus Khristos—”

You blinked.

A nurse laughed somewhere near his bed and the sound was almost comforting in how familiar it was.

Then you stepped inside.

Ilya was sitting mostly upright, his hospital gown askew over one shoulder, IV still in his hand, hair a complete disaster. His ribs were bound, and there was a bruised shadow along his temple, but his eyes? His eyes snapped to you the second you crossed the threshold.

And lit up.

“Hey,” you breathed.

He didn’t smile but he exhaled, sharp and full of relief.

“Please tell this man I do not need babysitter to use bathroom.”

The nurse in question - older, clearly unbothered - smiled serenely. “It’s not about need, Mr. Rozanov. It’s about protocol. You faint in there, we get sued.”

“I will not faint.”

“You fainted yesterday.”

“I woke up fine.”

“You woke up speaking Russian and arguing with your blood pressure cuff.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Shane didn’t bother trying.

“God,” Ilya muttered, running a hand down his face. “Help me.”

The nurse patted his shoulder. “There’s a reason they call it ‘patient’ care. Because you have to be one.”

When he finally left the room, Ilya immediately reached for you. “Did you sleep?”

You nodded. “Some. You?”

He snorted. “No. Too many beeps. Too many wires. One nurse who breathes like dying vacuum.”

Shane set his bag down with a laugh and moved to Ilya’s other side. “You look better.”

Ilya grunted. “Feel like hit by bus.”

“You were hit by a human bus,” you said gently, brushing hair off his forehead. “On ice.”

He looked at both of you, something softer working behind the usual scowl. “You stayed.”

“Of course we did,” Shane said.

Ilya’s voice dropped, just slightly: “Still here?”

“For as long as we need to be.”

You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, glancing at the bruises on his ribs, the wince that crossed his face when he shifted.

His hand found your thigh.

“You cried?” he asked quietly.

Your throat caught. “Yeah.”

He nodded once. “I don’t like that.”

“Well,” Shane said dryly, “don’t scare the hell out of us next time.”

Ilya’s lips twitched. “Will do my best.”

You leaned in. “We have a plan, by the way.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“You’re coming home with us,” you said. “As soon as they discharge you, we rent a car, drive halfway, stop overnight in Hartford, then Boston in the morning.”

He squinted. “Hartford?”

“We’re not driving four hours with you half concussed and drugged up,” Shane added. “You’ll thank us when we aren’t scraping your ribcage off a Holiday Inn parking lot.”

“Fine,” Ilya muttered. “But I get to pick music.”

You and Shane exchanged a glance.

“Absolutely not,” you said in unison.

Ilya groaned.

“We’ll set you up on the couch in the apartment,” you continued. “TV, snacks, rest. And Shane’s staying for three days.”

“I’m missing another match,” Shane said, squeezing Ilya’s hand. “Coach knows. Family emergency.”

For the first time, Ilya went still. Then: “You shouldn’t.”

“We don’t care.”

Ilya blinked. Then looked away like he couldn’t quite take the weight of it.

You leaned forward and kissed his temple. “You’d do it for us.”

His voice was low. “Is not the point.”

“It is now,” Shane said. “This isn’t just your team. It’s our team.”

Ilya closed his eyes for a second. Exhaled. “You two are dangerous.”

“You love it,” you whispered.

He did.

_______________

The nurse tried to hide her smirk as she wheeled Ilya through the automatic doors.

He did not make it easy.

“Let me walk,” he grumbled for the third time. “I can walk.”

“You can’t even tie your shoes, Rozanov,” Shane said, following with the overnight bag.

You were already unlocking the SUV, trying not to laugh too openly as Ilya - six feet of cranky, bruised, medicated hockey player - scowled at the sidewalk like it had personally insulted him.

“I do not like this chair,” he muttered, gripping the arms like they might launch him.

“You’ll like the car seat better,” you promised.

“No,” Ilya said flatly. “It will hurt my ass. Your seats are too small.”

“It’s a full-size SUV,” Shane pointed out.

“I have Russian-sized ass.”

The nurse chuckled openly now. “Well, your American-sized painkillers should help.”

Ilya turned his scowl on her but only for a second. Then she winked, patted his shoulder and wheeled him right to the passenger door before handing off the chart and letting you take over.

The moment you helped him up and into the seat, he leaned in close.

“You smell good,” he murmured, pressing his nose to your neck.

You flushed. “Okay. That’s…thank you.”

He didn’t move. “Like berry. Maybe flower. Or—” he inhaled again “—sin.”

Shane snorted from behind the trunk. “Uh oh. The drugs are kicking in.”

“Ilya,” you said carefully, strapping his seatbelt. “You’re high as hell.”

“I know,” he said dreamily. “You are so hot when you are bossy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered, sliding into the backseat.

“I heard that,” Ilya said, not looking back. “And you—” he turned his head slowly toward Shane, blinking once “—you have very kissable face. I forgot to say before. But I remember now.”

“Okay!” you said brightly, starting the car. “We’re just gonna get moving. Everyone buckle in, no falling in love in the passenger seat.”

Ilya ignored you. He leaned his head back against the window, voice a lazy rumble. “You two are so sexy when you take care of me. Nurse kink. Maybe I like.”

You gripped the wheel tighter. “We are not discussing kinks on the highway.”

“I want to kiss both of you,” Ilya added. “Maybe lick you too. Little bit.”

“Shane,” you hissed. “Say something.”

“Like what? He’s not wrong.”

You made a strangled sound.

Ilya turned his gaze to you again. “You have perfect hands.”

“Please stop looking at my hands while I’m driving.”

“Want to kiss your fingers. Suck your knuckles.”

“Oh my god.”

“You are blushing,” he said with a grin. “It is so cute. You like it when I talk dirty, moya lyubov?”

Shane had full-on wheeze-laughed now. “He’s got no filter. I cannot wait to remind him of this when he’s sober.”

“I can hear you,” Ilya muttered.

“I want you to hear me.”

“You like me dirty,” Ilya said confidently. “I am irresistible.”

“You’re a mess,” you muttered, changing lanes.

Ilya leaned over to kiss your arm. “I am a sexy mess.”

“Please don’t kiss me while I’m merging.”

“I want to do things to you.”

“Shane, help.”

“Pretty sure we’re beyond help.”

___________

You made it to Hartford in just under two hours, your face sore from smiling and your stomach aching from laughing. Ilya kept it up the entire ride - switching between soft, romantic Russian murmurs and absolutely outrageous filth he whispered under his breath, occasionally trying to kiss your ear or Shane’s hand or sing along with whatever radio station was playing.

By the time you pulled into the hotel lot, you and Shane were crying.

You helped Ilya out of the seat, still giggling. He immediately wrapped his arm around your waist.

“I am going to fuck you so gently,” he whispered, lips near your cheek. “Like healing kiss. For my soul.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered, trying not to collapse.

Shane leaned close to your other ear. “We are never letting him forget this.”

Ilya sighed dramatically as you shuffled him inside.

“You two are the loves of my life,” he said to no one in particular. “But also you are mean. I am injured.”

“And horny,” you added.

“Yes,” he said proudly. “Very.”

You and Shane guided him toward the elevator, holding him between you.

“And when I am not injured,” Ilya added as the doors opened, “you are both fucked.”

Shane squeezed his arm. “Can’t wait.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but you were thinking the same thing. And god, you were gonna tease him forever.

____________

The room smelled faintly of hotel soap and microwave pasta. A tray with three half-finished meals sat on the dresser, condensation pooling under two sodas and a black coffee no one had touched. The lights were low, just a single lamp casting soft gold across the room.

Ilya was sprawled out in the middle of the bed, one arm over his eyes, the other across your stomach. His breathing was even, mouth parted just slightly. The last dose had kicked in less than ten minutes after dinner; he hadn’t even made it through Jeopardy before he knocked out cold.

You reached over and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “He’s out.”

“Dead to the world,” Shane said, his voice quiet, amused, lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. “Which is probably the only reason we’re not still getting poetic threats about the things he’s gonna do to us once his ribs stop hurting.”

You smiled. “I have notes saved.”

“Oh, we’re reading them at the wedding.”

Your breath caught a little at that word.

Shane didn’t seem to notice. He was shifting down to lie beside you, settling on his back, gaze still on Ilya. His fingertips brushed the back of your hand, just once.

You stared up at the ceiling. The room felt cocooned: limbo where the world couldn’t quite catch you yet.

“I didn’t think,” you said softly, “that would feel so good.”

Shane turned his head. “What wouldn’t?”

“Saying it,” you said. “When the doctor came out and asked if anyone was here for Ilya, and I said…I said I was his wife.”

His face softened instantly.

“I didn’t plan it. It just—came out. Like there wasn’t any other option.”

“You are his wife,” Shane said, not teasing, not joking. Just sure. “You didn’t need a ring to say it.”

You looked at him. “Do you think that’s weird? That it didn’t scare me?”

Shane shook his head slowly. “No. I think it’s kind of amazing.”

You chewed your bottom lip, glancing back toward Ilya’s sleeping form. “I didn’t think I’d ever be someone’s anything, you know? Not like that. Not where it feels like mine.”

Shane reached across Ilya’s chest and took your hand. Held it tightly between you.

“But it is,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “It was terrifying. Seeing him like that. But when they asked who I was, the only thing that felt right was…saying I was his. Not his girlfriend. Not his friend. Just his.”

Shane leaned over and kissed your knuckles. “And you are.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I’d say it again. If they asked me tomorrow.”

“They probably will.”

“I won’t hesitate.”

There was silence for a while. Ilya breathed softly between you, his bruises stark in the low light, hair curling near his temple. He looked more like himself asleep: stubborn and gorgeous, yes, but peaceful too, in a way he never allowed when he was awake.

You turned your head against the pillow.

“What would you have said?” you asked Shane, quietly. “If you were the one there?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, his voice was thick. “Same thing.”

You blinked at him.

He looked back at you, honest in the way he always was when he didn’t feel like teasing. “We’re all in this. And you love him. I love him. That makes us family. Even if there’s no form for that yet.”

You reached up and touched Shane’s cheek.

He leaned into it for a second. Then pulled back and whispered, “But just so you know, if I had said I was his wife, it would’ve gotten very awkward.”

You snorted.

“I mean, I’d have committed,” Shane added. “Fully. Changed my name. Learned to bake.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Absolutely. Rozanova. Has a nice ring to it.”

You were laughing quietly now, trying not to wake Ilya.

