Ilya Rozanov Imagines ( I’ve added all my Ilya fics on Wattpad, so if you’d like to read more, feel free to check them out! I’ll leave the link here 💗)
Morning light makes everything softer.
The kitchen smells like butter and coffee and something warm turning golden in the pan. You’re barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing one of Shane’s oversized T-shirts because it’s the first thing your hand found and you like the way it hangs off your shoulder.
The house is quiet except for the gentle sizzle of eggs.
You’re flipping a pancake when you hear footsteps upstairs,two different rhythms, one careful and one lazy. Shane’s is measured, like he’s already thinking about the day. Ilya’s is confident, almost bouncing, like gravity is negotiable.
You don’t turn right away.
You smile into the steam rising from your mug.
Then you hear Ilya’s voice, warm and sleepy.
“Ох… смотрите.” Oh… look.
Shane’s voice follows, low, fond. “What are you doing?”
You glance over your shoulder. Both of them are at the bottom of the stairs.
Shane is in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still a little messy, blinking like he’s still waking up. Ilya is in just a T-shirt and shorts, hair sticking up in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Neither of them has fully entered the kitchen yet, like they’re paused in the doorway just watching you.
Your chest tightens in that gentle, domestic way that feels like home.
“Making breakfast,” you say simply, as if it isn’t obvious.
Ilya steps into the kitchen first, drawn by the smell and the sight of you like he has no choice. Shane follows slower, more cautious, but his eyes don’t leave you.
“I thought you were asleep,” Shane says.
“I was,” you reply. “Then I woke up and realized I wanted pancakes.”
Ilya makes a pleased sound. “Good choice.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You’re actually cooking?”
You glare at him playfully. “Excuse me?”
He holds his hands up. “No, no. I just,last time you tried to cook, you almost set off the smoke alarm.”
“That was one time,” you protest.
Ilya grins. “It was iconic.”
“It was traumatic,” Shane corrects.
“You both survived,” you say, turning back to the stove. “So clearly I’m improving.”
Ilya drifts closer behind you, and you feel his presence before he touches you. His hands settle lightly on your hips, and he leans in to press his face into your neck.
“You smell like soap,” he murmurs.
“And butter,” you add.
He hums, like that’s perfect. Then he says softly, in Russian, “Ты такая красивая утром.”
You’re so beautiful in the morning.
You freeze for half a second.
Shane pauses mid-step, looking between you and Ilya.
You turn your head just enough to glance at Ilya. “What did you say?”
Ilya’s lips curve, pleased with himself. “I said you’re beautiful in the morning.”
You swallow, warmth blooming in your chest. “In Russian.”
“Yes.”
Shane snorts softly. “Of course.”
Ilya looks at him like he’s offended. “What? It’s romantic.”
“It’s suspicious,” Shane replies automatically.
You laugh. “It is a little suspicious.”
Ilya clicks his tongue. “Fine. I will do English. You are beautiful in morning. Happy?”
Shane nods. “Less suspicious.”
Ilya looks at you, eyes bright. “But Russian is better.”
“Why?” you ask, flipping a pancake.
He shrugs, voice dropping. “Feels more… honest.”
That makes Shane go quiet for a second.
You feel it,the way the room shifts when emotion sneaks in. It always does, with you three. It’s never loud. Just… present.
You slide pancakes onto a plate. “Okay. Then say something else.”
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “You want more?”
“Yes,” you say calmly. “I want more.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Okay.”
He leans closer again, hands still on your hips, and murmurs, “Ты моё солнце.”
You’re my sunshine.
You blink, smiling despite yourself. “That’s cute.”
Shane clears his throat. “Do I get a translation for that one too?”
Ilya looks at him, deadpan. “No.”
Shane’s mouth twitches. “Rude.”
Ilya gestures vaguely. “She is sunshine. You are… Canadian cloud.”
Shane stares at him. “I’m sorry?”
You laugh, nearly dropping the spatula. “Canadian cloud?”
Shane points at you. “See? This is what I deal with.”
“You love him,” you say sweetly.
Shane exhales like he’s resigned. “Unfortunately.”
Ilya looks offended. “Unfortunately?”
Shane walks to the counter and steals a piece of bacon. “You’re unbearable in the morning.”
Ilya leans over your shoulder, whispering, “He is flirting.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m eating.”
“You always flirt when you eat,” Ilya says.
Shane chews and glares at him.
