#heated secrecy

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy Masterlist

Chapter 1*

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4*

Chapter 5*

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12*

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15*

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18*

Chapter 19

Chapter 20*

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

*contains smut

Please be advised that this story contains mature themes and explicit content. I do not own the characters, core themes, or the world of "Heated Rivalry".

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: implied smut

Chapter 1

-—-

The cold in Boston wasn’t just a temperature; it was a character that lived in the marrow of your bones, a biting frost that turned every breath into a plume of white smoke. Ilya Rozanov sat at the scarred wooden bar of Le Chien Noir, a basement dive where the lighting was so poor you could barely see the label on your beer. He had a fresh cut over his left eyebrow from a high-sticking incident earlier that night and a deep, pulsing ache in his ribs that made every inhale a chore.

He watched the girl at the corner table. She was a vision of focused chaos, surrounded by thick textbooks and a laptop that hummed with effort. Her blonde hair fell in soft, messy waves over her shoulders, and she had a habit of chewing on the end of her pen when the data didn't align. Ilya stood up, his joints popping with the familiar protest of a professional athlete, and walked over.

"You look like you are trying to kill that book with your mind," he said, his Russian accent thick and gravelly.

Y/N didn't look up immediately. She sighed, a long, exhausted sound that puffed out her cheeks. "The book is winning," she muttered, finally glancing up. Her eyes were a piercing blue, sharp even behind the heavy veil of fatigue.

She finally looked at him properly, her gaze tracking the bruise blooming along his cheekbone. She didn't gasp, and she didn't ask for an autograph. "You look like you’ve been through a car wreck," she said, her voice softening. "What do you do that gets you hit in the face on a Tuesday night?"

"I play a game," Ilya said, leaning in. "And you? What do you do that makes you hide in a basement with books?"

"I'm trying to understand why people break," she said, leaning back and rubbing her temples. "How the neurons fire when we're scared, or in love, or in pain."

Ilya stayed for four hours. He didn’t tell her he was the league's most polarizing superstar, and she didn’t tell him she was an MIT prodigy. They were just two people in a dark room, finding a strange, quiet frequency amidst the noise of their separate lives.

-—-

Three weeks later, the atmosphere inside Shane Hollander’s home was suffocating. The house was a masterpiece of glass and steel, isolated behind a fortress of security, but tonight it felt like a pressurized chamber.

Ilya and Shane had just finished a frantic, desperate hour—a collision of bodies that was supposed to settle the tension of their rivalry but only seemed to expose the raw nerves beneath. Shane was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his chest still heaving, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

"You're not here, Ilya," Shane said, his voice tight with a jealousy he tried to mask as professional annoyance. "I can feel you thinking about someone else even when your hands are on me. Who is she?"

Ilya was sprawled on the silk sheets, his dark hair damp against his forehead. "Her name is Y/N. She lives in Boston. She studies the way we think, Shane."

Shane turned around, his eyes flashing. The thought of a woman entering their secret, fragile world felt like a threat to the only sanctuary he had. "Is she why you're so distracted? Because you found a girl who doesn't know you're a bastard?"

"I think about her because she makes the world quiet," Ilya hissed, standing up to face him. "And every time I am with her, I think about how much you would love the way she challenges everything you say. I want her. And I want you. I want us to be the variable the world cannot account for. Come to Boston. Just meet her."

-—-

The night they finally met at Ilya’s apartment, the air was thick with whiskey and unspoken dares. Shane sat rigid in an armchair, his "Golden Boy" mask firmly in place, his posture perfect even in his discomfort.

Y/N didn't look at him with the awe of a fan; she looked at him with the clinical, devastating precision of a predator who had found a flaw in the armor. She stood up slowly, crossing the small space until she was standing between Shane’s knees. She didn't touch him, but the heat radiating from her was a physical weight.

"You're vibrating, Shane," she whispered, her voice a low, melodic hum that bypassed his brain and went straight to his pulse. "Ilya told me you were a masterpiece of self-control, but I can see the lie in the way you're gripping that glass. You’re terrified that if you let a single crack show, we’ll see how much you actually want to be ruined by us."

Shane stiffened, his knuckles white. "I don't know any other way to be."

Ilya laughed, a dark, rough sound from the sofa. He stood up, closing the distance until he was behind Y/N, his large hands sliding around her waist to pull her back against him while his eyes stayed locked on Shane. "Then let us teach you," Ilya provoked, his voice a low growl. "I can see your pulse in your neck, Hollander. It’s screaming. Kiss her. Be honest for once in your perfect life."

Shane set his glass on the table with a trembling hand. He leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. When his lips finally met Y/N’s, the world tilted. She tasted like vanilla and whiskey, and she didn't pull away. She leaned into him, her hands finding the back of his neck, and the jealousy Shane felt for Ilya melted into a frantic, shared heat. Ilya didn't look away; he anchored them both, his hand resting on the small of Y/N’s back, finally bringing his two worlds into one.

-—-

Two years later, they were tucked away in Shane's secluded cottage, snowed in from the rest of the world. The fireplace was the only light, casting a warm, amber glow over the three of them tangled on a mountain of blankets. Ilya sat in the center, his massive frame a solid anchor.

He pulled them both closer, his voice uncharacteristically rough. "I am not good at the words," he started, his eyes moving between Shane’s tired face and Y/N’s peaceful one. "I spend my life fighting. Fighting you on the ice, Shane. Fighting to keep this secret. But when I am here... I don't want to fight anymore."

He buried his face in the space between them, his voice muffled but steady. "I love you. Both of you. It is a madness that would ruin us, but I don't care. I love you more than the game. I love you more than the Cup."

Shane let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against Ilya’s shoulder. "I've spent years hating how much I needed you, Ilya. And then Y/N... she's the gravity that stopped us from spinning out. I love you guys. I love us."

Y/N reached up, her hands covering theirs. "I love you both," she choked out, her heart feeling too large for her chest. "I don't care about the rules. I just want this. Always."

-—-

The silence in Y/N’s Boston apartment one year later felt like an indictment. She was alone, the morning sun cutting cruelly through the blinds. As a neurology student, she understood the biology of her fear—the amygdala’s sharp spike, the flood of cortisol that made her hands shake.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, her gaze fixed on the digital display of the test on the counter.

PREGNANT.

The word was a tectonic shift. A child wasn't a secret you could hide in a hotel room or a secluded lake house.

If I tell them, the league will destroy them, she thought, her breath coming in panicked gasps. They finally found peace, and I’m about to ruin their lives.

She felt a wave of nausea, her hand pressing against her stomach. She was carrying a child that belonged to the two biggest rivals in hockey—a child created from the very love they had just confessed. The internal conflict was a physical weight. If she told them, she ended their careers. If she didn't, she lived a lie that would eventually consume her.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered to the empty room, her voice breaking.

She stood up, her knees wobbling, and buried the test deep in the trash under a stack of old medical journals. She had to act normal. She had to go to the lab. But as she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she saw a woman who was already mourning the loss of the only sanctuary she had ever known.

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: mention of abortion

Chapter 2

-—-

The Boston air was a biting chill that evening, but the tension inside the arena had been a different kind of heat altogether. The Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders had played a game that felt less like a professional match and more like a physical exorcism. Ilya and Shane had traded hits that rattled the glass, their public rivalry as sharp and jagged as ever, fueled by the secret intensity of the life they led behind closed doors.

After the post-game press conferences—where Shane gave his usual polished quotes and Ilya gave his typical brooding, monosyllabic shrugs—they retreated separately. Ilya, having the "home" advantage of his Boston apartment, arrived first. Shane followed twenty minutes later, slipping through the service entrance with his hoodie pulled low.

Shane found Ilya in the master bathroom, but the Russian wasn't showering. He was slumped on the edge of the marble tub, still wearing his suit trousers and a half-buttoned shirt. In his large, scarred hand, he held something small and plastic.

"Ilya? What are you doing in the dark?" Shane asked, flicking the light on. The fluorescent glow was unforgiving.

Ilya didn't look up. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes fixed on the device in his palm. "I was looking for my jacket," Ilya rasped, his voice sounding like he’d swallowed glass. "I reached into her overnight bag to find them. This was tucked inside a side pocket, buried under her lab notes."

Shane walked over, his heart beginning to thud a heavy, rhythmic warning against his ribs. He looked down at Ilya’s hand. The digital screen was unmistakable. PREGNANT.

"No," Shane whispered, the word catching in his throat. He sat down heavily next to Ilya, their shoulders touching. The "Golden Boy" was gone, replaced by a man who looked like the floor had just fallen out from under him. "Why didn't she tell us?"

"Because she is smart," Ilya said, his thumb brushing the plastic. "Because she knows what happens to the 'Golden Boy' and the 'Russian Menace' if there is a baby. She was trying to protect us from ourselves."

The front door clicked open. Both men stiffened. They heard the familiar sound of Y/N dropping her keys on the console, her weary sigh echoing through the hallway.