But his voice, gruff and sleepy, mumbled between you: “She can be wife. You can be wife. I do not care. Just keep talking so I know you are here.”

Your laughter faded into something softer, aching around the edges.

You both shifted closer, one of Shane’s hands sliding across Ilya’s stomach, your arm curling around his shoulder. He didn’t open his eyes. But he sighed, deeply, and let himself sink again.

You lay there, the three of you tangled together, warm and safe in a place that wasn’t home but was close enough to feel like it.

Tomorrow, the road to Boston. Tonight? You were his. And he was yours. And that was enough.

____________

You were halfway across the parking lot when Ilya said, “I hate car.”

You glanced over. He was leaning against you with most of his weight, arms crossed over his chest, mouth tight. His hair was damp from the shower you’d half-helped him take and the zip-up hoodie Shane lent him was two inches too short in the sleeves.

“You loved the car yesterday,” you said gently.

“Yesterday I was high.”

“You’re still on painkillers.”

“Not the fun ones.”

Shane had already popped the trunk and was moving bags around to make room. “The ‘fun’ ones made you try to flirt with a toll booth operator.”

“She was nice,” Ilya muttered.

“She was terrified,” you corrected.

He grunted. “She gave me extra receipt.”

“That was out of fear.”

You opened the back door of the SUV and coaxed him in with a hand on his arm. He obeyed, stiff and slow, every breath a quiet curse in Russian. When he finally got both legs inside, he leaned back with a sharp wince and dropped his head against the headrest.

“Fuck this seat.”

“It reclines,” Shane offered, climbing into the driver’s side. “You just have to push—”

“I will break it.”

“Okay,” Shane said, cheerful. “No reclining.”

You slid in next to Ilya and pulled the door shut. The leather was cold and the morning light was already burning off the last of the mist outside. Hartford looked like any city at 9am - grey and tired and a little hungover.

But inside the car, things were quiet. Still.

Shane adjusted the mirrors, started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

Beside you, Ilya shifted again with a low breath and then - without hesitation - slid down until his head was resting in your lap.

You startled. “Babe—your ribs—”

“They hurt,” he said flatly. “Everything hurts. This is best spot.”

You blinked, looked down at him.

One long arm looped around your waist. His forehead pressed into your stomach. And when you brought your hand up to card through his hair, he let out a soft, unconscious hum.

Shane glanced in the rearview. “You two good back there?”

“We’re good,” you murmured, stroking Ilya’s temple.

“Good, because I just saw a sign for coffee and I’m getting the largest one available.”

“Two,” you said. “God. Two.”

You got back on the road after a twenty-minute coffee run and a round of Ilya hissing at the cold air when you opened the doors.

He was quieter now. Sleepy again. The early dose had started to kick in but not enough to knock him out.

Just enough to make him still.

“I feel useless,” he muttered after a while, low and raw.

You looked down. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on nothing.

“You’re healing,” you said softly.

“I hate needing help.”

“You always help us.”

He was quiet.

Then, after a pause: “This is not help. This is…babysitting.”

Shane’s voice cut in from the front seat. “I’ve babysat. You’re worse.”

Ilya grunted.

“I once babysat a six-year-old who puked on a ceiling fan and blamed it on ghosts. You’re still worse.”

That got a weak laugh out of Ilya, more a breath than anything, but it softened something in his shoulders.

You kissed his temple. “You don’t have to be strong every day.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. We’re not keeping score.”

He sighed. “Then I owe you everything.”

“You already gave us everything.”

From the front: “Gross,” Shane said lightly, flipping on the wipers for a few stray drops of rain. “Do that thing where you hold hands under the blanket so I don’t have to see it.”

You and Ilya did hold hands but you didn’t hide it.

He fell asleep around Springfield. Mouth parted slightly. His grip loose but still there. His breathing steady.

And when you looked up, you saw Shane watching you in the rearview; his eyes soft, his smile quiet.

No one said anything for a long time. The road stretched out in front of you. Boston was only an hour away. And home - real home - was waiting.

_____________

Boston, finally.

You’d forgotten how good the apartment smelled: clean laundry and pine wood and the faint trace of Shane’s cologne that always lingered near the door. It took ten minutes to get Ilya up the stairs, fifteen to get his shoes off, and three loud, aggressive refusals before he let either of you help him change.

“You want to see my dick, just say,” he grunted, elbowing Shane when his shirt caught around his ribs.

Shane deadpanned. “I’ve seen your dick. I was trying to fold your clothes.”

“You fold them badly.”

You, from the bed: “It’s his shirt, Ilya.”

“Then it is bad shirt.”

By the time you got him settled under the covers, you were sweating, Shane was flushed, and Ilya - finally horizontal, scowling with a heating pad on his side - looked like someone who’d just fought a bear and won but still had notes for how the bear could’ve done better.

“You good?” you asked carefully, tucking the blanket.

“No,” he snapped. “This blanket is itchy.”

“It’s the same blanket we’ve had for two years.”

“Then it was itchy two years.”

You shared a long look with Shane.

Ilya huffed. “I do not want this tea.”

“You asked for this tea,” you reminded him.

“I changed my mind.”

“You changed your order four times.”

“It was not four—”

“Four,” Shane said, forcefully. “I counted.”

Ilya groaned, then flopped dramatically onto his side.

You winced. “Careful—”

“I do not want careful,” he grumbled into the pillow. “I want my skull back. I want my ribs to bend like ribs, not snap like sticks.”

You knelt at the bedside. “We want you to get better.”

Ilya stared at the wall. “Then kill me.”

“Jesus,” Shane muttered. “Day one and he’s already in his drama arc.”

You reached out and brushed Ilya’s hair back from his forehead. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t lean into it, either.

Grumpy. Moody. Hurting.

You kissed his temple. “You don’t have to like this. You just have to let us help.”

He didn’t answer. But he did roll toward you, just a little.

You stayed there until he fell asleep again - still scowling but your hand in his.

___________

He was awake when you walked in with breakfast. Awake and smiling. That was your first warning.

You froze at the door. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said sweetly. “Come here.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do.”

“Nothing,” he said again. “I only want to see you. My beautiful girlfriend, who loves me so much and wants to give me little kiss.”

Shane, across the room with the laundry basket, didn’t even look up. “Run.”

“Do not listen,” Ilya crooned. “He does not understand. He never got hurt in a game for you.”

You brought him the tray and set it on the nightstand. He smiled, too innocent.

Then: “I dropped my phone. My hands are weak. Maybe you pick it up? Bend over?”

You glared.

He smiled wider.

“Ass is good for healing.”

“I’m going to smother you with this toast.”

“So kind.”

You left him to his breakfast and stormed out.

He called after you: “Is so sexy when you are angry!”

Ten minutes later, Shane walked in to check on him and emerged ten minutes after that, blinking and wide-eyed.

“He just called me his ‘brave little husband,’” Shane said numbly.

“I warned you,” you muttered, pouring more coffee. “The meds are giving him plotlines.”

The sound you woke up to wasn’t the usual rustle of sheets or groan of sore ribs; it was Ilya.

Whistling. Whistling.

You cracked one eye open.

He was standing in the hallway, shirtless, a glass of orange juice in one hand, phone in the other, and a pair of sweatpants hanging obscenely low on his hips. The sunlight streaming through the kitchen window lit up his entire side like a slow-motion beer commercial.

“Ilya?” you croaked.

He turned. Grinned. “Morning, solnishko.”

You squinted. “Why are you awake?”

“Because I am well,” he declared, stepping into the room like he was accepting an Olympic medal. “Better. Strong. Very sexy.”

“Delusional,” Shane muttered from the armchair, where he sat with a laptop open on his knees and a mug of tea.

“I woke up at six,” Ilya continued, as if that were a world record. “I stretch. I breathe. My ribs did not scream. Brain feels like…grape.”

“Like grape?” Shane repeated.

“Sweet. Not smashed. Beautiful.”

You sat up in bed, blinking slowly. “You’re not cleared yet.”

“I feel better.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I am not dizzy.”

“You just took your meds an hour ago.”

He wandered over and dropped to his knees beside the bed like a man auditioning for sainthood. “I want to watch one hockey clip. I do not even need commentary. Just my body. I need to see it. For…memory.”

Shane didn’t look up. “No screens yet. Not for another 24 hours.”

“You are not my mother.”

“You’re worse when you’re sick.”

“Let me live!” Ilya roared, clutching his chest like a 19th-century opera widow.

You leaned over and took the phone gently from his hand. “You can have this back when the doctor says so.”

He groaned. “Shane has his phone.”

“I’m not concussed,” Shane said sweetly. “I just have trauma.”

You dropped Ilya’s phone in the drawer, turned back and found him dramatically collapsed on his side, head in your lap. He looked up at you, pout full force.

“Blowjob?” he asked hopefully.

You blinked.

Shane looked up sharply. “Did you just—”

“I have been so good for three days,” Ilya said solemnly. “I did not grind. I let you wash me.”

“That was for hygiene,” you hissed.

“You saw my dick!”

“You kept asking us to ‘admire it,’” Shane pointed out. “That’s not medical.”

“I did nothing yesterday,” Ilya insisted. “And now today I wake up with vigor and you deny me pleasure? This is oppression. This is cruel.”

You stroked his hair gently, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “You’re still healing.”

“I am always healing. That is what life is. I want a blowjob.”

“Okay, Tolstoy,” Shane muttered.

Ilya flopped over onto his back with a groan, ribs clearly still sore. “I could die like this.”

“No,” you said gently, “you could re-injure your brain by pushing too hard too fast. That’s what you could do.”

“I just want love,” he said flatly, blinking at the ceiling. “But instead, I get dictatorship.”

“You get care,” Shane said, standing and walking over. “And maybe, maybe, when you’re cleared for activity and can stand upright without grunting, we’ll revisit the blowjob.”

Ilya brightened instantly. “We?”

You both stared at him.

“I heard plural. Ilya gets two mouths, yes?”

“I’m leaving,” Shane said, spinning on his heel.

You, laughing: “Shut up, Rozanov.”

But you leaned down and kissed him anyway - soft, slow, deep enough that his fingers curled in the blanket.

His voice was low against your mouth: “You are too good to me.”

“I know,” you said. “So behave.”

He didn’t behave. But he did rest. And later, as he fell asleep again in your lap, grumbling that “no one understands the plight of Russian men in pain,” you and Shane just shared a look over his head.

Day three. No more grumpy. Now? Just horny and restless and getting dangerously close to normal.

_____________

Shane’s bag sat by the door like a silent countdown.