You set a plate in front of Shane. “Sit.”
Shane obeys immediately, because he’s disciplined like that. Then he looks up at you, expression softening.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says.
You tilt your head. “I wanted to.”
Shane’s gaze flicks to your shirt. “Is that mine?”
You glance down. “Yes.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Okay.”
Ilya scoffs. “He likes when you wear his clothes.”
Shane looks at Ilya. “You like when she wears yours too.”
Ilya smirks. “Yes. But I don’t pretend I don’t.”
You turn, pointing the spatula at them. “Both of you stop. Eat.”
Ilya slides into the chair beside Shane but keeps his hand on your thigh as you move around the kitchen. Like he needs contact to stay grounded.
Shane watches you quietly.
“You’re smiling,” you point out to him.
He blinks. “Am I?”
“Yes,” you say. “Why?”
Shane glances down at his plate, then back at you. “It’s just… nice.”
Ilya makes a soft sound. “He means domestic.”
Shane shoots him a look. “I mean calm.”
Ilya shrugs. “Same thing.”
You place a plate in front of Ilya. “Eat. No commentary.”
He looks at the food, impressed. “This is actually good.”
“Thank you,” you say.
He grins. “Поварёнок.”
Little chef.
You narrow your eyes. “Is that an insult?”
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s cute.”
Shane mutters, “He’s going to make Russian your love language.”
“I’m not complaining,” you admit.
Shane points his fork at you. “You will when he starts saying things you can’t translate.”
Ilya smirks. “Too late.”
You sit between them with your own coffee, the warmth of their shoulders on either side of you. It’s a simple moment,breakfast, sleepy smiles, a quiet morning,but it feels like something you want to keep forever.
Shane takes a bite and nods. “Okay. These pancakes are actually good.”
You grin. “Told you.”
Ilya chews thoughtfully, then says, “I approve.”
Shane glances at him. “You approve?”
“Yes.”
Shane’s mouth twitches. “Like a king.”
Ilya nods. “Exactly.”
You laugh. “You two are impossible.”
Shane looks at you, eyes soft. “And you love us.”
You pause.
Because he says it so simply. So sure.
You nod. “Yeah. I do.”
Ilya leans closer, his voice dropping. “And we love you.”
Shane hums in agreement. “Yeah.”
Your chest tightens again, warm and full.
You take a sip of coffee to hide it. “Okay, okay. Enough feelings. Eat your breakfast.”
Ilya’s hand squeezes your thigh under the table, gentle.
Shane’s knee nudges yours.
Neither of them pushes. They never do. They just… stay close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
After a moment, Ilya tilts his head. “Say something Russian to Shane.”
Shane freezes. “No.”
You grin. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t speak Russian,” he says flatly.
“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You just have to accept it.”
Shane exhales. “Fine. What do you want me to say?”
Ilya’s eyes brighten. “Say: ‘Я люблю тебя.’”
Shane squints. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not,” you promise, laughing.
Shane looks between you and Ilya. “If this is embarrassing, I’m blaming both of you.”
Then he looks at you,soft, vulnerable, honest,and says, in English, because he needs you to understand without any barriers:
“I do.”
Your breath catches.
Ilya goes quiet too, like even he recognizes the weight of that moment.
Shane clears his throat, suddenly flustered. “Okay. Eat. Stop looking at me.”
Ilya grins. “He is blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you say, smiling.
Shane mutters, “This is why I hate mornings.”
“You love mornings,” you tease.
“I love this,” he corrects, gesturing vaguely at the three of you. “I just hate… being perceived.”
Ilya laughs. “Too late. We perceive you.”
You lean your head against Shane’s shoulder for a second, then against Ilya’s. A small, quiet motion that says I’m here.
Ilya murmurs, “Ты наша.”
You’re ours.
Shane immediately looks up. “What did he say?”
You smile sweetly. “He said… I’m yours.”
Shane’s expression softens. “Yeah.”
Ilya adds, with a grin, “And you are ours too.”
Shane shakes his head. “That one I understood without translation.”
You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen like sunlight.
Breakfast continues,teasing, small touches, easy warmth.
And for a moment, everything feels simple.
Like love can be this: pancakes and Russian compliments, Shane pretending he’s annoyed, Ilya pretending he’s not sentimental, and you right in the middle of it,exactly where you want to be.