"Ilya? Shane?" she called out, her voice vibrating with a fatigue that they now understood with painful clarity. "I'm going to jump in the shower, the lab was a disaster today—"

She stopped in the doorway of the bathroom. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and she was still wearing her lab coat over a sweater. She saw them sitting on the tub. She saw her overnight bag sitting unzipped on the counter and the plastic stick in Ilya’s hand.

The color drained from her face so fast Shane thought she might faint. She didn't move; she just leaned against the doorframe, her hand instinctively dropping to her stomach—a gesture so subtle, but to two men who studied her every move, it was an admission.

"You weren't supposed to find that," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It was in my bag. You shouldn't have been in there."

"Why, Y/N?" Shane asked, his voice thick with a mix of hurt and terror. "We told you we loved you. We said we were a unit. How could you keep this in the dark?"

Her blue eyes were wide, fixed on the test as if it were a predator. "I was going to tell you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just... I needed to find a way to say it that didn't sound like I was ending your lives."

Shane stood up. His face was a map of raw, unadulterated terror. "Ending our lives? Y/N, we’re talking about a child. Our child."

"Is it?" she snapped, a flash of her usual intellectual fire sparking through the fear. "How do we know, Shane? Biologically, it's a fifty-fifty toss-up. And socially? It’s a zero-percent chance of survival. You two are the faces of your franchises. You’re supposed to be rivals. You're supposed to hate each other. If the MLH finds out you're sharing a bed—and a baby—with a grad student in Boston, they won't just fine you. They’ll erase you."

She walked into the room, her movements jerky and frantic. She began to pace the small space of the bathroom. "I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours running every possibility of this situation. Every scenario leads to a crash. Trade demands, moral clauses in contracts, the paparazzi hounding us until we can't breathe. I can't do that to you. I love you both too much to be the reason you never lace up your skates again."

She stopped pacing and looked at them, her eyes swimming with tears. "I think... I think I have to get rid of it. Before it becomes real. Before it ruins everything."

The reaction was instantaneous.

Ilya lunged off the tub, his massive frame suddenly looming over her. It wasn't aggression; it was a desperate, primal need to shield. "No," he growled, the word vibrating in his chest. "You do not say that. You do not decide this because you think we are weak."

Shane was right there beside him, his face pale but determined. "Y/N, stop. Listen to yourself. You're talking about this like it's a data error. It’s not. It's us."

"It is a mistake!" she cried, her voice rising to a sob. "It's a beautiful, impossible mistake that we can't afford to keep!"

Ilya hissed, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "I don't care about the contract or the money. I have millions in Russia. I have houses where no one will find us. If they take the game, let them take it. They cannot take this."

Shane stepped in, his voice softer but no less intense. "Y/N, look at me. I’ve lived my whole life doing exactly what people expected of me. I’ve been the perfect son, the perfect captain, the perfect rival. And I was miserable until I found you and Ilya. I’m not going back to that. I’m not sacrificing our family for a league that would replace me in a heartbeat."

The boys were supportive; if she truly didn't want to go through with this, they would stand by her. But they refused to let her choose based on their careers. Secretly, both men wanted this more than anything—the chance to have something real, something that wasn't a PR stunt or a stat line.

The weight of their words hit her, and the fight seemed to drain out of her all at once. She collapsed into them, her forehead resting against Ilya’s chest while Shane wrapped his arms around her from behind. The three of them stood there in the center of the bathroom, a tangled knot of grief, love, and sheer, paralyzing terror.

"We’re all scared," Shane whispered into her hair. "I’m terrified. I’m thinking about the headlines, the lawyers, my parents... it’s a nightmare. But losing this? Losing a part of what we built? That’s the only thing that scares me more."

Ilya tilted her chin up, his eyes dark and wet. "We find a way. We hire the best doctors. We buy a floor of a hospital under a fake name. I don't care what it costs. We keep this. We keep our baby."

Y/N let out a shuddering breath. Her neurologist's brain was still screaming about the statistical improbability of their success, but her heart was finally catching up. "We’ll have to be so careful," she whispered. "No one can know. Not for a long time."

"Then we’re careful," Shane said, his jaw setting in that familiar, competitive line that usually meant he was about to win a game. "We play the roles. We hate each other on the ice. We give the press their heated rivalry. And then we come home to this."

Ilya picked her up, tucking her against him as if she were made of glass. He carried her out of the cold bathroom and toward the bed, Shane following close behind, his hand never leaving the small of her back. The road ahead was a minefield, and they were all walking into it blind, but for the first time since she saw those two pink lines, Y/N didn't feel like she was walking it alone.

-—-

The reality of the morning settled over them like a heavy fog. The logistical nightmare of their lives was no longer a theoretical problem; it was an equation that needed an immediate solution.

Ilya stood by the window, his large frame silhouetted against the Boston skyline. He turned back to the kitchen island, his voice dropping into a low, decisive register. "The cottage is the only way. It’s private, it’s gated, and most importantly, it isn't linked to the MHL. We move you there tonight, Y/N."

Shane looked up from his coffee, his brow furrowed. "It’s isolated, Ilya. That’s the point, I know, but if she’s there alone and something happens—"

"She won't be alone," Ilya interrupted, his eyes flashing with a protective fire. "We’ve checked the schedules. When the Raiders are away, the Metros are usually home, or vice-versa. We coordinate. If I’m on a plane to Vegas, you’re driving down from Montreal. If you’re stuck at the Bell Centre for a night game, I’m at the house. One of us is always there."

"I can make it work," Shane said, nodding slowly as he processed the travel times. "It’s a three-hour drive from Montreal if I push it. I can leave after practice, spend the night at the lake, and be back before the morning skate."

Y/N leaned forward, her pen tapping nervously against her legal pad. "And medical care? I can't exactly walk into the local pharmacy for prenatal vitamins or go to the town clinic for an ultrasound. As soon as a nurse sees 'Shane Hollander' or 'Ilya Rozanov' on a form, the secret is dead."

"We don't go to them," Shane said. "We find a private doctor. Someone completely outside the sports world, someone in New York or further south who doesn't know a hockey puck from a dinner plate. We pay for house calls. We tell them it’s a high-profile case requiring absolute anonymity."

The room fell silent as the conversation shifted to the hardest part: the people who ran their lives.

"We have to tell someone eventually," Y/N murmured. "What about your managers? Your agents?"

"My manager thinks I’m a ghost when I’m not on the ice," Ilya shrugged, though his jaw was tight. "He doesn't care what I do as long as I'm scoring. I tell him nothing. If I start asking for NDAs and private doctors through him, he’ll smell a story. I’ll handle my side through my own legal contacts in Russia."

Shane let out a long, shaky breath, rubbing his face with his hands. "My situation is... different. My manager is my mother. She’s been the architect of my life since I was drafted. If I start missing family dinners in Montreal or if my 'performance' dips because I’m driving six hours a day to the lake, she’s going to notice."

"You think she would be angry?" Ilya asked.

"I think she'd be shocked," Shane admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I’ve kept the two of you a secret for years. I’ve told my parents I was single, focused, and 'waiting for the right time.' To tell them now—that I’m in a relationship with my biggest rival and a woman they’ve never heard of, and that we're having a baby... I don't want to disappoint them. I don't want to see that look on her face where she realizes her son has been lying to her for years."

Ilya walked over, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Shane’s shoulder. "Disappointment is a luxury we cannot afford right now. We are protecting a life. If they find out, we handle it then. But for now, the only people who exist in this world are the four of us."

Taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: labor

Chapter 29

-—-

The move from the bedroom to the living room felt like a journey across a frozen tundra. Y/N leaned heavily on Ilya, her wet joggers replaced by a soft robe, her steps slow and deliberate. Every few feet, she had to stop, her breath hitching as a fresh wave of pressure rolled through her.

With their help, Y/N stepped into the warm water. The relief was instantaneous; she let out a long, shuddering moan as the buoyancy took the weight off her aching hips. She knelt in the center of the pool, her arms draped over the inflated rim, her head resting on her folded hands.

The boys hovered over her, one on each side. Ilya was a silent, looming presence, his hand resting on the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the base of her skull in a rhythmic, grounding pattern. Shane, however, was a frantic blur of motion. He was adjusting the lighting, hovering with ice chips, and whispering "you’re doing great" every thirty seconds in a voice that was an octave too high.

As the morning sun climbed higher, the contractions turned into something primal. Y/N’s groans shifted into deep, guttural sounds that vibrated through the water. Her body was no longer just tightening; it was getting ready to push, an involuntary force that made her back arch and her teeth grit.

Shane watched her, his face growing paler with every surge. The perfectionist in him—the man who spent hours analyzing game tape to avoid a single mistake—was hitting a wall. He saw her pain, the raw, unshielded reality of it, and a wave of helplessness crashed over him. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too hot. His hands began to shake, the bowl of ice chips rattling with a frantic, metallic sound.

"I... I'll be right back. I'm going to get more ice. Or towels. I'll..." He trailed off, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Before Ilya could even respond, Shane practically bolted toward the kitchen.