His jacket was already on. Shoes laced. Passport tucked into his back pocket. And still, he hovered. Hands twitching. Smile strained. Eyes flicking from you to Ilya and back again like he was trying to memorise the shape of the two of you together.

“I’m not gonna do a dramatic goodbye,” he said.

Ilya, on the couch in his bathrobe and blanket burrito, scoffed. “You are always dramatic. Just say you will miss us and cry like man.”

Shane shot him a look. “I’m not crying.”

“You will.”

You slid an arm around Shane’s waist. “I’ll walk you down.”

Ilya raised one finger. “Don’t be too long. I need snack.”

“You have snacks.”

“I need curated snack. Emotional support snack.”

“You’re not emotionally supporting us.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I am delicate flower.”

Shane laughed, even as he leaned down to kiss the top of Ilya’s head. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Never.”

You took his hand and opened the door, stepping into the stairwell, the sound of the latch clicking behind you. The second you were alone in the quiet of the corridor, the energy changed, tightened. Everything unspoken pulled taut between your fingers.

“Hey,” you said softly, pressing his back to the wall near the railing.

Shane looked down at you. His eyes already glassy at the edges. “Yeah?”

You smiled. And then you kissed him. Not soft. Not slow. You kissed him like it cost something. Your hands framed his jaw, your body flush to his, and your mouth moved like you meant to ruin him for anyone else; like you wanted him to feel it the whole flight back to Montreal. And longer.

He groaned into you, hands clinging to your waist, breath catching like you’d knocked the air out of him. You bit his lower lip, let your tongue stroke into his mouth and only when his knees flexed slightly - like they couldn’t take it - did you ease up.

He gasped. “Okay. So. That was—fucking criminal.”

You smiled, breathless, heart pounding. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For being here. For taking care of him. For taking care of me.”

Shane leaned his forehead against yours. “You make it easy.”

“No,” you whispered. “I really don’t.”

He touched your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You do. Loving you? Is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Your throat closed tight.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” you whispered.

“I’ll miss both of you,” he said. Then added, dry: “Even the Russian gremlin.”

You laughed wetly. “He’s going to be awful the second you’re gone.”

“I know. I’m abandoning you to chaos.”

“Please text me constantly.”

“Hourly. On the dot.”

You hugged him hard, arms around his shoulders, nose tucked to his neck.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“Love you more,” he whispered back.

And then the Uber’s headlights flashed outside the front window and Shane pulled away, kissing your forehead one last time.

“Give him hell, babe.”

You nodded. “Every minute.”

_____________

Shane had been gone for six hours.

Exactly six.

You knew this because the last time you had opened your messages, he’d texted: “Still thinking about that kiss. Hope you’re surviving the gremlin. Love you.”

And right now? You were not surviving the gremlin.

You had left Ilya - left him, tucked in, hydrated, fed - on the couch. Blanket folded neatly over his lap. Water bottle refilled. TV remote hidden as per neurologist’s instructions. Laptop secured under your pillow like a medieval relic warded against temptation.

And somehow—

Somehow—

He was not there.

“Ilya,” you called, peeking into the hallway.

Silence.

Not even the creak of a floorboard. Not the usual muttering. Not even the telltale rustle of a man with a cracked skull attempting something deeply against medical advice.

You turned the corner and nearly fell over.

He was crouched - crouched - in front of the entertainment console. One hand extended toward the back of the flat screen. In his boxers. Shirtless. A tangle of headphone wires looped around one wrist.

“What are you doing?” you yelped.

He flinched and hit his knee against the edge of the cabinet.

Then, dazed: “Ah. Zdravstvuy, kotyonok.”

“Don’t kotyonok me. What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to plug HDMI,” he said, gesturing to a cable like that made any of this sane. “For PlayStation. Brain needs stimulation.”

You marched over and hauled him up by the elbow, blanket still clinging to his ass.

“I’m gonna stimulate your brain with a pillow to the face,” you snapped. “You’re not supposed to be looking at any screens.”

“It was going to be quiet game. No explosions. Like chess. But hot.”

“Ilya.”

“I miss headshots.”

You blinked. “Headshots? You just had one!”

He squinted, frowning deeply. “I do not like your tone.”

“I don’t like finding my recovering partner half-naked on the floor, trying to rewire our entire media centre.”

He muttered something in Russian that definitely included “tyrannical” and “jail warden.”

You dragged him back to the couch, dumped him down and checked his pupils for dilation while he pouted.

“I am not child,” he complained.

“You sneaked off like a child.”

“I used stealth. Is different.”

You went to refill his water - again - and when you came back?

The laptop was open.

“Ilya!”

He flinched again, mouse in hand, browser open to stats.nhl.com.

“What if I only read headlines?” he said with an innocent blink. “No scrolling. No gifs.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I have limited time. The boys need me.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Does not mean I am not still captain.”

You shut the laptop with more force than necessary and deposited it on top of the fridge.

“I will climb for it,” he warned.

“You’ll die.”

“I will haunt you.”

You stared him down until he flopped backward dramatically onto the couch with a sigh that might’ve qualified for an Oscar.

Then came the final straw. You heard the shower turn on. You sprinted for the bathroom. Sure enough, there was Ilya, one hand braced against the tile, the other trying to lower his sweatpants.

You stopped in the doorway. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He froze. “I was preparing.”

“For what, drowning?”

“For being clean and sexable. You deserve reward for care.”

“I deserve peace!”

“I am dirty and want you to look at me lovingly.”

You sighed so hard your soul left your body. “You are one day away from medically cleared to shower alone. One.”

He looked at you with such pouty-eyed desperation it bordered on cartoonish.

“I smell like hospital and despair,” he said mournfully.

You rubbed a hand over your face. “You want a real reward?”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“Then sit your ass on the stool. Let me help. But no funny business. No flirting. No accidental erections.”

“I never—”

“You always.”

He grinned. But he obeyed.

You shampooed his hair while he hummed to himself, smug and warm under your fingers.

And as you rinsed, he sighed.

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You need me.”

“Less when you’re like this.”

“You want me.”

You paused. Looked down at him. Smiled. And said: “Not while you’re drooling from painkillers.”

He looked deeply betrayed.

You handed him a towel and walked out, tossing over your shoulder: “Try staying where I leave you next time.”

“Tyrant!” he called after you.

You just laughed. Day one survived. Barely.

_____________

Next morning, you knew something was wrong the moment you smelled smoke.

You hadn’t even made it to the kitchen yet, just stepped out of the shower, towelling off your hair, humming to yourself, grateful for one morning where maybe Ilya would stay horizontal. But instead?

The faint, sharp scent of something burning.

You padded out barefoot and turned the corner—

To find Ilya Rozanov, shirtless in grey sweats, standing in front of the stove like a man on a mission. A spatula in one hand, egg yolk smeared across the burner, smoke wafting gently upward toward the ceiling fan.

“Ilya.”

He jumped.

Which only made it worse. His ribs twinged, his body twisted wrong and he let out a curse in Russian that made the spatula fly across the counter and land in your fruit bowl.

You stepped forward, grabbed a dish towel, and turned the stove off before it could go fully nuclear.

“Ilya,” you repeated, firmer this time.

“I made you breakfast,” he said, half triumphant, half sheepish.

You stared at the pan. “That is carbonised protein sludge.”

“Love takes many forms.”

You exhaled. Deep. From the belly. “You’re not supposed to be bending. Twisting. Reaching.”

“I wanted to do something.”

You turned to face him.

His hair was damp. His torso was streaked with water. His face was too pale and he was squinting from the overhead light. But still. That look - the proud little gleam in his eyes - like he was trying.

And that was the part that undid you.

You sighed and reached for him. “Next time? Just make toast.”

“Toast is coward’s breakfast.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I am so lucky,” he deadpanned.

You were still wrangling him into a real shirt an hour later when it was time to head to the hospital. Now back in Boston, you’d transferred his concussion care to Mass General; a neurologist Shane had found and pre-cleared in advance. You loved Shane.

Ilya, meanwhile, hated waiting rooms.

He slumped in the chair like a sulking teenager while you filled out the check-in paperwork, occasionally muttering under his breath in Russian and refusing every magazine offered to him.

“Sir, would you like—”

“No.”

“It’s just a—”

“Nyet.”

By the time they called him back, you were gripping his thigh to stop him from verbally dismantling a very sweet nurse who only wanted his insurance card.

The exam room was quiet. Cold. Bright.

The new neurologist - a tall woman named Dr. Mallory Thomas - was clinical and efficient but not unkind. She asked the right questions, made Ilya follow her finger, tracked his reaction time, reviewed the scans. You sat in the corner with your hands clenched together.

When it came time for the verdict, she glanced between the two of you.

“Cognitive function is improving well,” she said. “He’s showing good signs of stabilisation. That said—he’s still healing.”

Ilya perked up. “So I can play?”

Dr. Thomas arched an eyebrow. “No.”

He blinked. “I feel fine.”

“Pain isn’t the only risk. Your reaction speed, coordination, balance, light sensitivity—all of that’s still fluctuating. A second concussion right now would be very dangerous.”

He crossed his arms. “So how long?”

“Minimum six weeks. Then re-evaluation.”

The silence hit like a puck to the ribs.

You reached for his hand but he didn’t move.

Dr. Thomas glanced between you again. “He’s cleared for light activity. Walking. Very gentle cardio work. No lifting. No contact. Absolutely no hockey. Not even informal practice.”

“Understood,” you said.

Ilya said nothing.

When you left the room, he didn’t speak once on the walk to the car. Not while buckling in. Not even as you handed him a water bottle and turned the ignition.

The silence followed you the whole way home.

___________

You dropped your keys in the bowl by the door. Ilya tossed his hoodie on the couch and stood by the window, staring out at nothing.

You didn’t push. Not at first.

You let him be still, let the air in the apartment go quiet except for the ticking of the clock above the fridge. You moved around the kitchen, picking things up, setting things down, waiting.

When you turned back, he was still there.

Hands braced on the windowsill. Shoulders stiff. Eyes glassy.

“Ilya,” you said gently. “Come sit.”

He didn’t move.

“Ilya.”

His voice came out rough. “I am not useful like this.”

You crossed to him slowly. “You’re not useless.”

“I cannot skate. Cannot play. Cannot train. You will not let me lift a fucking pan. Shane is gone. And you are doing everything.”

“You got injured. That doesn’t make you less.”

He looked at you then. Eyes sharp. Frustrated. But deeper than that - shame.

“I am not made to sit still,” he said, jaw tight. “I don’t do still.”