Warnings: 🔞 Injury & Medical Trauma,Emotional Intensity, Explores themes of fear of loss, grief, vulnerability in relationships, and high emotional stakes between characters.Strong Language,Romantic/explicit Themes. Drug use mentioned.
Summary/authors note: Oh my god,where do I even start to express how grateful I am for everyone's love and support over this story? It's truly been an honor sharing this journey with you all,watching your engagement and comments and discussions and theories unfold in the comment section has been the best part of my writing.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read, engage and enjoy this work with me. I hope you've found some joy, solace, or even laughter in these pages.💛🤍 With every read, every reaction,every support, you've truly made this story come alive,and given it a special place in my heart.Thank you for making it one hell of a ride from start to finish.
The stadium was electric. people from all over the world came to watch. The crowd roared with every step,applause and cheers echoing through the cold. With each leap, every spin, every flawless jump, the feeling in the air had changed, shifted from excitement to awe to something more. Something intense and electric, like lightning and heat.You felt it.Every note, every movement was a masterpiece. Perfection. You had never skated so well. The announcer called out the bronze and silver medalists and they skated to accept their awards with a smile. The next name brought silence to the crowd.You clenched your hands, waiting, heart pounding.
The final name was called.
You heard a deep, collective intake of breath from the crowd,and then… The announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium: “The gold goes to Y/N Hollander. from Canada”
You barely heard it over the roar of the audience. You stood there, frozen for a second, your heart pounding in your chest as the reality hit you. Gold.
Your coach grabbed you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ice. "You did it!" he shouted over the noise of the crowd. Your teammates swarmed around you, cheering and laughing,hugging and screaming with joy.You could barely breathe,your face breaking into a wide grin as tears stung your eyes.Then you looked up.And there they were.
Your family,screaming from their seats,Mom standing and clapping wildly,Dad whooping like he was twenty again. Shane lets out a loud whistle,mouth twisted into an impressed smirk.
But it’s Ilya who holds your gaze. He’s on his feet,hands braced against his chest, where his heart is,his jaw open in shock,then pride floods his face,brighter than anything you’ve ever seen on him before. He just stares at you,warmth radiating through those pale eyes like he knew all along this would happen.
Then he blows your a kiss.
Tears spill freely now as you guide yourself to the centre of the ice,presenting flowers along with your gold medal ceremony gown,a shimmering dress of crimson and gold that matches victory itself. As the Canadian anthem starts playing,you stand atop that podium,crown of laurels around your head,gold hanging heavy around your neck and every breath feels sacred,because beside everything else,you feel him watching. As the anthem ends, a flurry of cameras flash, capturing this moment. You hold your flowers closer, smiling brighter. Every smile feels real,raw,unashamedly happy.You finally step down from the podium,coach,teammates,and family still swarming.You make your way to the edge, where Ilya waits,and you throw yourself into his arms.He catches you easily, spinning you.
He lifts you without hesitation,arms tight around your waist as he spins you once, then holds you against him.
“YA chertovski gorzhus' toboy! moya lyubov'!” he murmurs into your hair,rough, raw pride in every syllable.
I'm so fucking proud of you, my love.
You bury your face in his neck,breathing him in.
"I did it,"you whisper. He pulls back just enough to look at you,his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.
"You were always going to."
Then from behind Ilya, Shane shouts and runs at you like a freight train. He wraps you in a bear hug, lifting you right out of Ilya’s arms. "You are fucking crazy,You actually did it!" You laugh, breathless.
He sets you down but keeps an arm around your shoulder as your parents finally make their way through the crowd.Mom reaches first,sobbing as she pulls both of you into a crushing hug. "My champions!" she cries.
Dad joins in,his voice thick,"We’re so proud of you”
They all stand there,a tangle of hugs and laughter and tears.
And then Dad looks over at Ilya,who's standing back just slightly,watching with quiet intensity.
"Come on,Son," he says firmly. "get in here" Ilya hesitates for only half a second before stepping forward into the circle.
No words needed.Just family.Together.
The funeral is held a day later, Moscow, he’d organised for his father to be buried next to his mother. You stand beside Ilya the entire time,his hand locked in yours,his face carved from ice as they lay his father to rest.Afterward,you all gather at the family home for a quiet meal,heavy with grief and unspoken words.Ilya sits at the head of the table,his brother Alexei across from him,tense as ever. The room is filled with distant relatives speaking hushed Russian. Ilya leans into you saying he needs a moment and you just nod.