Ilya didn't move for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who was lost in the peak of a wave. Once she exhaled and went limp against the side of the pool, Ilya looked toward the kitchen. He saw Shane leaning over the sink, his head hanging low, his shoulders shaking.

Ilya gave Y/N’s shoulder a final, firm squeeze and looked at Cathy, who gave him a knowing nod. He walked into the kitchen, finding Shane gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

Shane turned, his face pale and his eyes swimming with tears. "I can't," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Ilya, she’s in so much pain. I don’t know what to do."

Ilya didn't soften his expression, but he didn't pull away. He stepped closer, invading Shane’s personal space until their foreheads were almost touching.

"You are here," Ilya said, his blue eyes fierce and clinical. "That is what matters."

"But I feel like I'm failing," Shane choked out, shaking his head. "I'm supposed to fix things, and I can't fix this. I'm useless."

"You are being an idiot," Ilya said with his trademark bluntness, his hand moving to grab the back of Shane's neck. "You think she needs you to be a doctor? She has Cathy for that. She needs to see your face when she opens her eyes. She needs to know you are not running away because it is 'too hard' to watch."

He gave Shane’s neck a sharp, bracing shake. "You are strong, Shane. You handle more pressure than anyone I know. Do not fold now when she needs that strength the most."

Shane took a jagged, shuddering breath, the logic of Ilya’s words finally cutting through the fog of his panic. He looked at Ilya and saw the same terror he felt, just buried under a layer of Russian steel.

"Go wash your face," Ilya commanded. "Drink some water. Then come back. We are doing this together."

Shane nodded, a bit of the old captain's steel returning to his spine. He turned to the sink, splashing freezing water over his face until his skin stung. He took a long, deep breath, patted his face dry, and stood up straight.

"Okay," Shane whispered. "Okay. I'm good."

-—-

The living room was thick with the scent of lavender oil and the humid warmth of the birthing pool. Y/N was kneeling in the center, her forehead resting on the cool, inflated rim. The transition was relentless now; Cathy had checked her a short while ago and confirmed she was at 7cm. The "marathon" had turned into a climb up a vertical cliff.

Shane had abandoned his shirt and socks on the rug, stripping down to his shorts to climb into the pool behind her. The warm water swirled around his waist as he sat on his heels, his large, powerful hands splaying across the small of Y/N’s back. He leaned his weight into her with every surge, his muscles bunching as he provided the heavy, steady counter-pressure she craved.

"Right there," Y/N breathed, her fingers digging into the vinyl of the pool. "Don't stop, Shane. Don't move."

"I've got you," Shane whispered, his chest pressed against her back, his skin damp with steam and sweat. "I'm not going anywhere. I’m right here, okay? Focus on my hands."

As the contraction ebbed, Y/N turned her head to the side, her eyes finding Ilya. He was sitting on the floor just outside the pool, his long legs tucked in, his arms resting on the rim so he was eye-level with her. He looked uncharacteristically soft in the dim morning light, his usual sharp edges blunted by the gravity of the room.

"Ilya," she rasped, her voice trembling. "Talk to me. Anything. Just... don't let me think about the next one."

Ilya reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on her damp hair. He wasn't a man of long speeches, but for her, he found the words.

"I was thinking about the first time we saw the scan," he started, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the water. "How you looked at the screen and then at me, and I realized my life was never going to be simple again. And I liked it. I realized then that I didn't want it to be simple if it didn't have you in it."

He let out a short, huffing breath, his thumb tracing the line of her temple as her eyes stayed locked on his. "I have loved watching you grow, Y/N. I know you hate the joggers and the heavy feeling, and the way you walk like a penguin sometimes, but to me... you have never looked better. Every week you got bigger, it was just more of you to love. More of this family. I liked seeing the baby move under your skin; it made it feel real, like we were finally building something that couldn't be traded or sold."

Another wave started to build, her body tensing under Shane's hands, but Ilya didn't stop. He leaned closer, his blue eyes intense, pulling her focus away from the tightening in her gut.

"I think about the winter," he murmured. "When we take them out to the pond for the first time. I will buy the smallest skates they make—custom, because they are our baby. Shane will try to teach them how to play nice and follow the rules, and I will teach them how to actually win. I'll teach them how to get under the other kids' skin just like I did to Shane."

"Hey," Shane grumbled softly from behind her, though he didn't stop the pressure on her back.

Ilya ignored him, his focus entirely on Y/N. "I look forward to the quiet mornings here. Just us. No fans, no reporters, no hockey. Just the three of us and this little person who has no idea how lucky they are to have you as a mother. I want to see you holding them and finally getting to sleep without someone kicking your ribs from the inside. We are so close, zoloto. Just a little more."

Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale, the contraction peaking and then slowly, mercifully, beginning to fade. Ilya’s rambling had worked—for a few minutes, she wasn't a woman in labor; she was just a woman being loved by two men who were ready to give her the world.

"Keep talking," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned toward his touch. "Don't stop. Tell me about the cottage in the summer."

-—-

The humidity in the living room was suddenly broken by a sharp, clinical shift in the air. Cathy, who had been observing Y/N’s vocalizations and the rhythm of her surges, knelt by the side of the pool.

"You're making incredible progress," Cathy said, her voice a calm, grounding anchor. "But I think it’s time to move to the position you actually want to birth in. The place where you're going to meet your daughter."

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, wide and filled with a sudden, sharp anxiety. She looked at the hallway, then back at the water that had been her only sanctuary. "The bedroom," she whispered, her voice fracturing.

Shane moved instantly, his arms sliding under hers to provide the leverage she needed to find her footing. As she rose from the pool, the buoyancy vanished, and the sheer, crushing weight of gravity took over. Ilya was waiting at the edge with a massive, open towel, his large hands immediately locking onto her arms to keep her steady.

The air between the three of them changed the second she stood upright. Shane braced her left side, his shoulder tucked firmly under hers, while Ilya took the right, his grip on her arm unyielding and solid. They shared a single, heavy look over her head—a silent acknowledgment that the long hours of waiting were behind them. This was the final stretch.

Supported entirely by their strength, Y/N made the slow, agonizing trek back to the master bedroom. Each step was a battle against a downward pressure that seemed to increase with every inch they gained. They guided her to the bed, maneuvering her with practiced care until she was settled back against the mountain of pillows.

For a heartbeat, it was just the three of them—a quiet, private pocket of the world. Cathy had lingered back in the living room for a moment to gather the final birth kit and supplies.

But as soon as Y/N's weight hit the mattress, her face transformed. The anxiety shifted into something primal. Her eyes glazed over, her chin tucked into her chest, and her hands gripped the sheets until the fabric groaned.

"Something's different," she gasped, her voice dropping an octave into a guttural, terrifying sound. "Oh god... Shane... Ilya... I can't stop it!"

She let out a low, involuntary grumble, her body arching as her muscles began to work with a force she couldn't control. The sound was unlike anything Shane or Ilya had ever heard. It wasn't a cry of pain; it was a sound of work—relentless and automatic.

Both men froze, stunned into a temporary, wide-eyed silence. Shane’s hand stayed poised mid-air, his heart hammering against his ribs, while Ilya’s grip on the bedpost tightened until the wood creaked. They stared at her, paralyzed.

Shane swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper as he looked toward the open door where Cathy was just entering.

"Cathy..." Shane said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated shock. "Cathy... I think we're pushing?"

Cathy stepped into the room, her presence breaking the spell. She didn't need to be told. She saw the way Y/N was breathing, saw the stunned expressions on the men's faces, and moved into position at the foot of the bed.

"I'm right here," she said, her voice steady and clinical as she snapped on her gloves. "That’s it, Y/N. Don't fight that feeling. If your body wants to push, you follow it."

Ilya blinked, finally shaking off the shock. He reached out and grabbed Y/N’s hand, his knuckles white as she squeezed him, while Shane moved to her other side, bracing her shoulder and pressing his forehead against hers.

"Right here," he breathed, his voice a steady rhythm against her skin. "We’re right here."

The long night was over; the wait was done. In the quiet of the cottage, under the watchful eyes of the two men who loved her most, the real work of bringing their daughter into the world had finally begun.

taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003 @fandom1ruined2me @viamiasoncrack @laughsandlivia @conniesrockstargf @sellyna068 @lilyyy4241 @erikan809 @ankouh @stephanie8114 @sillyaa @miuangel @h-l-m @casey1-2007 @lovely-flower75 @honeysblogx @emerald-serpentine @bethexo07 @jungw1 @ever-siince-new-york @buckyroobuckaroo @bronte-wonderland @yellowunicorn @lovely-flower75 @oddjaid @wonieeee @itsnerdgirl6044 @poguestyleskye @sweetiedeet @lyssalove-777 @euphoricqs @1dluvr12 @areyouwithsworld @kyleeisahotmess @jezzebear @lilemilyx @spidermansfav333 @exposemarker06 @sheslikeacurse @kaitieskidmore97 @clearpoetryobservation-blog @cheese10001 @roslandrose @itsjustelizabeth @ajemy @chauchirem @q0807 @void--life @saik-k @elizabethhh-paigeee

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: labor

Chapter 26

-—-

For a heartbeat, the air in the cottage hung heavy with the residue of the game and the sudden, sharp reality of the future. Then, the silence shattered.