“I know.”

“I want to protect. Help. Carry things. You.”

“You do help.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “I cannot even open a goddamn jar without my ribs screaming.”

You took a breath. Stepped closer. Laid your hands on his hips.

“I don’t need you to carry anything right now.”

He blinked. “Then what—”

“I just need you.”

His expression cracked.

And suddenly, you saw it - the real thing, under all the bravado. The fear. The helplessness. The ache of watching the world move while he had to stay still. The terror that maybe - just maybe - he wasn’t whole without the game.

“I feel like I fall behind,” he admitted quietly. “Like the season will go on and I will be forgotten.”

You lifted one hand to his cheek. “You are Ilya fucking Rozanov. They’d need ten seasons to forget you.”

“I don’t know who I am without hockey.”

“You’re ours. That’s who you are.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

His voice cracked. “You mean that?”

You cupped the back of his neck. “I mean it.”

And that, finally, broke something loose. He pulled you into him, arms winding tight despite the sore ribs, his forehead pressed to yours.

“I am scared,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t like being scared.”

“You’re not alone.”

That night, you didn’t do much. You made grilled cheese on the good pan. You read a novel aloud to him, hushed voice lulling him. And when he fell asleep, curled on your chest with one arm around your waist and the other gripping your thigh like a lifeline?

You didn’t move.

____________

You’d just finished making Ilya a snack he had explicitly asked for - peanut butter toast, crusts cut off, banana slices “arranged with love” - when his phone lit up on the coffee table.

Incoming Video Call: Shane 💙

You smiled. “Want me to answer?”

Ilya grunted, dramatically adjusting the pillow behind his ribs as if even reclining was now a hostile act. “Only if he is bringing plane ticket. I need emotional support boyfriend. A nice one.”

You rolled your eyes and answered the call, propping the phone up on the throw pillow between you.

Shane’s face appeared, backlit by the soft light of his Montreal apartment.

“Hey,” he said, lighting up the second he saw you. “God, you look good in that hoodie.”

You looked down. “It’s yours.”

“I know,” he said smugly. Then—“Is my boyfriend alive?”

Ilya reached across your lap, grabbed the phone and yanked it closer.

“Barely,” he said, deadpan. “She is killing me.”

“I’m feeding you,” you said.

“Prisoners get food.”

Shane laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“She says I cannot shower. Cannot type. Even check my fantasy team.”

“Because you can’t,” you said.

“I have been caged. Like exotic zoo animal.”

Shane, to his credit, didn’t immediately take your side. He just leaned closer to the camera and said, “Poor baby.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, glaring at you triumphantly. “At least someone cares.”

“Oh, I care,” you muttered. “That’s why I’m not letting your dumb ass fall over in the shower again.”

Shane chuckled but softened a little. “How are you really, Ilya?”

Ilya hesitated. Then, just slightly, he shifted. His arm came down from where he’d been brandishing it. His voice dropped.

“I miss the ice.”

Shane’s expression gentled. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Team is playing tomorrow,” Ilya said. “I want to be there. Even on bench. Locker room. Stupid tape ball game in warmup.”

Shane nodded. “I missed all of that when I was out with my ankle last year. Worse than the injury.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Feels like the season is moving on without me.”

“It’s not,” Shane said. “They’re just holding your spot.”

There was a quiet between them for a minute.

Then Ilya said, low, “What if I am not the same?”

Shane’s reply was immediate. “Then you’re still ours.”

You swallowed.

Ilya blinked once. Then handed you the phone without a word, sank deeper into the couch and picked at the blanket over his lap like it had offended him.

Shane looked at you and smiled. “He okay?”

“Better,” you said softly. “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” Shane murmured. “Give him a kiss for me.”

“You can do that yourself in two days.”

“Not soon enough.”

____________

The sun had dipped low, painting amber across the living room floor. You were sitting on the floor with your laptop, refilling Ilya’s medication schedule and messaging Shane about tomorrow’s errands.

And then—

You heard it. A throat clear. Followed by: “Kotyonok.”

You didn’t look up. “No.”

He groaned, dramatic. “You do not even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to ask if sex is a light activity.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, muttered: “It can be gentle.”

You looked up.

Ilya was splayed across the couch in his most pathetic configuration: blanket low on his hips, shirtless, the very picture of convalescent temptation.

“You are high on prescription painkillers.”

“I am inspired.”

“By what?”

“Your ass.”

You blinked. “You are the worst patient.”

“I am best patient. I hydrate. I rest. I dream of loving you softly.”

“You are not cleared for sex, Ilya.”

His eyes glinted. “What about kissing?”

You sighed.

He shifted. “What about touching?”

“I swear to God—”

“Can I at least get hard? Is that also banned?”

“Ilya.”

He held his hands up. “I just want to feel close.”

You raised one brow. “So you want to cuddle?”

“Cuddle with cock out, yes.”

You snorted.

He reached for you. “Come lie on me.”

“You just want to hump my thigh.”

“Yes. For healing.”

You gave him a look.

He opened his arms wider. “I won’t even come. I will just…grind gently. Like cat.”

You stood. Crossed the room. Bent over him until your lips brushed his ear.

“Keep your hands above the blanket,” you whispered. “And I’ll let you.”

He made a sound like he’d been blessed by the gods.

“Holy fuck.”

“You come and we’re done.”

“Yes, yes,” he gasped, already moving his hips like a goddamn heathen under the sheet. “No promises.”

“Ilya.”

“Ok, ok.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed in beside him.

Your life was absurd. And you wouldn’t change a second of it.

He was practically vibrating beneath you - barely leashed hunger written in every line of his body. One arm slung across the top of the couch, the other fisted in the blanket like he needed something to anchor himself. His eyes burned, fevered and hazy and desperate in the way only Ilya ever got - like the need wasn’t optional, like it was breathing.

You settled into his lap slowly, facing him, straddling carefully, mindful of his ribs. Your hands braced on his shoulders, the barest weight on your knees.

He groaned like a man dying.

“Bozhe, ty moya.”

“You’re not supposed to move too much,” you murmured.

He licked his lips. “I will die if I don’t.”

“You’re not cleared for this.”

“You said grind, kotyonok. I am following orders.”

You rocked your hips once - barely - and his breath punched out in a single broken syllable.

“Fuck.”

Your palm slid to his cheek, then back to cradle the side of his throat. His pulse pounded against your fingers. Every muscle in his chest was straining with restraint but his eyes never left yours. Need and reverence braided so tightly you could hardly separate them.

“You look wrecked already,” you whispered, teasing. “What if I kissed you right now?”

He whimpered - fucking whimpered - and nodded frantically, head tilted back like he was offering himself up.

You kissed him slow. Barely open-mouthed. Tongue just tracing the seam of his lips before slipping inside. He groaned again, one hand twitching like he wanted to grab you but remembered he wasn’t allowed.

And then—

He moved.

Just a little. A subtle grind upward, pelvis shifting, hips tilting forward against the soft pressure of your centre. The blanket between you made it nothing but friction and warmth, slow and damp and maddening.

You kissed him again.

He moved again.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmured, breath brushing his mouth.

He shuddered.

“You’re being so gentle,” you praised. “You’re staying still, just like I asked.”

His jaw clenched. Eyes squeezing shut.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered.

His whole body jerked like you’d slapped him.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Don’t say that—”

“Why not?” you teased, dragging your hips forward, making him feel the slick heat soaking through both layers of fabric. “You don’t want to be my good boy?”

He let out a choked sound - half-growl, half-moan - and suddenly you felt it:

The stutter of his breath. The tremble. The stillness that always came right before.

And then—

He came. Hard. Silently. Convulsively.

He stilled under you, gasping through gritted teeth, eyes wide and mortified, like it had ambushed him from inside his own body.

You froze. Felt the sudden heat between you, the sharp flex of his hips, the twitch of his fingers on your thighs as he gripped you like he could will it not to have happened.

“Oh—fuck—fuck,” he said, voice cracking, “I didn’t—shit—I did not mean—”

You blinked. Then exhaled, soft and surprised, brushing his damp temple with your lips.

“Ilya.”

He wouldn’t look at you.

“Ilya, hey—look at me.”

He finally lifted his head, cheeks blazing with shame, mouth pinched.

“I’m not— I didn’t try to—fuck.”

Your hand cupped his face, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth. “Babe. It’s okay.”

“I did not want to come.”

“Obviously.”

“I wanted to grind gently like cat.”

You burst out laughing.

That broke the tension enough for him to glare up at you with wide, humiliated eyes.

“You are going to tell Shane, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Please don’t.”

“You came in your sweatpants like a horny teenager. Shane deserves to know.”

He groaned and buried his face in your neck. “End my suffering. Smother me with pillow. Let me die proud.”

“You think I don’t love that my feral Russian boyfriend accidentally came in thirty seconds because I praised him?”

He made a sound so tortured you thought you might actually need to resuscitate him.

You kissed his hair instead.

“You’re fine,” you whispered. “You’re adorable. You’re high on pain meds and in love and stupidly responsive. And I love you.”

He let out a breathless groan. “I feel used.”

“You are. Thoroughly.”

“I hate you.”

You kissed his jaw. “No you don’t.”

He scowled but melted under your hands all the same. And as you settled against him again, the both of you warm and boneless and not allowed to do anything more, you smiled and whispered:

“…You really are my good boy.”

His groan echoed off the ceiling.

___________

It was late afternoon when the front door opened.

Not knocked. Opened.

You were in the kitchen, microwaving leftover soup. Ilya was sprawled on the couch - again - with a smug blanket, fresh sweatpants and the air of a man who had no regrets about coming in them the night before. You both froze.

Then:

“Hey!” Shane’s voice rang out, way too casual. “Anybody home? Or did the Russian sex pest finally die of blue balls?”

You blinked. Ilya’s head whipped toward the door.

And then Shane was there, duffel slung over one shoulder, a smug, exhausted grin on his face, hair slightly mussed, hoodie half-zipped.

“You’re supposed to be in Canada!” you shouted, halfway to laughing, halfway to stunned.

“Press let me go early.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Guess they figured I’d be more coherent if I wasn’t checking my phone in between every question waiting for injury updates.”

Ilya sat up so fast he winced, hand flying to his ribs.

“You lied,” he hissed at you.

“I didn’t know!”

Shane walked straight in, kissed you first - deep, anchoring, fuck-I-missed-you real - and then crossed to Ilya, grabbing his face and kissing him like he’d been gone two years instead of two days.