Ilya steps out onto the back porch,trying to catch his breath. Just breathing in the cold air when Alexei shoves the door open,coming after him.
"We need to talk,brother," he says in a low voice,voice sharp with anger.
Ilya turns to face him. "Then talk."
"So now that Father’s gone," Alexei sneers, stepping closer, voice low but venomous. "What now, Ilya? You gonna play noble son while I rot in the shadows?”
Ilya doesn’t turn. Just stares out over the snow-covered garden. "Father left you more than enough."
"Enough?" Alexei barks a laugh. "A pittance! He loved you more,always! I have a daughter ilya, but no The golden boy gets it all." He takes another step. “And now he gives you control of everything… while I get crumbs and your leftover pity.”
"He didn't leave me everything to flaunt," Ilya says coldly. "He left it to me because he knew you'd burn it on coke and broken marriages."
Alexei's face darkens. As Alexei's voice rises, you excuse yourself from the table and make your way out the back door, where you find Ilya and Alexei squaring off on the porch.You stand in the doorway, watching as Alexei steps closer to Ilya, face twisted with anger.
"You got everything!" Alexei's voice is a snarl. "You always got the love, the praise,everything. And now this. You've always looked down on me, like I was beneath you."
"you know what alexei, you can have it, I don’t care but I will make sure my niece will have a trust, she can access it when she’s 18,” Ilya says, voice low but sharp as ice. “she will be cared for, you I don’t particularly care for, I don’t want to see your fucking face again”
Alexei flinches, then sneers. " you dare to.. “
“I don’t dare anything, I speak truth” Ilya cuts in, jaw tight.
The wind howls between them.
And then Alexei laughs,bitter, broken.
"So what? You think playing saint makes you better?" He gestures toward the door where you stand frozen in the frame.“And bringing your little trophy girl here? To what,rub it in my face?”
Your breath catches as you walk in the doorway but not backing down in the slightest.
“thought I heard singing” you shit alexei a glare.
Ilya turns slightly,finally seeing you there,his expression shifting,from fury,to something like dread.But before he can speak,Alexei spits the words.
“She’s just another distraction,a piece of ass to warm your bed while you pretend to be noble."
The air goes still.
You step forward,"That’s not..”
"Shut up," Alexei snaps."No one asked you Canadian whore."
In a flash,Ilya moves.
A brutal,loud crack splits the silence as his fist connects with Alexei's jaw,sending him staggering back.
"You don't get to talk about her," Ilya growls,hands clenched,fists shaking."Not ever."
Alexei wipes blood from his split lip,his eyes burning with rage and humiliation.He looks at Ilya really looks and for a moment,you see something raw,something shattered beneath it all.Then alexei stands slowly,wiping blood from his chin without another word. Ilya stares at his brother,and says coldly.
"I don’t want to see your face again. I will make sure if you ever step foot in this place again, speak of her fucking name or like that about her again.. you are a dead man”
Alexei's gaze flicks to yours,something cold and almost apologetic behind his eyes. Then he leaves,the door slamming shut behind him.Ilya stands rigid, eyes fixed on the door.
"Ilya," you say softly.
His shoulders tense at the sound of your voice but he doesn't turn. Finally,he looks at you. There's anger,anger and tension coiled in every line of his body. He still doesn't say anything. Then Ilya exhales,a broken sound,and reaches out for you,his hands trembling slightly as they find your face,your shoulders,your waist. You step into him without hesitation,hugging him tightly. For a long moment, he just holds you, face buried in your hair, breath ragged as he tries to catch. You say nothing, just hold him, let him find what he needs in your embrace.Slowly, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His expression is raw, vulnerable in a way you haven't seen before, but he doesn't let go,hand cupping your jaw as he searches your face,as if looking for something, something you could give. "I'm sor..”
He cuts off your words with another fierce kiss, lips crashing against yours. It's rough, passionate, and desperate, like he's trying to pour everything into it.You let him. You let him, arms around him,fingers gripping the back of his jacket,pulling him closer if possible.When he finally pulls back, there's something different in his eyes. The anger's still there, but mixed with a deeper, burning need. He rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven, eyes still closed. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice raw. “Don’t you dare apologize for him.”
You stay quiet, just breathing with him.After a moment, he opens his eyes,pale blue and fierce and says quietly
“I meant every word I said to him.”
You nod once. You know.
And then softly,you say it back.
“ya tebya lyublyu”
His breath catches.