"The kit—Ilya, the kit is in the hall closet!" Shane blurted out, his hockey-player brain snapping into a frantic, high-stakes scramble. He lunged toward the hallway, nearly tripping over the coffee table. "I need the plastic sheeting and the towels. We need the birthing pool inflated—wait, I have to check the water heater. We need enough for the pool and the towels!"

He was a whirlwind of uncoordinated motion, his hands shaking as he hauled boxes out of the closet. The sound of falling plastic and shifting gear echoed through the quiet house, a chaotic percussion to the muted post-game highlights still flickering on the screen.

Ilya, however, stayed rooted. His large hands were trembling as he reached out, hovering them over her knees before finally resting them there with a grip that was surprisingly light.

"Y/N," he rasped, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, sharp alarm. He began checking over her with a frantic kind of gentleness—touching her forehead to check for fever, then brushing the hair out of her eyes as if he could physically soothe the pain away. "Does it hurt in your back or your front? Should I get the pillow? The heat pack?"

"Ilya, I'm okay," she panted, though her voice was thin and her knuckles were white where she gripped the sofa cushions.

"You are not okay! You are in labor!" Ilya turned his head, shouting toward the hallway where the sound of Shane wrestling with a rubber hose was growing louder. "Shane! Bring the birth ball! And the water! She needs to stay hydrated!"

The cottage, which had been a temple of quiet hockey tension all night, had suddenly turned into a frantic locker room at halftime. Shane was clattering in the kitchen, and Ilya was hovering so closely over Y/N that he was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The double shock of the championship and the kiss, combined with the sudden, violent onset of active labor, finally pushed Y/N’s emotions over the edge —it all felt like it was crashing down at once. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lip began to tremble.

"Stop it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Just... stop."

Shane came back into the room clutching a stack of sterile pads and a random throw pillow. He froze at the sight of her tears. Ilya stopped mid-sentence, his hand still hovering near her face.

"Y/N?" Shane asked, his voice dropping an octave, the frantic edge softening into immediate, heart-wrenching concern.

"I don't want the ball," she sobbed, a single tear tracking down her cheek. "I don't care about the towels or the pool yet. I just... I need you to hold me. Both of you. Please. Just for a minute."

The frantic light in Shane’s eyes vanished instantly. He dropped the supplies onto the rug and sank onto the sofa beside her, wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders and pulling her back against his chest. He was solid and warm, providing the physical anchor she desperately needed. Ilya didn't wait to be told twice; he moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist from his position on the floor, burying his face against her side for a fleeting second before looking up at her with fierce, quiet devotion.

For a moment, they just stayed like that. The three of them held each other in the flickering blue light of the TV, the world of professional hockey and national scandals fading into the background. They were just three people in a cottage, finally letting the reality sink in.

But the peace didn't last long. Y/N’s body stiffened again. She gasped, her fingers digging into Shane’s forearm and Ilya’s shoulder as another contraction began to crest.

"Here we go," she wheezed, her eyes squeezing shut.

Shane immediately reached for his phone on the coffee table, his face set in a look of grim determination. He didn't look at the screen for hockey news this time; he opened the timer app.

"Okay, breathe with me, Y/N," Shane whispered, his eyes locked on the ticking seconds.

As the peak of the contraction passed and Y/N’s muscles began to loosen, the frantic energy in the room finally began to settle into a hushed, focused gravity. Shane leaned back, his eyes moving between the phone and Y/N’s pale face.

"How far apart are they?" Ilya asked softly, his voice finally losing its jagged edge. He reached out to squeeze Y/N’s hand, his gaze shifting to Shane.

"Fifteen minutes," Shane noted, his brow furrowing as he did the math. He looked down at Y/N. "Are they getting stronger? Or just... closer?"

"Stronger," Y/N whispered, leaning her head against Shane’s shoulder.

Ilya looked at the dry rug, then back at Y/N. "Has your water broke?" he asked, his voice genuinely curious.

"No," Y/N answered, her voice steadying. "Not yet."

They sat in the quiet for a moment before Y/N looked toward the sliding glass doors. The night was dark, but the air outside looked still and inviting compared to the sudden, clinical tension of the living room.

"I want to go for a walk," she whispered. "Down to the lake."

"Is that safe?" Shane asked, his protective instincts flaring.

"It’s fine, Shane," Y/N reminded him with a faint smile. "I just need to move. While I still can."

-—-

The grass was cool and damp against their feet as they navigated the gentle slope down to the shoreline. The lake was a sheet of black glass, reflecting the scattered silver of the stars and the dense, dark silhouette of the pines.

They walked in a slow, protective formation. Shane’s hand never left the small of Y/N’s back, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles through the fabric of her shirt. Ilya walked on her other side, his head swiveling like a sentry’s, his eyes adjusted to the dark. The frantic noise of the TV and the chaotic scramble of the living room felt miles away.

As they approached the dock, Y/N’s pace faltered. She felt the familiar, heavy tightening begin—a slow-climbing wave that demanded her full attention.

"Wait," she breathed, her fingers digging into Shane’s forearm.

"I’ve got you," Shane whispered instantly. He stepped in front of her, letting her lean her full weight against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his large hands splaying flat over her heavy, hardened belly. He held her there, providing a solid, unwavering brace, and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to her temple. "Just lean into me, Y/N. I’m right here."

Ilya moved behind her, his large, warm hands pressing firmly into her lower back to provide the counter-pressure she needed. He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath steady and hot against her skin. He didn't say a word, but the way he anchored her—his chest pressed to her back, sandwiching her between him and Shane—made her feel entirely encased in safety.

When the tension finally bled away, Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale. She didn't move away; she stayed tucked between them, the smell of woodsmoke and lake water filling her lungs.

Ilya shifted, sliding one hand from her back around to her front. His fingers met Shane’s over the curve of her stomach. He felt a small, sharp kick from within, and a rare, soft smile broke across his face. He leaned down, pressing a rough, affectionate kiss to the top of her head before turning his gaze out across the water.

He looked at the small island that sat a few hundred yards from their shore. It was little more than a cluster of rock and dark trees, lonely in the center of the lake.

"Look at that island," Ilya said, his voice dropping into that rough, melodic rasp that usually only came out in the deepest parts of the night.

Y/N looked, her head still resting on Shane's shoulder while Ilya’s arms remained looped around her. "It’s beautiful tonight."

Ilya’s grip tightened just a fraction, his thumb tracing the side of her belly. He wasn't a man for grand, poetic speeches—he was a man of direct, bone-deep truths. He looked at the island, then at Shane, then down at Y/N.

"One day," Ilya began, his tone carrying that blunt, arrogant certainty that was so uniquely him.

Shane watched him, his own hand resting protectively over Ilya’s, his eyes soft.

"I am going to fill the whole thing with candles," Ilya continued, his eyes shimmering with a rare, raw vulnerability. "Thousands of them. It will look like the stars fell down onto the water. And when it is glowing so bright you can see it from the moon, I am going to take both of you there. And I am going to propose. Properly."

He shrugged slightly, as if the sheer scale of the gesture were a simple matter of fact. "It is what you deserve. To be seen. To be claimed. Both of you."

The weight of the promise hung in the air, more sacred than any traditional vow. In the silence of the woods, with a baby on the way and the world of hockey still reeling from Scott Hunter’s bravery, the idea of a candlelit island felt less like a dream and more like an inevitable destination.

Shane reached out, his hand moving from Y/N’s stomach to cup Ilya’s jaw, pulling him in for a brief, hard kiss before turning back to Y/N and kissing her forehead. "I think I’d like that," Shane whispered.

"You will like it because I will make it perfect," Ilya countered with a ghost of a smirk, though he didn't look away from the water. He gave Y/N’s belly one last, gentle pat. "But for now, we just get back to the house. It's time to have a baby."

taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003 @fandom1ruined2me @viamiasoncrack @laughsandlivia @conniesrockstargf @sellyna068 @lilyyy4241 @erikan809 @ankouh @stephanie8114 @sillyaa @miuangel @h-l-m @casey1-2007 @lovely-flower75 @honeysblogx @emerald-serpentine @bethexo07 @jungw1 @ever-siince-new-york @buckyroobuckaroo @bronte-wonderland @yellowunicorn @lovely-flower75 @oddjaid @wonieeee @itsnerdgirl6044 @poguestyleskye @sweetiedeet @lyssalove-777 @euphoricqs @1dluvr12 @areyouwithsworld @kyleeisahotmess @jezzebear @lilemilyx @spidermansfav333 @exposemarker06 @sheslikeacurse @kaitieskidmore97 @clearpoetryobservation-blog @cheese10001 @roslandrose @itsjustelizabeth @ajemy @chauchirem @q0807 @void--life @saik-k @elizabethhh-paigeee

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: labor

Chapter 28

-—-

The transition from "hockey world" to "baby world" was jarring. Cathy had only just finished setting her bags on the table when Shane’s phone began to vibrate on the kitchen island, the screen lighting up with a picture of his mom.