When he pulled back, he tapped Ilya on the nose.

“I heard you made a mess last night.”

Ilya looked betrayed. “She said she would not tell!”

“I lied,” you said brightly.

“You are traitor. You both are. I trusted you with my shame.”

“Oh, babe,” Shane said, dropping into the armchair with a sigh. “That wasn’t shame. That was hot.”

Ilya scowled. “Was glorious accident.”

“It was the highlight of my week,” you offered.

Shane grinned. “Mine too.”

Ilya groaned and collapsed back against the couch.

“Fuck all of you,” he muttered.

Shane kicked his foot gently. “Already tried.”

Ilya cracked a grin, and for a second, the room was everything it used to be: banter and love and warmth and ridiculousness, wrapped in the kind of affection that never needed apology.

Shane had dropped his bag near the door and, with zero hesitation, toed off his sneakers and climbed right onto the couch, practically folding himself around Ilya like a heat-seeking missile.

Ilya let out a breath like he’d been holding it since the collision.

He didn’t say anything at first - just opened the blanket with one arm and let Shane slot in close, curled half over his chest like it was muscle memory. Shane kissed the underside of his jaw, one arm winding around his middle, careful of the ribs.

You leaned against the doorway from the kitchen, watching them, quiet.

Ilya’s hand came up to card into Shane’s hair - slow and rough, knuckles dragging down to the base of his skull and back again.

“You did not have to come,” he murmured, Russian laced under his English.

Shane exhaled a soft laugh into his throat. “Shut up, of course I did.”

Ilya made a small sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You always come,” he said.

Shane lifted his head a little, looking at him.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Is not,” Ilya said, eyes soft now, something open in him you didn’t often see. “Is not.”

His hand slid down to cup Shane’s jaw.

“You are…good boyfriend,” he said, like he’d practiced it.

Shane blinked, startled. “Are you on pain meds right now?”

Ilya smacked his chest lightly with the back of his hand. “Shut up.”

Shane laughed, caught the hand, kissed it. “Missed you too, gremlin.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “So much,” he admitted, quieter. “Whole time, even in ambulance. Didn’t want to say it but—”

“You didn’t need to.” Shane’s voice softened. “I felt it.”

They kissed then - unhurried, no fire, just want and comfort and the shaky joy of having each other back in arm’s reach. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t demanding. It was Ilya pressing his forehead to Shane’s after, eyes closed, breathing steadier than it had been since he’d gotten hurt.

“I want to be good,” Ilya said into the quiet. “I want to…not fight. Not stress. Just be close.”

“You are good,” Shane said, voice nearly a whisper. “You’re hurt, not broken.”

Ilya kissed him again, slower this time.

“Stay here,” he muttered. “On me. Just like this.”

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Shane said.

And neither of them did.

You padded in quietly and curled up on Ilya’s other side, one hand brushing over Shane’s back, and the other resting gently against Ilya’s hip. You kissed his bicep and whispered, “Told you we’d be okay.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just held you both tighter, exhaled slow, and let himself relax, for the first time in days, with both of you right there - right where he’d wanted you all along.

___________

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of careful movement and gauze and pills in orange bottles. Of helping him change shirts, helping him in and out of bed, helping him not lose his mind with boredom. Of Shane cooking too much and Ilya pretending he hated the chicken soup when he absolutely didn’t. Of long afternoons with blankets and forehead kisses, late nights filled with quiet murmurs in the dark.

Two weeks since everything shifted.

And this morning? This morning, it felt like gravity had settled again.

Sunlight spilled in through the curtains. Pale and gold. Warm where it touched the sheets. The bedroom smelled like linen and skin and the trace of Ilya’s heavy cologne where he’d sprayed the pillow out of habit. You lay tangled in the middle - shirtless between them, your bare legs hooked around Shane’s thigh, your head tucked under Ilya’s chin.

He was awake. You could feel it. Breathing slow and deep, fingers curled loosely at your waist.

Shane shifted behind you, brushing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. His morning voice, low and rough, pressed against your spine.

“You warm enough?”

You hummed. “Mmm. Perfect.”

Ilya kissed your hair, nuzzled his nose there for a second. “You are always cold.”

“Not today.”

You shifted slightly, pressing closer.

Shane’s hand slid over your hip, bare skin to bare skin. “I like this,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

“Being home. Like this.”

You felt Ilya nod. “Is better,” he said softly, almost to himself.

The silence stretched - comfortable, filled with the rhythm of breath, the weight of bodies that didn’t need to rush. Then: a hand. Ilya’s, sliding up, finding the soft curve of your waist and brushing there.

You breathed in. Stilled. Let it happen.

Shane moved next, pressing his lips just behind your ear, his voice lower now. “You feel so soft in the morning.”

“I feel lazy,” you whispered.

“You earned it.”

You rolled slightly toward Ilya, letting your hands settle on his chest, fingers grazing the line of hair that trailed down to the waistband of his sweats. He was healing - still sore, still stiff - but better. Clear-eyed and steady.

His breath caught as you touched him.

“Okay?” you asked.

He nodded. “I want…to touch,” he said simply. “But not rush. Just…love.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I can do that.”

Shane shifted behind you again, pressing close, his hand splaying over your belly as you leaned in to kiss Ilya’s neck - slow and wet and open-mouthed. Ilya groaned, low and grateful, and tilted his head back, baring more of his throat.

You smiled against his skin. “Still so sensitive.”

“Always for you,” he murmured.

Shane’s hand dipped lower, just a little, dragging fingertips down your belly, over your waistband, teasing, but not invading. “Let me help,” he whispered.

And you did.

You moved together - unhurried, patient. Hands mapping familiar lines. Lips brushing ribs and collarbones. Shane pulled your shorts off, baring you to Ilya’s gaze, and Ilya exhaled like it hurt to look at you.

“Beautiful,” he said. Just that. No teasing. No heat. Just reverent truth.

Your breath hitched.

You leaned in and kissed him. Mouth to mouth. Tongue stroking past his lips slowly. His hands rose, palms cradling your back. Every touch feather-light, like he was afraid to ask for more.

You took his hand. Guided it to your breast. Watched his eyes go dark and soft all at once as he cupped you there, thumb brushing your nipple.

Shane slid his hand between your thighs from behind - still gentle, still asking. You rolled your hips into his palm, gasping, your body already melting from the sheer care of it.

Ilya watched, hungry but quiet.

“You like when we touch you like this?” Shane asked against your ear, breath warm and tender.

“Yes.”

“You’re so good for us.”

You arched into Ilya’s hand as Shane stroked you, slow and steady. Kisses layered over your shoulders, your collarbone, your jaw. Ilya’s mouth never strayed far.

When your body started to shake - legs trembling, lips parted - Ilya pressed his forehead to yours.

“You come now,” he whispered. “For us.”

You did. Soft and sudden, hips twitching, breath gone. Caught between them. Held.

Shane held your thighs open as you panted through it, fingers slow and grounding.

Ilya kissed your closed eyelids.

You sagged between them.

Then, Ilya whispered, “I want you to feel me too.”

You opened your eyes.

Carefully, slowly, you pushed his sweats down, kissed the soft skin of his stomach, took your time.

He gasped when you wrapped your hand around him. Shane helped - whispering praise, rubbing Ilya’s chest while you worked him slowly, your mouth moving over the head, your tongue soft and lazy.

“I can’t,” Ilya groaned, back arching. “Is too much.”

“No,” Shane murmured. “It’s love.”

And when he came - shuddering, breath caught on your name - he looked like something made whole.

You kissed his hip. Climbed back up. Let Shane pull you into his arms again.

The three of you lay tangled in the sunlight, silent.

“Best morning,” Ilya muttered, lips slurred.

You smiled, already drifting. “Best love.”

And no one disagreed.

____________

Boston smelled like wet concrete and coffee that morning.

Rush hour traffic churned outside the apartment in its usual symphony of honks, early commuters and barking dogs. You tugged your hoodie tighter and leaned against the doorframe, sipping your first coffee while Ilya laced his sneakers, grumbling like a man who’d been told he couldn’t go to war with his ribs still broken.

“You need help?”

“No,” he grunted, glaring at his left shoe like it had personally wronged him.

You raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Shane, packing the small backpack with water, phone chargers, and a bag of dried mango, walked past with a kiss to your temple. “That look means he’s trying to win a fight that doesn’t exist.”

“I heard that,” Ilya growled.

Shane grinned. “I know.”

___________

The neurology building smelled sterile in that way all medical centres do - cleaner and stress and vending machine coffee. You sat beside Ilya in the waiting room while Shane flipped through a six-month-old hockey magazine, keeping one eye on the reception door.

Ilya’s knee bounced.

You laid a hand on his thigh. “You’re doing fine.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I look weak.”

“No, you look responsible,” Shane said without looking up.

Ilya muttered something in Russian that was mostly consonants.

Then the nurse called his name.

___________

This doctor was new - young, sharp-voiced, dark braids twisted back into a bun under her white coat. Dr. Okonkwo.

She scanned the notes, then looked up at Ilya with a calm kind of directness. “You’re healing well. Your responses are clean. Reflexes are consistent.”

You watched Ilya straighten just slightly.

“No cognitive deficits in the baseline retest,” she added. “That’s a good sign.”

“Means?” Ilya asked.

“It means you’re stable. Progressing. There’s a long way to go before you’re medically cleared for contact but this is the right path.”

She ran him through a few more tests - visual tracking, balance, memory recall. He passed each one but you saw the way his shoulders tensed at every prompt. Like if he failed, it’d all collapse.

Finally, she set the tablet down and folded her hands.

“So here’s where we’re at. You’re cleared for light physical activity. Stretching. Some controlled lifting but nothing that spikes your heart rate too fast.”

Ilya grunted. “What about on-ice training?”

“No hockey,” she said flatly. “Not until the six-week scan. And not unless I personally sign the release.”

He opened his mouth to argue.

You placed a hand on his knee.

He looked at you. And didn’t argue.

Shane grinned. “Look at you. Growth.”

“I will end you.”

“Sure, sure.”

Dr. Okonkwo smiled at the exchange, then looked at you. “And how are you doing?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You’re his primary caregiver right now. You’re allowed to answer.”

You glanced at Ilya. His eyes were softer now.

“I’m okay,” you said. “We’re managing.”

The doctor nodded, made a few more notes, and stood. “If he tries to sneak a stick into the gym, call me. Otherwise, come back in ten days. We’ll do another progress check.”

__________

The ride home was quiet.