No dramatics,no theatrics,just that quiet pause where the world stops spinning. Then he pulls you into another kiss,this one slower but no less intense,his hands firm at your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.When he pulls back,his voice is rough with emotion:
“You’re all I have.”
You reach up to cup his face.
"You have me," you whisper. "Always."
He leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes,taking an uneven breath.
"I don't deserve you."
"Shut up," you say,smiling a little. "You're stuck with me."
His eyes open again.
"Good," he murmurs, voice low. "Because I never want to let you go."He steps back,taking one of your hands and pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist,lips warm against your pulse point. He doesn’t look away.
"Come on," he says quietly. "We should go back inside."
The night passes in a blur of hushed condolences, steaming tea, and quiet glances. Relatives,stern faced aunts, distant cousins,speak to you in broken English or nod with solemn respect. One by one, they touch your arm or Ilya’s shoulder, murmuring prayers and old Russian blessings.You stay close to him the entire evening,no space between you at the table,no hesitation when he pulls your chair next to his.Ilya escorts you outside to the waiting car,his hand firm on your back.
The next morning, snow blankets Moscow in silence.
You wake tangled in Ilya’s arms, his breath slow and even against your neck. His face,usually so sharp, so guarded,is soft in sleep. You watch him for a long moment, tracing the faint scar on his brow with your eyes.
Then he stirs.
“Don’t,” he mumbles without opening his eyes,his arms tightening around you.“Five more minutes.” You smile into him.
“We have to go,”you whisper.“I have a run through before the next skate.”
He groans but doesn’t let go.
“You’re going to get a medal again anyway,”he says after a beat,his voice rough with sleep.“so please..” he presses a warm kiss to your back, then another, working his way up to your neck. “5 more minutes”
You let out a soft laugh, trying to squirm away.
"Ilya, we're gonna be late.. do you want me to be disqualified.."
He just pulls you back against him."Five minutes." he murmurs again, lips grazing the nape of your neck.
You twist around to face him, trying to sound stern. "You're not playing fair.."
He opens one eye, a corner of his mouth tugging upwards.
"It's called persuasion,my love."
"It's called manipulation," you mutter, but your hands are already sliding into his hair, pulling him closer.He kisses you slowly,deeply like he has all the time in the world. And for a moment,you forget about practice,your teammates,the pressure of the next competition.Forget everything but him.When he finally pulls back,his eyes are bright with quiet mischief.
"Still think I'm not playing fair?"You roll your eyes,but can't hide your smile.
"You're lucky I love you."He grins then,tightens his arms around you and says softly,"Always."
Finally, you force yourself to sit up.He protests,trying to pull you back down,to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.
Laughing, you shove him back into the pillows.
"Ilya, I have to go"
He groans but relents,propping himself up on his elbows to watch you get out of bed.You can feel him watching as you step into the bathroom,showering and dressing in record time. When you reemerge, he's still lounging in bed,watching you with an infuriatingly smug expression. Ilya watches with a crooked smile as you get dressed in your Canadian uniform. His eyes follow you,taking in everything.
"Careful," he teases, arms folded under his head. "If you get any more beautiful, they might disqualify you for being too distracting."
You roll your eyes, but can't help smiling.
"Shut up,"you say, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Then his lips, soft and warm.
"I'll see you later."
He catches your wrist before you can pull away, pulling you back down into the bed with a laugh. You fall easily into his arms, your laughter mingling with his. He nuzzles your neck, planting soft kisses on your pulse point.
"Maybe you should skip practice," he murmurs, hands wandering.
"We have plenty of time to train right here."
You swat his hand, but you're grinning too. "Nice try."
He pretends to huff, arms around your waist.
"I'm offended you think I'm trying anything at all."
You arch an eyebrow, grinning. "Oh really."
He leans in, voice low,breath warm against your skin. "Absolutely scandalized."
Your heart skips a beat at the familiar weight of his gaze, at the feel of his arms tightening, pulling you closer. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering.
"Good luck, my talented, beautiful girlfriend."
You straighten up, zipping your jacket with a smirk. Then, slow and deliberate, you trail one finger down his chest, watching his breath hitch.
“Now remember,” you say sweetly, “it’s duo skate today, he’s just my partner on the ice and We’re very… close on the ice.”
His eyes darken instantly.