He looked at Y/N, then at the phone, then back at Y/N. "It’s my mother," he whispered, a look of mild panic crossing his face. "She’s definitely calling about the game."

"Answer it," Y/N panted, leaning her weight against the back of the sofa.

Shane stepped into the kitchen, his voice hushed. "Hey, Mom."

"Shane! Did you see it?" His mother’s voice was high and breathless, audible even to Ilya across the room. "The game! And Scott Hunter—oh, Shane, your father and I are just sitting here in shock. It was so brave! We were saying how much the world is changing, and I thought of you and Ilya and—"

"Mom, it was incredible," Shane interrupted, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who was slowly rocking her hips to manage the dull ache in her lower back. "Listen, I can't really talk right now."

"Why? Is everything okay?"

"No...yes," Shane said, dropping the bomb with a shaky, lopsided grin. "Y/N is in labor."

The silence on the other end of the line lasted exactly one second before a literal shriek erupted. "Labor?! Now?! Shane! Why are you on the phone with me? Is the bag packed? Is the car running? We’re coming over, I’ll bring the—"

"Mom! Mom, stop," Shane said firmly, glancing at Cathy, who was watching him with an amused expression. "We aren't going to the hospital. We’re doing the home birth, remember? The midwife, Cathy, just got here. Everything is fine. It’s quiet. We’re... we're handling it."

"But I could help! I could make tea, or I could—"

"Mom, I love you, but no," Shane said, his voice softening but remaining immovable. "We need it to be just us right now. I just wanted you to know it was happening so you could... I don't know, pray to the hockey gods or whatever you do. I’ll call you in the morning. Or as soon as there’s a baby."

"Oh, Shane. Okay," his mother whispered, her voice thick with sudden tears. "We’ll stay by the phone. Give her our love. Tell her she's a warrior."

Shane hung up and leaned his forehead against the cool marble of the kitchen island for a brief second before heading back into the living room.

-—-

Following Cathy’s advice to "rest while you still can," the three of them retreated to the master bedroom. The birthing pool sat ready in the living room, a silent plastic sentinel under the dim glow of the kitchen light.

They settled into the large bed in a practiced, protective tangle. Y/N was in the center, propped up on her side by a mountain of pillows to take the pressure off her back. Shane was to her left, and Ilya was to her right, both men lying on top of the covers, still in their soft clothes.

"Try to close your eyes," Shane whispered, his voice thick with sleepiness. He reached over, his fingers loosely interlaced with Y/N’s.

Shane drifted first, his breathing leveling out into the rhythmic, heavy pull of a professional athlete’s recovery. But even in sleep, his brow remained slightly furrowed, and his hand would twitch every time Y/N shifted, his subconscious refusing to fully disengage from the room’s high-stakes energy.

Ilya, however, was a different story.

He lay perfectly still, but his eyes were wide, fixed on the shadow of the pine trees dancing on the ceiling. He was a man built on instincts and reaction times, and right now, every sense he possessed was tuned to the woman beside him.

Every time Y/N’s breathing hitched, Ilya’s head turned. Every time she let out a tiny, unconscious whimper as a mild contraction rippled through her, he was instantly leaning over her. He didn't speak, not wanting to wake Shane or disturb her fragile rest, but his hand was constantly moving—adjusting the edge of the duvet, checking the temperature of her skin, or resting a heavy, warm palm on the curve of her hip to let her know he was there.

-—-

Around 2:00 AM, Y/N shifted with a low groan, her eyes fluttering open.

"Ilya," she breathed, seeing his silhouette in the dark. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

"I am resting," he lied, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet room. He reached out, smoothing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

Y/N reached for his hand, pulling it to her lips. "You're going to be exhausted when the real work starts."

"I do not need sleep," Ilya muttered, shifting closer until his chest was pressed against her shoulder. He felt the baby give a sluggish, late-night kick against his ribs. "I just need you to be okay."

Shane let out a soft, snoring huff in his sleep, his hand tightening on Y/N’s other side as if responding to the sound of their voices.

The cottage was silent, the lake outside was still, and for a few fleeting hours, the three of them existed in a suspended, quiet bubble of anticipation. The long night was only halfway over, but in the dark, with his hands on the life they had built, Ilya finally felt the restlessness turn into a fierce, quiet peace.

-—-

The first rays of the morning sun began to bleed through the slats of the wooden blinds, painting long, golden stripes across the bed. The world outside the cottage was waking up—the distant call of a loon on the lake and the soft rustle of the pines—but inside, the air remained thick with the heavy, concentrated rhythm of labor.

Y/N hadn't slept in over an hour. She lay in the center of the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her body working with a quiet, fierce intensity. Every few minutes, her breath would hitch, turning into a focused, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh as she rode out a contraction. She didn't move, didn't want to wake the men, but her fingers were curled tightly into the soft fabric of the duvet.

Shane stirred first. He blinked against the light, his hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. For a second, he looked disoriented, but as soon as he heard the tell-tale catch in Y/N’s breath, his eyes cleared instantly.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. He watched her for a moment—the sweat at her temples, the grit in her jaw, the sheer, quiet power of her—and his chest swelled with something so heavy it felt like it might burst.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick and husky with sleep. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a thumb over her cheekbone. "You're awake. How long have you been doing this alone?"

"Not long," Y/N panted, the wave finally receding. She turned her head toward him, her eyes tired but bright. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked like you finally crashed."

Shane leaned over, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her temple, his eyes shining with a sudden, raw emotion. "Y/N... God, I am so proud of you. I'm sitting here watching you do the hardest thing in the world, and you’re just... you’re incredible." He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his gaze intense. "I'm so grateful. For everything. For this life, for this baby, for the way you’re handling all of us. You’re a warrior."

Ilya didn't wake with a start; he simply opened his eyes, as if he had been waiting for the signal. He had heard Shane’s voice, but his attention was immediately on Y/N’s face. He saw the flush in her cheeks and the way her hand was still gripping the blanket. He looked at Shane, a silent understanding passing between them. The time for resting was over.

"I'm going to get Cathy," Shane said, giving Y/N’s hand one last, firm squeeze before sliding out of bed. "And I'm going to check the water in the pool."

Y/N didn't answer with words; she just closed her eyes as the next surge began to climb, her hand tightening around Ilya’s iron-strong fingers.

-—-

The soft, golden morning light did nothing to soften the edge that had suddenly entered the room. The transition into "active" labor was no longer a slow-moving marathon; it had become a sprint. The contractions were hitting every four minutes now, sharp and jagged, leaving Y/N with barely enough time to catch her breath before the next one began to swell.

She moved from the bed to the dresser, then to the birthing ball, then back to her feet, her movements frantic and unsettled. Nothing felt right. The pillows were too soft, the floor was too hard, and the air in the cottage felt suddenly, stiflingly thin.

Shane and Ilya were following her like two satellites orbiting a storm. Every time she groaned, Shane moved in with a water bottle; every time she winced, Ilya reached out to provide counter-pressure.

"Y/N, try the ball again," Shane suggested, his voice tight with a desire to help. "Maybe if you lean against the bed while you—"

"No," she barked, her voice snapping like a whip. She paced toward the window, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"You are holding your breath," Ilya noted, his brow furrowed in deep, concentrated worry. He stepped toward her, his large hand extending instinctively toward the high, hard curve of her belly as another contraction began to peak. "If you relax the muscles here, the pain will—"

As his fingers brushed the fabric of her hoodie, Y/N recoiled as if she’d been burned. She slapped his hand away, her eyes flashing with a raw, feral intensity.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed, the sound guttural and fierce.

Both men froze. Ilya’s hand stayed suspended in mid-air, his expression a mix of shock and wounded concern. Shane took a half-step back, his palms raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Just... back away!" she commanded, her body doubling over as the peak of the wave hit. She gripped the back of a heavy wooden chair, her knuckles turning a ghostly white. "Stop hovering. Stop talking. Stop looking at me. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to be bothered. Just leave me alone!"

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Y/N’s rhythmic, pained huffs.

Shane looked at Ilya, a silent communication passing between them. They had spent months reading about "transition" and the irritability that came with it, but the reality of being the target of her exhaustion was a different beast.

Ilya’s jaw worked, his protective instincts screaming at him to close the distance, but he forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. He tucked his hands into his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor to give her the "space" she was demanding.

Cathy appeared in the doorway, taking in the vibrating tension of the room with a calm, unimpressed look. She caught Shane’s eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"She’s not angry at you," Cathy said softly to the men, her voice low enough that it wouldn't grate on Y/N’s heightened senses. "She’s just busy. Let her lead."