Boston rolled by outside the SUV window, all morning bustle and grey clouds. Ilya sat in the passenger seat, eyes on the skyline, arms folded.

You reached across the console, linked your fingers with his.

He didn’t squeeze back right away. But when you glanced over, his eyes were wet.

“Ilya?”

He exhaled hard. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“Not even the pain. Just…nothing to offer. Nothing to do. You are doing everything.”

You pulled into the parking garage and put the car in park before answering.

“You’re healing,” you said, quiet but certain. “And you’re not nothing. You’re everything.”

He turned his head toward you. “You are not tired of me yet?”

“Not even close.”

Shane opened the back door and leaned in. “You two making out in there or what?”

“No,” Ilya muttered.

“Yes,” you said at the same time.

Shane grinned. “Cool. I’ll start lunch.”

Ilya finally squeezed your hand.

“I do not want to be patient forever.”

“You won’t be,” you promised.

“Promise?”

You kissed his knuckles. “Swear on the mango bag.”

He snorted. “Okay. Good.”

___________

It started with a good morning.

One of the good ones, the kind that felt like muscle memory was finally returning. No dizziness when he sat up. No wince when he pulled his hoodie on. No stumbling in the hallway on the way to the kitchen.

Ilya had taken the stairs two at a time.

He poured his own coffee, refused your help buttering toast, grunted when Shane tried to offer him the mango again.

“No more mango,” he growled. “I want eggs. Protein. I want back.”

You and Shane had shared a glance across the kitchen.

“Back’s coming,” you said gently. “It just has to come slow.”

“Slow is death,” Ilya muttered, stalking toward the gym bag he’d left by the door.

The gym downstairs was technically residential but had enough gear to satisfy his restless body. Shane went with him - just to watch, he said, though you both knew it was to intervene if your Russian tried to bench press the entire East Coast.

Ilya swore he’d go easy.

Shane returned an hour later, pink-cheeked and tight-lipped.

“He didn’t go easy,” he said, stripping off his hoodie. “He nearly passed out mid-set. I had to make up some bullshit about Dr. Okonkwo calling me to get him to stop.”

“Is he okay?”

Shane threw himself on the couch and dragged a hand through his hair. “He will be. But he’s furious. Punched the wall in the elevator. Swore in four languages. Hasn’t said a word since we got upstairs.”

You found him twenty minutes later in the shower, still fuming.

He sat on the bench inside the steamy glass stall, arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders bunched and angry, wet hair plastered to his face.

You didn’t go in. You just sat on the edge of the bathroom counter and waited.

Eventually, his voice floated up over the hiss of water.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

You tilted your head. “I doubt it.”

He didn’t look up. “That I am stupid.”

“I’ve never once said that.”

“That I overdid it.”

“You did. But that’s not what I’m mad about.”

He raised his head then. “What, then?”

“I’m mad you scared me.”

That stopped him.

You stood, walked slowly over, crouched near the glass. “You want to be strong? Then be smart, Ilya. Strength doesn’t mean doing it alone.”

He looked away. Jaw flexed.

“I just wanted to feel like me again.”

You reached out and placed a hand on the glass. “You are you.”

“I am useless.”

You opened your mouth to argue but a soft knock at the door cut in.

Shane.

You turned. “It’s okay.”

He stepped in, voice quiet. “He still in there?”

You nodded. “Steaming like a dumpling.”

“I can work with that.”

You stood. “Shane—”

But he was already moving. Already shrugging out of his shirt, already stepping into the steam.

Ilya didn’t react when Shane entered. Just lowered his head again.

“God, you’re a brat,” Shane muttered, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

Ilya grunted. “Do not start.”

“Nope,” Shane said, sinking to his knees in front of him. “You don’t get to wallow.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” Shane said simply. “And you’re allowed. But not alone.”

He reached for Ilya’s knees. “Let me help.”

Ilya blinked at him. “Help how?”

Shane’s eyes were soft now. Intent.

“By making you feel something good,” he said. “Right now. Not because you earned it. Not because you’re better. Just because we love you.”

Ilya’s breath stuttered.

Shane kissed the inside of his thigh. “Let me.”

You watched from the half-open door - frozen, breath caught, heart pounding at the quiet devotion of it.

Ilya didn’t stop him.

Didn’t argue when Shane pushed his knees further apart. When he leaned in and took him into his mouth with slow, aching reverence. When he braced himself on Ilya’s thighs and closed his eyes like it was sacred.

Ilya’s head hit the wall.

His voice cracked.

“Shane…”

Shane didn’t answer. Just sucked Ilya’s cock, slow and deep, hands firm on his hips, steadying him through every groan, every stammered Russian curse.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t slick or filthy. It was careful.

By the time Ilya came - shuddering, chest heaving - his hands were buried in Shane’s hair, his eyes wet again, his breath hitching with more than just pleasure.

Shane leaned up, kissed his ribs, and whispered, “See, you’re not broken.”

Ilya whispered back, “You are so good to me.”

Later, you helped dry them both.

Ilya’s fingers curled in yours.

“Sorry I was asshole,” he mumbled.

“You are an asshole,” you teased. “But we still love you.”

He kissed your wrist. “So much it hurts.”

Shane, from the bed: “And if you ever punch another wall, I’m telling Dr. Okonkwo.”

Ilya groaned. “This is blackmail.”

“It’s love,” you both said at once.

______________

Week 4

The night started with a jacket. Black, tailored, crisp along the collarbone where Ilya’s shirt stretched tight.

He stared at himself in the hallway mirror, fingers twitching near the buttons. You stepped in behind him, adjusted the line of the lapels, then pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“You look hot.”

“I look angry,” he muttered.

“You are angry.”

That earned a tiny twitch of his mouth.

“But you’re also hot,” you added, slipping your arms around his waist. “And it’s just dinner. Not a club. Not a party. Just us. A table. A drink. Maybe some overpriced steak.”

He exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your voice. “I want to see people.”

You smiled. “Then we’re going.”

Shane was already dressed and waiting when the two of you emerged: button-down rolled at the sleeves, collar open, hair slightly mussed like he’d spent the last fifteen minutes working through his nerves in the mirror.

He smiled when he saw Ilya.

“Damn,” he said. “Look who’s got his bone structure back.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Your shirt is too small.”

“Your face is too handsome.”

“You are trying to get laid.”

“Am I wrong?”

You laughed into your hand as Ilya scowled and stalked toward the door. “I am not blushing.”

“You are,” Shane said, grabbing his coat. “It’s okay. You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

“I am not cute.”

“Sure, grizzly bear.”

___________

You picked a low-lit place near the harbour. Intimate but not too formal, with warm wood, gold light, and a bar that didn’t blast music loud enough to agitate a healing brain.

The table was round, the wine was good and the waiter kept looking at the three of you like he was dying to ask questions.

You didn’t mind. Neither did Ilya, apparently.

He curled his arm over your chair like it was second nature, resting his fingers low on your back, his thigh brushing yours as he murmured something dark and amused in Russian whenever the waiter hovered too long.

Shane kicked him under the table. “You’re flirting.”

“He was flirting with my girl,” Ilya growled.

“He asked if she wanted more bread.”

“Exactly.”

Shane reached over and stole a crouton from Ilya’s salad with a grin. “Jealous much?”

Ilya glared. “You are not helping.”

You sipped your wine. “I love it when he gets like this.”

Shane leaned closer. “What, petty?”

You smiled. “Possessive.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to yours - dark, warm, and suddenly very quiet.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

__________

It was raining by the time you got home.

Shane carried the leftovers. You unlocked the door. Ilya stood in the hallway for a long second, shaking the water from his hair before stepping inside and muttering, “Fucking Boston weather.”

You peeled off your coat and kicked your shoes into the corner, warmth already bleeding back into your fingertips.

Ilya grabbed your wrist before you made it to the kitchen.

You turned.

He looked…still. And very awake.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like myself again.”

You kissed him soft, barely a breath of contact.

Then Shane was behind you, arms winding around both of you, sandwiching Ilya between.

“We missed you,” he murmured against Ilya’s neck.

“I was here.”

“No,” Shane said gently. “You’re here now.”

Ilya’s exhale was uneven.

You pulled him into the bedroom without a word.

There wasn’t a rush. Not anymore. Just breath. Rain whispered against the windows, soft enough to be mistaken for static. The apartment lights were low, the hallway still littered with jackets and shoes. Dinner was forgotten.

Ilya stood at the foot of the bed like a statue - backlit by the city beyond the glass, chest rising slow and deep.

You moved first. Your hands found his shoulders, smoothing along the curve of his arms, thumbs brushing at the edge of his collar. The warmth of him, the sheer bulk of him, still startled you sometimes.

Shane stood just behind, hands resting at your waist.

He waited. Letting you guide this.

And Ilya…watched.

The air was thicker now.

“Sit,” you whispered.

Ilya’s brow arched, amused, but he obeyed, lowering himself to the edge of the bed with the kind of fluid grace that had only just returned. He still winced when his ribs compressed, but he didn’t say a word.

You stepped between his knees. Pushed your fingers into his hair. And kissed him. Deep and slow and deliberate.

When you pulled back, Ilya’s voice was a rasp:

“You are going to kill me.”

Shane huffed a laugh behind you, moving closer. “Nah. You’ll survive.”

“But you are going to do something,” Ilya said, eyes on you. “You have had that look all night.”

“What look?” you asked sweetly.

“The look that says you are not done with me.”

“I’m not.”

He looked over your shoulder. “And you?”

Shane stepped forward, his chest brushing your back, lips at your ear. “Been thinking about this for days.”

Ilya swallowed. His voice dropped. “Then tell me what you want.”

Shane kissed your neck. “You first, babe.”

You turned Ilya’s chin gently upward. “Lie down.”

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying not to look too smug.

“On your back, Rozanov.”

That did it.

He obeyed. Eased back onto the pillows, legs still hanging over the edge, arms relaxed at his sides.

You climbed into his lap.

Shane knelt beside him, tugging Ilya’s shirt up with careful fingers, letting you both see him - scars, healing bruises and all.

When you leaned down to kiss him again, Ilya’s breath caught.

Your hips rolled slow against the line of him, mouth brushing his.

Shane’s lips trailed up his ribs, jaw tight with restraint. “You good, big guy?”

“Too good.”

“Good enough to let us take over?” you whispered.

Ilya groaned. “Take everything.”

You moved like water.

Shane undressed you both with reverence, his hands all over Ilya’s chest, your back, the soft weight of your thighs as you settled above.