“We touch. A lot.” You step closer to the bed again,bending slightly so your lips brush his ear. “Lifts,catches,hands all over each other…”
He grabs your waist before you can pull away.
“I’m warning you one time y/n,” he growls softly,nose brushing yours.“
You laugh,bright and unafraid and kiss him full on the mouth.
“Jealous Russian,”you whisper against his lips.“See you later.”
And then,you're gone,light steps down the hall,the door closing behind you,with Ilya still lying in bed,staring at the ceiling like he needs an exorcism after that.
But smiling? Yeah.He’s definitely smiling.
The arena buzzes with energy as the final scores flash on the screen. You and your partner stand hand in hand, breathless from your performance,every lift, every spin, every synchronized step executed with fire and precision. The music still echoes in your bones.Across the ice, Ilya sits with your family,Mom clutching Dad’s arm,Dad leaning forward,hands clasped. Shane smirks like he knew it all along.
But Ilya? He’s rigid.Eyes locked on you.Not just proud.Possessive.
Later when the announcer calls:“Gold medalists… Canada!” The crowd erupts.
You gasp,hands flying to your mouth as tears well up again.
Your partner lifts you into a spinning hug,you laugh,screaming into the moment,and then you search for him.And there he is,rising slowly to his feet,the second you meet his eyes he gives a single nod.
Later,you stand on that podium once more,gold draped around both of you,the Canadian flag waving high above. You hold flowers in one hand,your other clenched tightly over your heart and out of habit,your gaze drifts to him every few seconds,because even now,in this victory,it feels incomplete without sharing it with him.Afterwards,crowds swarm,but you break away quickly,chasing down familiar arms waiting at rink side.
He pulls you close before anyone can say anything,nose buried in your hair,breath warm against your neck.he murmurs,rumbly and low."Saw how close his hands were."
You pull back just enough to grin up at him.“Oh yeah,"you tease."told you it gets handsy”
A smirk tugs at his mouth.“y/n…” He wraps an arm around you,tight,pulling you against his side as cameras flash all around.“don’t test me”
"Jealous much?"you laugh,tilting your head up for a kiss which he gives full,warm and lingering despite everyone watching.When he pulls back,his eyes gleam."Always.”
The night feels like a dream,a whirlwind of congratulations and cheers,of bright lights and champagne. You aren’t drinking of course, with one last skate to do in another few days. Eventually,when you get home from celebrating with your team and family,you find yourself alone with Ilya in the lounge, away from the chaos,just the two of you. The atmosphere between you is charged,a mix of triumph and anticipation. He leans back against the wall,hands in his pockets,a familiar stance you've come to know well,but there's something different tonight. He doesn't speak.He just watches.
You lean against the wall opposite him,smirking.
“You’ve been giving me that look all night, what’s going on in that head of yours?”you say softly, but you knew.
He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head slightly.
“come here.” You push off the wall, sauntering closer but stopping just out of reach.His eyes follow you intently,smoldering.You stop right in front of him,close enough to reach out and touch,but still that teasing distance.His fingers twitch in his pockets,like he's resisting the urge to reach for you. You tilt your head, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. “Hmm? What’s wrong, Ilya?” you murmur, voice low and sweet. “You’ve been so… tense all night.”
Ilya stands rooted to the spot, his gaze never leaving you as you slowly slip off your jacket, revealing the thin fabric of your competition dress beneath. His eyes darken,a muscle in his jaw twitches.
You toss the jacket aside,fingers toying with the bun in your hair, loosening the pins, letting the waves cascade down your shoulders.He shifts slightly,hands clenching in his pockets. You can see his self-control fraying. A hint of a smile teases the corner of your mouth, knowing you're getting to him. Slowly, deliberately, you lift your hair, pulling it over one shoulder, exposing the expanse of your neck.His eyes flick to your throat, his throat working as he swallows,hard.You take a small step closer. His breath hitches.
Your smile widens as you take another step forward, so close now you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze flicks down to your legs, tracing the lines of your competition dress,and you almost,almost see the control snapping.But he controls his breathing,a muscle ticking in his jaw. You run a finger slowly down your collarbone,then over the curve of your shoulder, voice soft,purring.
“so tense aren’t you”His eyes snap to yours,pale fire. He doesn’t speak.
You lean in, just enough so your breath brushes his ear. “does it have to do with a certain skating partner of mine” A beat. “Didn’t like that at all,did you?” you knew he didn’t really mind but everything had been so tense recently, all that emotion needed to go somewhere. A low growl rumbles in his chest.Finally,his hands move,not to touch you,but to grip the wall behind him,like he needs something to hold on to.