-—-

The tension in the room was a physical weight, thick enough to choke on. Y/N stood by the foot of the bed, swaying slightly, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. Shane and Ilya stood like statues near the door, barely breathing, trying to be the "silent support" she’d demanded only moments ago.

Then, it happened.

It wasn't a dramatic splash like in the movies, but a sudden, warm rush that soaked through her joggers. Y/N gasped, her eyes flying open wide as she looked down at the floor. The dampness spread quickly, a final, undeniable signal that the gates were open.

"My water," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It just… it broke."

Shane and Ilya both surged forward instantly, their athlete's reflexes kicking in, but they skidded to a halt a foot away from her. They hovered there, hands half-extended but vibrating with hesitation. After the way she had snapped, they looked like two giant, powerful men who were suddenly terrified of their own touch. Shane’s fingers twitched, desperate to reach for her waist, while Ilya’s jaw was clamped so tight it looked painful, his eyes darting from the floor to her face.

They were waiting for a green light that Y/N wasn't giving yet.

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of the house settling and the soft hum of the birthing pool in the next room. The reality of the moment—the realization that there was no turning back, that the baby was coming now—suddenly crashed over Y/N like a tidal wave. The adrenaline that had fueled her anger evaporated, leaving behind nothing but raw, overwhelming vulnerability.

Her bottom lip began to tremble. Her eyes filled, the light of the morning sun turning her tears into glass.

"I'm sorry," she wailed, the sound breaking the silence. Her hands came up to cover her face as she began to cry in earnest, her shoulders heaving. "I'm so sorry. I was so mean to you both."

The hesitation vanished instantly.

Shane was the first to close the gap, wrapping his arms around her from the front and pulling her face into the crook of his neck. "Oh, hey, no. Shh, look at me," he murmured, his own voice thick. "There is nothing to be sorry for. You’re doing amazing, Y/N."

Ilya moved in like a silent shadow behind her, his large hands anchoring her shoulders before sliding down to lock with Shane's around her. He didn't reach for her belly this time; he just held her steady, his strength acting as a literal cage against her fear.

"You were not mean," Ilya grumbled, his voice a deep, comforting vibration against her ear. He pressed his forehead to the back of her head. "You are in labor."

Y/N pulled back just enough to look at them, her eyes red and streaming, her face a mask of exhaustion and love. She looked at Shane’s worried, blue eyes and Ilya’s fierce, protective gaze. "I'm just so scared. It’s all happening so fast now."

Shane wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his expression softening into something so tender it hurt to look at. "We've got you. We’re right here. It's just us."

Cathy knocked softly on the doorframe, her expression encouraging. "That was the 'pop.' Things move quickly now. Let's get those wet clothes off and see how you're progressing."

taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003 @fandom1ruined2me @viamiasoncrack @laughsandlivia @conniesrockstargf @sellyna068 @lilyyy4241 @erikan809 @ankouh @stephanie8114 @sillyaa @miuangel @h-l-m @casey1-2007 @lovely-flower75 @honeysblogx @emerald-serpentine @bethexo07 @jungw1 @ever-siince-new-york @buckyroobuckaroo @bronte-wonderland @yellowunicorn @lovely-flower75 @oddjaid @wonieeee @itsnerdgirl6044 @poguestyleskye @sweetiedeet @lyssalove-777 @euphoricqs @1dluvr12 @areyouwithsworld @kyleeisahotmess @jezzebear @lilemilyx @spidermansfav333 @exposemarker06 @sheslikeacurse @kaitieskidmore97 @clearpoetryobservation-blog @cheese10001 @roslandrose @itsjustelizabeth @ajemy @chauchirem @q0807 @void--life @saik-k @elizabethhh-paigeee

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: pure smut

Chapter 12

-—-

The past week had been a slow-motion exercise in psychological warfare. To any outsider, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were being the "perfect" partners—attentive, protective, and endlessly patient. To Y/N, they were being two of the most infuriating men on the planet.

The hormones had hit her like a freight train, leaving her skin sensitive and her nerves frayed with a constant, humming need that her boys seemed determined to ignore in the name of "safety."

-—-

Last week, Ilya had been standing at the stove, the sleeves of his gray henley pushed up to reveal his thick, scarred forearms. Y/N had approached him from behind, sliding her hands under his shirt and pressing her front against the solid heat of his back.

Ilya had let out a long, pained groan, but he didn't turn around. Instead, he gently took her wrists and pulled them out from under his shirt. "Not now, solnyshko," he’d rumbled. "Doctor says stress is bad. We wait."

-—-

A few days ago, Y/N had straddled Shane in the armchair, whispering exactly what she wanted. Shane’s eyes had darkened, but then he’d looked down at the swell of her stomach. "Y/N, you’re flushed," he’d said, his voice soft and paternal. "Maybe we should just… do some breathing exercises? I can rub your feet instead."

"Shane Hollander," she’d snapped, "if you say the words 'breathing exercises' to me one more time, I am going to throw that book at your head."

-—-

Tuesday evening marked the absolute end of her rope. The fire was crackling in the hearth, and the house was far too quiet for the storm brewing in her core. Shane was on the sofa, eyes glued to game tape, his mind lost in a world of offensive schemes and playbooks. Ilya was at the kitchen island, peeling an orange with a meticulous, agonizing focus that made her skin crawl with restless energy.

Wearing nothing but one of Shane’s white dress shirts—the bottom three buttons undone to accommodate her bump and the heat rising in her skin—she stepped directly between Shane and the television, cutting off the screen entirely.

"Y/N, I'm trying to watch—" Shane started, the words dying in his throat as his gaze traveled up from the floor. His eyes caught on the pale, bare curve of her legs before snapping up to the open collar of his own shirt against her collarbone. He stuttered, his breath hitching, his focus suddenly and violently yanked away from the game and anchored entirely on her.

"I don't care about the tape," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.

She looked over her shoulder at Ilya, who had stopped mid-peel, a slice of orange forgotten in his hand. She knew he was watching from the island—she could feel the weight of his stare like a physical heat on her back—but she kept her eyes locked on Shane. She knew how much Ilya enjoyed the view of her with another man, especially when that man was Shane.

She stepped closer to the sofa, bracing her hands firmly on Shane’s knees and leaning deep into his space. "I have spent weeks being handled like a piece of fine china," she hissed, her eyes flashing. "I am a grown woman, I am carrying your child, and if someone doesn't put their hands on me in the next ten seconds, I am going to find a hotel and a very expensive vibrator."

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of two men reaching their absolute limit. Behind her, the orange hit the floor with a soft, wet thud. Ilya didn't bother picking it up. He rounded the island, his movements no longer careful or hesitant; he looked like a hunter who had finally been given permission to strike.

"You are being very demanding," Ilya rumbled, his voice a dark, vibrating bass as he reached them.

He didn't stop until he was looming over her. He reached out, his large hand coming around to cup the back of her neck and throat—not squeezing, just grounding her, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw while he watched Shane’s reaction to her touch.

Shane’s hands shot out, his fingers digging into her hips with a possessive strength. "Ilya, we should be careful," he gasped out.

"She is not glass, Hollander," Ilya growled, his eyes locked on Y/N’s. "She wants this? She gets it."

Ilya stepped back just enough to survey the scene, his eyes dark with a familiar, competitive hunger. He wasn't going to let Shane’s caution dictate the night anymore, but he wasn't in a rush to end it, either. He wanted to savor every inch of the woman they had been too afraid to touch for weeks.

"Kiss her," Ilya commanded, his voice a low, steady vibration that filled the quiet room.

It was an echo of years ago, a throwback to the early days when Ilya used to push Shane’s buttons by making him perform, but the stakes were entirely different now. Shane didn’t hesitate. He surged upward from the sofa, his mouth crashing against Y/N’s with a desperation that had been building since the moment the doctor first put her on rest.

While Shane claimed her lips, Ilya moved with a predator’s patience. He didn't join the kiss yet. Instead, he dropped to his knees behind her. His large, scarred hands began a slow, deliberate tour of her body. He started at her ankles, his palms grazing upward, savoring the silkiness of her skin that had been hidden away under sweatpants for too long.

The sensory overload was dizzying for Y/N. Above her, Shane was pouring every ounce of his pent-up worry and love into a bruising kiss; behind her, Ilya was worshiping the body that was carrying their child. His touch was agonizingly slow. While her tongue tangled with Shane’s and her fingers knotted into his hair, she felt Ilya’s thumbs tracing the sensitive skin behind her knees, then moving higher. He leaned in, pressing a lingering, worshipful kiss to the center of her back through the thin cotton of the shirt, his hands splayed wide over her hips to anchor her.

When Shane finally pulled back, breathless and eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and adoration, Ilya rose like a dark shadow to take his turn. He cupped her face in both hands, tilting her head back until her eyes met his. He claimed her mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping against hers in a slow, rhythmic demand that made her knees buckle.

Desperate for the friction, her heart hammering against her ribs, Y/N began to move too quickly against Shane. She tried to hook her leg around his waist, her breath hitching into a frantic sob as she reached for the relief she’d been denied. She was frantic, her movements uncoordinated in her rush.