Ilya stayed still. Watching you strip for him. Watching you both. His hands clenched the sheets but didn’t reach.

Not yet.

You reached behind to guide his cock in to you - slow, careful, the way he needed after everything. He swore under his breath the second you took him fully, jaw tight, head tipped back against the pillows.

“Krasivaya…” he muttered. “You are going to ruin me.”

Shane leaned in and kissed his throat. “You love it.”

“I do.”

You started to move. Slow. Rolling your hips like a tide - gentle but relentless.

Ilya’s hands found your thighs, holding tight but not guiding. Letting you lead. Letting you decide the pace, the pressure, the path.

Shane stroked his chest. His ribs. Kept his mouth close to Ilya’s skin, whispering little things you couldn’t hear but felt in the way Ilya groaned.

It was almost too much. Too intimate. Too good.

Shane moved behind you then - kissed the back of your neck, your shoulders, his hands sliding around to cup your breasts as you moved.

You gasped when his thumb circled your nipple.

Ilya’s eyes flew open.

“Don’t stop,” he choked.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you breathed, looking down at him.

“Then ride me, moya lyubov. I can take it. I need to take it.”

Your rhythm deepened. Tightened. The way he watched you - head tilted slightly back, eyes dark and open, mouth parted - it burned down to your bones.

Shane kissed your spine, then moved: sliding down Ilya’s side, licking down to the curve of his hip, groaning into the skin like he couldn’t help himself.

You felt Ilya twitch inside you.

“S-Shane—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let go, Ilya.”

His mouth met skin again, his hand sliding between your legs, circling your clit with dizzying precision.

Ilya cried out.

You did too. And when it hit - when the wave crested and broke and shattered you both - it felt like coming home.

Like safety. Like heat and light and everything you’d been aching for since the world tilted sideways four weeks ago.

You collapsed onto his chest.

Shane stretched out beside you, dragging his fingers over Ilya’s abdomen like a benediction.

“Still think you’re not strong?” you murmured.

Ilya just smiled.

And whispered, “Do not stop loving me. Ever.”

You kissed his chest.

Shane answered for both of you.

“We wouldn’t know how.”

____________

Week Five

The sun was still low when Shane pulled the SUV into the players’ lot behind the Raiders’ training facility.

The engine cut. The quiet settled thick.

Ilya didn’t move.

Shane kept his hands on the wheel and let the silence hang. He’d been doing that more lately - learning to wait Ilya out, to give him space without letting him drift.

It worked.

Eventually, Ilya said, “Do not hover.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You are watching me like I am going to collapse.”

“Only a little.”

Ilya cut him a look, then exhaled, unbuckling his seatbelt with a huff. “You know, you used to be less annoying.”

“And you used to be less breakable,” Shane muttered, climbing out.

That earned a faint smirk but not quite a laugh. Close.

Ilya stood, rolled his shoulders once. Dressed in soft Raiders workout gear, still technically benched but steady on his feet. Taller than the building in Shane’s memory.

Stronger now, even if he’d never admit he was still sore.

“You sure you want to do this today?” Shane asked, not for the first time.

Ilya closed the door with a little more force than necessary. “I need to.”

They didn’t head for the locker rooms - he wasn’t cleared for full practice, not yet. Just light lifting and check-ins with medical staff. But everyone knew he’d be coming in this week. Word had spread.

Shane led the way down the back hall, flashing the security badge.

“You are basically the team’s emotional support forward,” Ilya said, eyeing the badge.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Just strange. Used to be I was.”

“You still are,” Shane said, without hesitation.

Ilya looked away.

The gym was quiet this early. Mostly rookies. Conditioning coaches. The usual grind sounds of clanking weights and bad Spotify playlists.

But as soon as the first guy noticed Ilya walking in, everything shifted.

“Rozanov!”

“Roz! Holy shit, man—”

“You look like hell. I mean that lovingly.”

“Can you actually breathe again or are we still pretending?”

Ilya took the ribbing like he always did - deadpan, unimpressed but with that tight-lipped almost-smile that Shane could read like a heartbeat.

He belonged here. Even off the ice. Even hurting. He belonged.

The head athletic trainer came over - quick check, quick chat and a firm reminder not to lift anything heavier than his own ego. Ilya muttered something sarcastic in Russian and was waved off with a laugh.

__________

It wasn’t until they were back in the car, parked again, engine idling and windows cracked, that Ilya spoke.

“I thought it would feel better.”

Shane turned to look at him.

“It didn’t?”

“It did. For five minutes.”

“And then?”

Ilya stared at the dash, jaw working.

“Then I wanted to suit up and fight every single fucking one of them.”

Shane winced. “That would’ve ended real well.”

“I do not like being…” He trailed off. Sighed. “Out.”

“You’re not out,” Shane said softly.

“Feels like it.”

“You’re benched. Not buried.”

Ilya huffed, clearly unimpressed by the metaphor.

But Shane leaned closer anyway.

“Rozanov,” he said, quiet now. “You’re not forgotten. You’re not replaced. And you’re not alone.”

Ilya turned his head, slow. Their eyes met.

And Shane added, “You’re not dead weight. You’re not useless. You’re not—”

“Enough,” Ilya interrupted but there was no bite. Just heat behind his eyes. “I hear you.”

“Good. Because I’m not saying it again.”

Ilya leaned back, stared at the ceiling of the car, then let out a long, exhausted breath. “Why are you always better at this than me?”

“Because you’re used to being strong.”

“And you are not?”

Shane grinned. “I’m used to being loud.”

That earned a small laugh. The real kind.

“You want to get a burger?” Shane asked.

“You buying?”

“Did Ilya Rozanov just ask me to take him on a date?”

Ilya groaned. “Never mind.”

But when Shane pulled the car into drive and headed toward their favorite hole-in-the-wall lunch place, Ilya didn’t argue. He just sat with one elbow on the window, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in the faintest smirk.

He was still healing. And he wasn’t alone.

_____________

The place smelled like fryer oil, bad decisions and ketchup.

Shane slid into the booth with all the confidence of a man who always ordered the right thing. Ilya followed slower, more careful, one hand bracing the edge of the table as he lowered himself onto the bench.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Your truck seats are softer than this.”

“It’s not a date without ass pain,” Shane quipped, peeling open the foil on his burger.

“You are deeply disturbed.”

“And yet—” Shane smirked. “Here you are. In public. With me.”

“I have made worse choices.”

“Name one.”

“I once let you drive my car.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “And yet you lived.”

“Barely.”

Ilya bit into his burger. Immediately sighed.

“Okay,” he admitted. “This is worth the back pain.”

“Told you.”

The fry basket sat between them, already half gone. The table rocked a little when you leaned on it wrong and the soda machine hissed occasionally like it was trying to breathe through a straw. It was all wildly unglamorous.

But Ilya looked better than he had in days. His shoulders had dropped. He was eating. Real food. Greasy, messy, good food.

And the shadows under his eyes - still there, but lighter.

Shane sipped his soda and watched Ilya chew through another bite, wiping ketchup from his thumb with the edge of a paper napkin.

“You gonna tell me how she’s doing?” he asked finally.

Ilya looked up.

Shane clarified. “Our girl. I haven’t gotten the full update today.”

Ilya’s expression shifted in that way Shane had learned to watch for. Not a smile, not exactly, but something deep. Something steady.

“She’s…” He trailed off, then huffed. “Too good.”

Shane blinked. “Too good?”

“Too good for this. For me. You. Everything.”

“Bullshit.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

Shane leaned forward, dragging a fry through the thinnest line of lukewarm ketchup. “She chose us. She keeps choosing us. That’s not about good or bad. That’s about love.”

Ilya chewed. Thought. Didn’t argue.

Then he muttered, “Her new photos are insane.”

Shane’s brows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She showed me the ones from class last night. Portraits. She is starting to figure out depth like she can feel it.”

“She can feel it,” Shane said, mouth twitching. “That’s the thing. She sees people. Catches what we miss.”

Ilya nodded once, quiet.

“You told her that yet?”

“She knows.”

“Still. Say it.”

Ilya made a grumbling noise and popped the last of his burger into his mouth.

“You proud of her?” Shane asked, softer now.

There wasn’t even a pause.

“I would burn the world for her.”

Shane smiled into his drink. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

For a long moment, they didn’t say anything. Just sat with the sounds of cheap silverware and a buzzer going off at the kitchen window.

Then Ilya added, “She took this photo of you. From last week. You are laughing at something she said.”

Shane blinked. “Yeah?”

“Is best photo I’ve ever seen of you.”

Shane went very still.

Ilya didn’t look up from his fries.

“Let me guess,” Shane said after a beat. “You threatened to delete it.”

“No. I asked her to send me a copy.”

Shane stared at him.

“Why?”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. Then he looked up, slow, serious.

“Because it is what home looks like.”

Shane’s throat went tight. He reached over and flicked a fry at Ilya’s chest.

“Jesus, man. Warn me next time before you go full sap.”

Ilya snorted. “You love it.”

“Only when it’s you.”

“Always me,” Ilya said, grinning now. “You are doomed.”

Shane tossed another fry at him. And for a few minutes longer, in that noisy booth in a bad part of Boston with the best burgers on Earth, they stayed right there - talking about you and the life they’d fought so hard to build.

__________

A soft voice cut in from the side of the table.

“Excuse me?”

They both turned.

Two guys - mid twenties, matching Raiders jerseys, one with a ball cap half sideways, the other with a phone already half-raised - stood at the edge of the booth, hesitant but beaming.

Ilya went still.

“We don’t want to interrupt,” the guy with the cap said quickly. “Just—are you Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane didn’t move. Just waited.

Ilya shifted slowly in the booth. “Depends who is asking.”

That got a nervous laugh.

“We’re fans,” said the other guy. “Big fans. We, uh—we miss seeing you out there, man. Not the same without you.”

Shane watched the way Ilya’s jaw twitched, his throat bobbing once.

Then, with a slow nod, Ilya reached for a napkin and said, “Got a pen?”

The kid all but fumbled it out of his pocket.

Ilya scrawled a fast signature, then one for the second guy too. Took a photo with them both. No big speech, no fake smiles; just a steady hand on one shoulder and the barest ghost of a grin when one of them added, “Get better soon, yeah?”

“We need you in the playoffs.”

Ilya only said, “I will be there.”

And meant it.

The booth was a little too quiet after they left.

Ilya sat with one hand still resting on the table, his other thumb dragging at the water ring left by his soda cup.

Shane didn’t push. He just slid out of the booth, circled the table and held out a hand.