Ilya suddenly gripped her shoulders, his strength absolute as he pulled her back just an inch. His face was a mask of stern, heated control, his chest heaving.

"Stop," he breathed, the word vibrating against her swollen lips, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it. "We are not in a hurry. We take our time."

"Ilya, please, I need—" she whined, her voice high and desperate.

"Sit," he commanded, pointing to the armchair.

Y/N slumped into the chair, her chest heaving and her skin flushed. She watched, whimpering and whiny, as Ilya turned his focus to Shane. The two men collided in the center of the room, a mess of broad shoulders and low grunts. Y/N gripped the armrests of the chair, her body vibrating with a need that was bordering on painful. She let out a small, frustrated sob as she watched them, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Patience, solnyshko," Ilya murmured over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with triumph as he saw how needy she had become. "This is what you wanted."

-—-

The shift to the bedroom was a blur of heavy heat and the scent of woodsmoke. As Y/N was lowered onto the mattress, the white shirt was peeled back, exposing her fully. Her breasts were heavy and sensitive, the blue veins beneath the skin tracing the changes of her third trimester, and her belly was a smooth, tight mound that both men looked at with a mix of hunger and reverence.

Ilya moved to the end of the bed, his large hands catching Y/N’s ankles and spreading her legs wide, resting them over his broad shoulders. He knelt there for a moment, his eyes dark as he took in the sight of her—flushed and needy.

While Ilya moved in, Shane settled at her side, his focus entirely on the ache she’d been complaining about for days. He reached out, his palms warm as they cupped her heavy, aching breasts. He began to knead the sensitive tissue with a slow, rhythmic pressure, his thumbs grazing over her nipples until she let out a jagged moan. The sensation was borderline overwhelming—the sharp, electric pull in her chest contrasting with the heavy, liquid heat spreading between her thighs.

Ilya didn't make her wait. He leaned forward, his large hands sliding under her hips to anchor her, and pressed his face into her heat. His first stroke was deep and devastatingly slow, his tongue catching every drop of her arousal. Y/N’s head hit the pillow hard, her eyes rolling back as the dual sensation of Shane’s hands and Ilya’s mouth pulled her in two different directions.

"Ilya, please," she whimpered, her fingers knotting into the silk pillowcase.

Ilya didn't rush. He was methodical, his tongue moving in firm, steady laps that made her hips buck involuntarily. He looked up once, his lips glistening, his eyes meeting Shane’s over the curve of her stomach. The communication was silent—a shared satisfaction in finally giving her exactly what she required.

Shane leaned down, his mouth replacing his fingers on one breast, his tongue swirling around the peak as he continued to knead the other. The focused attention on her chest sent a direct line of heat to where Ilya was working, and the tension in Y/N’s body began to coil into a tight, frantic spring.

She was hovering on the edge, her breath coming in short, panicked hitches. Ilya sensed the change and increased the pressure, his tongue flickering faster against her center while his thumbs pressed into her inner thighs.

"Let it go, dusha," Ilya murmured against her skin.

With one final, heavy press of Shane’s hand and a sharp, suctioning pull from Ilya, the dam broke. Y/N’s body went rigid, a violent, toe-curling climax rolling through her. She cried out, her fingers flying to Shane’s hair as she shook under the force of it, the weeks of physical frustration finally shattering into a thousand points of light.

Ilya didn't move to pull away. Instead, he crawled up the length of the bed, his massive frame looming over Y/N as he draped himself beside her. He looked at her with a raw, unshielded pride, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray tear of overstimulation at the corner of her eye.

"Better?" he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly caress.

Y/N couldn't find her voice, so she simply reached for him. She pulled Ilya down, her mouth seeking his in a kiss that tasted of her own arousal and his possessive hunger. Ilya met her with a bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping against hers in a slow, rhythmic dance that spoke of a different kind of need now—one that wasn't about her "fragility," but about their shared connection.

As they made out, the focus shifted to the man who had spent the last hour worshipping her body. Shane was still beside them, his chest heaving, his own need a palpable, heavy weight in the air. He had been so focused on Y/N’s pleasure, so terrified of hurting her, that he had pushed his own desire to the back burner.

Ilya, never breaking the deep, searching kiss with Y/N, reached down. His large, calloused hand found Shane.

The contrast was stark—the softness of Y/N’s lips against Ilya’s mouth and the firm, demanding grip of Ilya’s hand on Shane. Shane let out a choked, broken sound against Y/N’s shoulder, his eyes slamming shut as Ilya began to move. Ilya’s touch wasn't gentle; it was the grip of a man who knew exactly how much pressure his partner could take, a rhythmic, steady friction that forced Shane to arch his back off the mattress.

Y/N pulled back from the kiss just enough to watch, her hand resting over her bump as she witnessed the two men who anchored her world. She reached out, her fingers tangling in Shane’s hair, pulling his head down so she could whisper praise against his ear while Ilya worked.

Shane opened his eyes, his gaze flickering between Y/N’s flushed face and Ilya’s dark, focused expression. Ilya increased the pace, his jaw tight as he watched the pleasure wash over Shane’s features. When Shane finally broke, his body going taut as he spilled over Ilya’s hand and the sheets, he buried his face in the crook of Y/N’s neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

He shifted to his side, propping himself up to keep his weight off her bump. His other hand reached down, his fingers finding Y/N's clit. His thumb began a steady, agonizingly perfect circle, sparking the embers of her first climax back into a flame.

This was the signal Ilya had been waiting for. No longer content to just watch, Ilya moved back to the foot of the bed, keeping her legs over his shoulders to give her belly plenty of space. He guided his thick length to her entrance, teasing the opening for a heartbeat before he pushed inside with a long, slow slide.

"God, Ilya," Y/N gasped, her hands flying to the headboard. He was massive and solid, finally filling the void that had felt so hollow for a week.

The connection between the two men became undeniable. Shane leaned across Y/N and reached for Ilya, pulling him down into a deep, desperate kiss. Ilya didn't stop moving; if anything, the kiss made his thrusts deeper, more primal. He began to fuck her with a rhythmic intensity, his balls slapping against her with a wet, heavy sound as he drove into her.

Y/N watched them through hooded eyes, the sight of her two men devouring each other while Ilya claimed her body almost more than she could take. She felt the vibration of Ilya’s low, guttural Russian growls against her own skin as he breathed them into Shane’s mouth.

"You like that, don't you?" Shane panted, finally breaking the kiss to look down at Y/N. His face was flushed, his lips swollen from Ilya, but his hand remained firmly on her clit. "Watching us?"

"Please," was all Y/N could manage, her hips bucking to meet Ilya’s deep strokes.

Ilya reached out, one hand gripping the mattress while the other found Y/N’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He looked at Shane, a silent communication passing between them, and they both increased the pace. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, internal fullness of Ilya’s thrusts and the sharp electric spark of Shane’s thumb.

When the climax finally hit, it was all-consuming. Y/N’s internal walls clamped down on Ilya, and he let out a triumphant shout as he came deep inside her. Shane didn't let up, his thumb sparking the final waves of her second orgasm until she was sobbing with the intensity. Shane followed a moment later with a second release of his own, his body shaking as he collapsed back onto the pillows beside her.

In the quiet afterglow, they didn't pull apart. Ilya moved up the bed to lie on her other side, his heavy arm draped carefully over the top of her bump, while Shane curled around her from the other side. For the first time in a week, the house was silent, the three of them finally back in sync.

Taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003 @fandom1ruined2me @viamiasoncrack @laughsandlivia @conniesrockstargf @sellyna068 @lilyyy4241 @erikan809 @ankouh @stephanie8114 @sillyaa

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: smut

Chapter 20

-—-

The handshake line at center ice felt more like a release than a funeral. The Montreal Metros had fought hard, but the final buzzer of Game 5 signaled the end of their season. As Shane skated off for the last time that year, the crushing disappointment he usually felt was curiously muted.

By the time he pulled into the cottage driveway, the sting of the loss had been replaced by a singular, driving need to be inside. He didn't feel like a losing captain; he felt like a man who had finally been granted a reprieve.

He pushed through the front door, dropping his gear in the mudroom with a satisfying thud. In the living room, the low glow of the TV illuminated the space. Ilya was reclined on the sofa, and Y/N was tucked into his side, her feet propped up on the coffee table as they watched a quiet late-night replay. They both looked up as he entered, and the tension that had been coiled in Shane’s chest for weeks finally snapped.

"I'm home," he breathed.

"About time, Hollander," Ilya grunted, though his eyes held a rare, warm relief. Y/N just smiled, patting the empty spot on the couch beside her. Shane didn't even stop to change; he just sank into the cushions, letting the familiar quiet of the cottage wash over him. He was home, he was twenty minutes away from his family, and he wasn't leaving again.

-—-

A few days later, Y/N found herself stirring awake from an afternoon nap to the low, frantic rumble of voices coming from the living room. She stayed under the duvet for a moment, listening to the familiar cadence of her two favorite men—except they sounded like they were in the middle of a heated scouting meeting.

She rubbed her eyes and padded down the hallway, stopping just out of sight.

"It is a name for a high-end bottled water, Hollander. Or a yoga mat," Ilya’s voice was flat and unimpressed.

"It’s modern, Ilya! It’s light!" Shane’s voice was rising in that specific pitch it took when he was defending a power-play strategy. "I like Skylar. It’s pretty."

"It is boring," Ilya countered. "She needs a name with history. Something strong. Something that sounds like she could lead an army or write a symphony. Like Ekaterina."

"We live in rural Quebec, not a Tolstoy novel," Shane shot back. "She’ll spend her whole life spelling it for people. What about Madison?"

"No," Ilya growled. "I will not name my daughter after the place where you just lost a series."

Y/N finally leaned against the doorframe, watching them. They were sitting on the floor surrounded by three different baby name books and a legal pad covered in aggressive scribbles. Shane looked like he was ready to drop gloves, and Ilya looked like he was ready to check Shane through the coffee table.

"What about Viktoria?" Ilya tried again. "With a K."

"That sounds like she should be wearing a cape and carrying a sword," Shane argued.

"Exactly! She should have a sword! You want her to be a 'Skylar' and float away in the wind?"

Y/N finally cleared her throat, causing both men to jump. "You know, if you two keep this up, I’m just going to name her after the first thing I see when I leave the hospital. How does 'Exit Sign' sound to you?"

"Y/N," Shane said, looking sheepish as he scrambled to his feet to help her to the couch. "We’re just... brainstorming."

"You’re bickering," she corrected, sinking into the cushions. "And you’ve been doing it for weeks. Every time one of you likes a name, the other one hates it just because he didn't think of it first."

Ilya looked at the pad, then at Shane, his jaw set stubbornly. "He has boring taste."

"And he’s stuck in the eighteenth century," Shane countered.

Y/N reached out, taking both of their hands and pulling them toward her. "New rule: no more books. No more lists. We’re done talking about it."

"So she stays 'The Kraken'?" Ilya asked, referring to his favorite nickname for the baby's kicks.

"For now," Y/N smiled. "We wait until we see her. I bet the second we hold her, we’ll know if she’s a 'Viktoria' or a 'Skylar' or something else entirely. Deal?"

Shane looked at Ilya, who let out a long, begrudging sigh.

"Fine," Ilya muttered. "But if she looks like a Viktoria, I am saying 'I told you so' for the next eighteen years."

"Deal," Shane laughed, finally relaxing and pulling Y/N into his lap. "I can live with those odds."

-—-

The morning sun filtered through the cottage windows, catching the ribbed texture of the forest-green jersey dress Y/N had chosen for comfort. For her, it was a practical choice for her aching back and swollen feet, but for Shane and Ilya, it was a target. Every time she reached for a coffee mug, the fabric pulled tight across the high, hard swell of her eight-month bump, showcasing the way her body had ripened.

Shane was a goner by noon. His needy energy manifested as a constant, restless shadowing; he followed her from the kitchen to the porch, his hand perpetually snagging the hem of her dress.

"I can’t do this all day, Y/N," he whined, his voice breaking as he watched the dress ride up her thighs. "You’re so hot and you're just... walking around like this. Do you have any idea what it’s doing to me?"

"I'm a parade float, Shane. Go sit down," Y/N sighed, her cheeks flushing as she tried to tug the fabric higher to hide the heavy, enlarged curve of her breasts.

Ilya loomed behind her, a silent, touchy shadow. He didn't say anything at first, but his hand found the small of her back, his thumb tracing the dip of her spine before splaying his palm over the side of her belly.

"Let him whine," Ilya rumbled, his voice a low vibration. "He has no discipline. But he’s right—stop hiding what belongs to us."

-—-

As the sun dipped behind the treeline, the tension finally snapped. Y/N was hesitant, her insecurities making her want to curl into a ball. She felt clumsy and vast, convinced their attraction was just post-season adrenaline. When Ilya finally scooped her up to take her to the bedroom, she fought him half-heartedly.

"I’m too heavy, Ilya! Put me down."

"I lift more than you weigh for breakfast," he countered, kicking the bedroom door shut.

Inside the room, the amber lamps were low. As the green dress finally hit the floor, Y/N immediately crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes darting to the floor.

"I’m so big," she whispered. "It can’t be hot. I look like I’m going to pop."

"Look at me," Ilya ordered, gently prying her arms away to expose her to the light. "You see a burden; I see everything I have ever wanted."

Ilya propped Y/N up against a mountain of pillows, showcasing her body before directing Shane to lie flat on his back at the foot of the bed.

"Sit for him," Ilya commanded.

With Ilya’s steadying hands on her hips, Y/N lowered herself to straddle Shane’s face. The positioning was absolute—Shane’s tongue was free to worship her, his nose pressed against the base of her belly. He was starving, his tongue working with a frantic, rhythmic suction. As he worked, Ilya knelt at the side, his hand wrapping around Shane’s length, pumping him with a slow, agonizingly steady friction.

"Please, Ilya," Shane muffled against her skin. "I’m right there."

"Not for you," Ilya grunted, his thumb pressing hard at the base to stall him. "This is for Y/N. Only for her."

The sensation of Shane’s devotion pushed Y/N over the edge, her body shuddering through a sharp climax that left her gasping. But Ilya wasn't finished. He pulled Y/N toward the center of the bed and turned Shane over, forcing him onto his hands and knees.

"Shane, stay right there," Ilya commanded.

Ilya crawled onto the bed behind Shane, but his focus remained entirely on Y/N. He moved forward until he could bury his face in the heavy, aching fullness of Y/N’s chest. He groaned low in his throat, his mouth closing over one sensitive peak, his tongue swirling while his hands kneaded the weight of her breasts.

"He’s been a brat all day," Ilya rumbled against her skin, capturing her mouth in a deep, wet kiss. "Help me get him ready."

While they made out, their tongues tangling in a slow, rhythmic heat, Y/N reached down behind Ilya’s moving form. She found Shane, using her fingers to begin the slow, rhythmic process of opening him up. Shane let out a high, broken wail against the mattress, his face buried in the duvet as Y/N worked her fingers, mimicking the stretch he craved.

"He’s ready," Y/N whispered against Ilya’s lips.

Ilya shifted, gripping Shane’s hips with hands that left bruising marks of possession. Without breaking the kiss with Y/N, Ilya entered Shane. He used his own length to fuck Shane, a slow, punishing stretch that vibrated through the mattress.

The contrast was staggering: Ilya’s upper body was tender, his face lost in the softness of Y/N’s chest as he kissed her breathless, while his lower body was ruthless, driving into Shane with territorial force. Shane reached up, his hand finding Y/N's ass.

"Ilya, please... let me come!" Shane sobbed.

Ilya pulled out of Shane and propped Y/N up at the edge of the bed, her back against the headboard, and entered her with a slow, deep thrust that made her cry out his name.

Shane, desperate for any release, crawled up between her shoulders. He was trembling, his length weeping with the effort of being denied all day. Ilya looked down at the two of them, his eyes dark with the coming storm.

"Y/N, take him," Ilya commanded.

Y/N leaned forward, her heavy breasts swaying as she reached out to guide Shane. She took him into her mouth, her tongue working with a slow, swirling rhythm that sent Shane’s head lolling back against her thighs. Above her, Ilya began to move with a ruthless, bone-deep pace, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her.

The sensory overload was total—the warmth of Shane in her mouth, the rhythmic weight of Ilya inside her, and the sound of both men’s jagged breathing.

The dam finally broke for all of them. Y/N’s internal muscles pulsed around Ilya in a violent, rolling climax just as she felt Shane spend himself in her mouth with a loud, broken wail of relief. Seconds later, Ilya followed, his own release hitting with a silent, bone-deep intensity that left the three of them collapsed in a heap of exhausted limbs and damp skin.

"Still feel too big?" Ilya whispered into her ear, his hand resting over the baby's steady kick.

Y/N shook her head, her hand finding Shane’s damp hair as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. "No," she breathed. "I feel just right."

taglist:

@lunadi1una @justanotheraccount003 @fandom1ruined2me @viamiasoncrack @laughsandlivia @conniesrockstargf @sellyna068 @lilyyy4241 @erikan809 @ankouh @stephanie8114 @sillyaa @miuangel @h-l-m @casey1-2007 @lovely-flower75 @honeysblogx @emerald-serpentine @bethexo07 @jungw1 @ever-siince-new-york @buckyroobuckaroo @bronte-wonderland @yellowunicorn @lovely-flower75 @oddjaid @wonieeee @itsnerdgirl6044 @poguestyleskye @sweetiedeet @lyssalove-777 @euphoricqs @1dluvr12 @areyouwithsworld @kyleeisahotmess @jezzebear @lilemilyx @spidermansfav333 @exposemarker06 @sheslikeacurse