Ilya looked up at him. “What?”

“You done sulking?”

“I am not sulking.”

“You’re sulking gracefully.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian but took the hand anyway, let Shane help him up, palm lingering against his. They didn’t rush. Not back to the counter, not out the door. And certainly not as they stepped into the Boston air, still warm from late afternoon sun and walked slow toward the SUV.

Shane laced their fingers together, easy.

Ilya didn’t let go. At the car, he opened the passenger door and leaned against it for a second, watching the wind ripple through Shane’s too-long hair.

“You are always like this”

Shane blinked. “Like what?”

“Soft. Warm. Sappy.”

Shane shrugged. “Only with you two.”

“Lucky us.”

Shane stepped close and kissed him - barely parted lips, no tongue, just heat and want and something older than the bruise still fading at Ilya’s temple.

When they broke apart, Ilya looked wrecked in the best way.

“You good?” Shane asked.

“I will be.”

And he meant that, too.

They climbed in. Closed the doors. The city kept moving around them but inside the SUV, it was quiet.

__________

Week Six

He’d been counting the days.

You could feel it in his thigh twitching next to yours, in the way his free hand drummed patterns into his jeans. Not nervous. Not today.

Eager.

It was the first time in weeks he hadn’t been in pain just from existing. He had colour back in his face, swagger in his gait. But still - he hadn’t let himself believe it yet. Not until he heard it from the doctor.

Not until the door swung open and she walked in, chart in hand.

“Morning,” she said, brisk and professional. “You’re looking much better, Ilya.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I am better.”

She glanced at you - then down to your joined hands - and didn’t say anything. Just smiled lightly.

“Vitals are good. Strength’s coming back. You’ve passed all the neuro checks, no red flags from your last scans.”

Ilya straightened.

“You’re officially cleared,” she finished. “Full practice, full contact, full—well.” She closed the chart. “Full activity.”

You felt him tense. Not alarm; excitement. You squeezed his hand tighter, just as his head turned sharply to you.

And oh, the look he gave you? It was all promise.

“All activity?” he asked, voice a little too smooth.

“Within reason,” the doctor said, barely keeping her expression neutral. “Take breaks. Monitor for lingering symptoms. Ease back in where appropriate.”

He was definitely not going to ease back in. You already knew.

When she stepped out of the room with a professional nod and closed the door behind her, Ilya’s head turned to you. But now his grin was unmistakable.

“I can fuck again,” he said.

You snorted. “I knew that’s the first thing you were going to say.”

“Is not first,” he said, pushing off the table and crowding you in your chair. “Is only.”

You backed into the wall with a laugh as he leaned in, crowding your space completely.

“Ilya—”

“I have been so patient,” he growled.

“I believe the phrase was ‘no more than fifteen minutes of light activity.’”

“Sex can be light,” he said, mouth already brushing your neck. “If I am very careful. And you are very sweet to me.”

“I’m always sweet to you.”

He hummed like that was a lie and kissed your jaw. “Where is Shane?”

You breathed, “At the gym.”

“Then you are mine until he comes back.”

You tilted your chin up. “You gonna carry me home?”

“If you let me come inside you?” His teeth grazed your throat. “Yes.”

You were already breathless, already warm. It had been weeks. He ground against you, slow and unhurried. “I want to feel your thighs shake again.”

“You’re not supposed to overdo it,” you murmured.

“I won’t. I’ll be perfect.” His voice dropped even lower. “You can ride me. Until I forget I was ever injured.”

You shivered, and he knew he’d won.

He pressed his mouth to your ear.

“Take me home, moya zvezda. I want to be inside you before Shane gets out of the shower.”

___________

The second the apartment door clicked shut, Ilya turned to you like a man starved.

You barely managed to kick your shoes off before he had you caged against the wall, hands braced on either side of your head. His mouth crashed into yours; no warm-up, no teasing. Just need.

You gasped, breath stolen, thighs already clenching.

“I waited,” he growled against your lips, one palm flattening to your hip, dragging upward. “I fucking waited.”

Your dress rode higher with every step he took into your space.

“Ilya—”

“No more waiting.”

He dropped to his knees.

Right there in the entryway.

His hands yanked your panties down, rough with urgency. He buried his face between your legs with a groan that sounded like prayer and threat at once. Tongue hot, wide, filthy as he licked your pussy open like it was his god-given right.

Your legs buckled. You grabbed for his hair, his shoulder, anything.

“Jesus—”

“Say my name,” he growled, pulling your leg over his shoulder. “You say it or I stop.”

“Ilya,” you moaned, back arching as he sucked hard on your clit.

The sound he made was obscene.

When Shane stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low and skin damp from steam, he paused mid-step.

You were braced against the wall, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other buried in Ilya’s hair. He had you spread open on his mouth like a feast.

Shane’s towel hit the floor.

“Missed the fireworks, huh?” you panted.

Shane grinned, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. “Not all of them.”

They dragged you to the couch, half-carrying, half-undressing you on the way.

Ilya’s mouth never left your skin. Shane’s hands never stopped moving - undoing buttons, shoving clothes off your arms, palming your breasts like they were the first he’d ever touched.

You were naked and pinned beneath them in minutes.

Shane slipped two fingers between your thighs, still wet and wrecked from Ilya’s mouth.

“She’s soaked,” he said, tone reverent. “Jesus, babe.”

Ilya’s hand tangled in Shane’s hair. “Let me watch you eat her.”

You couldn’t tell who kissed you first.

Maybe Shane’s mouth found yours as Ilya knelt between your legs again.

Maybe Ilya was already licking up your mess while Shane whispered, “Gonna come for me again, sweetheart? Just one more time.”

_________

Later, it was Shane’s thighs shaking under your mouth.

His fingers threaded tight in your hair, hips rolling up into your throat while Ilya held him down by the shoulders.

“Fuck—fuck—” Shane’s voice broke. “She’s gonna make me—”

“Let her,” Ilya rasped from above. “She deserves it.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Shane came with a strangled groan, thighs trembling, your name falling from his lips like a blessing.

_________

Then it was Ilya’s turn.

“On your knees,” he said.

You obeyed instantly.

He leaned back on the couch, legs wide, cock already thick and hard, veins bulging, tip flushed angry red. You wrapped your hand around him and heard him groan deep in his chest.

“Open,” he ordered.

You did. Tongue out. Eyes locked on his.

He slid in slow, so thick you choked on the stretch. His fingers threaded into your hair, guiding, holding, controlling but not cruel. Never cruel.

You moaned around him, swallowed him deeper and he bucked into your mouth with a growl.

Shane was watching. Touching himself.

“You missed this?” Ilya asked, voice shredded.

You hummed yes, cock buried down your throat.

He shuddered.

You didn’t stop until he came with a hand fisted in your hair, a string of curses in Russian spilling from his mouth, hips stuttering.

You swallowed everything. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Grinned up at both of them.

They looked wrecked.

You looked radiant.

_________

Later, all three of you lay tangled in bed, legs overlapping, mouths lazily trading kisses. There was sweat, bite marks, red streaks down your back and the heady smell of everything you’d done to each other lingering in the air like incense.

Ilya’s voice rumbled against your skin as he kissed your temple.

“Still think you were ready for me?”

You smirked into his neck. “You didn’t even last ten minutes.”

He pinched your thigh. You yelped. Shane laughed. And for the first time in weeks, there was no pain, no worry, no restraint.

Just you. Just them. And all the time in the world.

____________

Ilya sat between you both.

He hadn’t moved much. One knee up, elbow resting on it. The other hand resting over Shane’s spine. Like he was guarding you both, even now.

His chest rose and fell slowly, deeper than before, slower than before. He was tired. You could see it in the slack of his jaw, the loose grip of his hand, the way his lashes fluttered shut for longer blinks now.

But he hadn’t let go of control. Not even a little.

You tried to push yourself up.

He was on you in an instant.

“Lie down.”

His voice was quiet, even. But absolute.

You blinked. “I was just gonna grab—”

“Do not care.” He tilted his head. “You move again, I tie you to the bed.”

That…shouldn’t have made your thighs clench. But it did.

You smiled against the pillow. “Okay.”

He turned to Shane next.

He didn’t even lift his head. “Not moving. Dead. Leave me.”

Ilya huffed out a low breath, affectionate and annoyed. He combed fingers through Shane’s hair slowly, rhythmically, until Shane actually melted into the mattress with a groan.

You were next.

Ilya turned to you, leaned down and kissed your shoulder. Then your cheek. Then your mouth, soft this time. Slow.

The kind of kiss you could rest in.

“You okay?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded. “I’m good.”

“Mm.”

He kissed you again. This time deeper. But not hungry. Just, his.

He got up carefully. Not stiff, not sore; deliberate. He moved like a man still in command of the room, even while naked and spent and glistening with sweat.

He returned a moment later with a damp washcloth and a clean towel.

Neither of you had to ask.

He cleaned you first. Gentle but efficient, firm enough that you felt taken care of. His brows were drawn, his expression focused, like you were a weapon he was reassembling after battle.

“You are shaking,” he muttered, eyes flicking down your legs.

“Residual,” you murmured. “I’m okay.”

He didn’t stop until he was sure.

Then he wiped down Shane next, dragging the cloth over his thighs, belly, chest. Shane barely moved; just cracked an eye open to whisper, “I’m in love with you. Just so you know.”

Ilya didn’t react. Except to smile faintly, kiss the top of Shane’s head and mutter, “Da. Obvious.”

_________\\

Eventually, you ended up under the covers, all three of you.

Ilya in the middle because of course he was. Shane draped over one shoulder, you pressed into the other side, fingers tracing the faint veins of his forearm. His body was so warm, so solid. Still radiating the power he’d used on you both.

Still him.

“You good?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer at first. Then:

“I missed this.”

Your throat tightened. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Do not leave bed,” he ordered.

You and Shane both hummed in agreement.

“Do not speak unless I say,” he added.

You smiled. “Still bossy, even wrecked.”

“I am not wrecked.”

You looked up at him.

He blinked down at you. And yawned.

You both burst out laughing.

He grumbled something in Russian and pulled the blankets tighter.

Eventually, his grip eased.

You felt his breath even out, warm against your hair. His fingers were still tangled in Shane’s. His other arm still curled around your waist. You shifted closer and kissed his chest once.

“Ilya?”

He didn’t open his eyes.

But he answered.

“Mm?”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

His voice was soft. Nearly inaudible.

“You are mine,” he said. “Both of you.”