“I liked it less,”he says,choked and rough,eyes burning into yours.“when he had to touch you yes”
So the whole routine then. You grin,satisfied,bold.
“So admit it then…”you whisper stepping impossibly closer.“you were jealous.”
His control shatters.In one swift motion,he’s on you,pinning you gently but firmly against the wall,his body caging yours,his breath hot against your lips.
“Yes,”he growls."I was jealous."
"Madly,fucking possessive,every second."
He nips at your bottom lip briefly before pulling back just enough to glare down at you with mock warning.
"And if I ever see him near my girl again...he won't skate for… forever."
You laugh,breathless,in love,and tilt up into him.
"Good thing I only want your hands on me then,"you whisper.He groans,nearly kissing away that smug smile right off your face,but stops an inch short.
“Tease,”he murmurs darkly,kissing along your jaw instead.You grin,winding fingers through his hair as he trails kisses down under where neck meets your shoulder. “oh I’ve not even started yet”
The teasing bravado in your eyes fades, replaced by raw desire as you start to slowly move your hands to pull at the zipper holding up your competition dress.He watches, transfixed, eyes dark as they flit from your hands to your face and back. As you tug the zipper loose, the dress starts to loosen,the material gaping slightly.Ilya takes a sharp breath,a low rumble in his chest. His hands flex in their grip on the wall as he watches. Ilya’s breath comes faster now, his eyes locked on your hands as the dress slips just off one shoulder.
“Y/N,” he growls,low, warning, like he’s barely holding on. “You don’t get to start something like this and expect me to let you walk away.”
You bite your lip, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric slide lower. His jaw clenches so hard you hear it pop.Then suddenly he releases the wall.One hand catches yours at your wrist; the other wraps around your waist and yanks you flush against him. No more distance. No more games. His mouth crashes into yours,hot, punishing,a kiss that tastes like possession and retribution all at once.When he finally pulls back for air,his voice is a whisper sharp with need.
“I’ve waited long enough.”
And then,his lips brush yours once more before trailing down,your neck,collaring over skin."Now… let me remind you who owns this body.”
Heat surges through you, a wildfire ignited by his words.
Your body responds instantly, melting against him as his lips travel down your neck, your breath hitching, eyes falling closed.The heat of him, the possessive edge in his voice ignites something primitive in you.
"Then remind me..." you whisper,voice soft yet challenging. Ilya shivers against you at the sound of your voice,the low,husky edge to it. Without a word,he spins you,pressing your front against the wall this time, hands pinning your wrists behind your back in one swift move.His body presses closer,the heat of him searing even through layers of clothes. You gasp at the sudden switch in positions,thrown off balance but held firmly in place.The feeling of his body pressed against yours,the wall cool against your front,his hands on your wrists…..it all fuels that heat inside,coiling in the pit of your stomach,making you push back against him,needing friction,needing more. Ilya lets out a low growl against your neck as you push back.His hands tighten on your wrists,holding you in place as he rocks into you,letting you feel exactly what you do to him,exactly how much he wants you.His lips brush your ear.
"Is that what you wanted," he rasps. "a reminder?"
You let out a breathless laugh. Your laugh is cut off by a breathless gasp as Ilya grinds slowly into you,the movement sparking fire up your spine,setting every nerve in your body alight. You can feel yourself getting wet,the heat pooling lower,the anticipation building with every press of his body. You lean back into him,head tilted to the side,exposing the sensitive flesh of your neck.
"Show,don't tell," you whisper. "you think I need reminding about how much you want me?" That does it. With a guttural groan, Ilya releases your wrists,one hand moving to grip your hip.The other tangles in your hair,tugging your head back,exposing more of your throat.He sucks a bruising kiss to the sensitive skin below your ear before sinking teeth in.You shiver,a soft moan escaping you. He smiles wolfishly against your skin,laving his tongue over the mark he left,like he's marking his territory. "You have no idea," he murmurs,voice rough. "no idea the things i want to do to you right now."
Another kiss to your neck,harder this time. His fingers dig into your hips,holding you against him as he grinds harder,making you gasp. You push back into him,rocking against him,needing more friction,more heat.The cool wall in contrast,it's driving you mad. The last thread of his control snaps.
With a guttural curse, Ilya grabs the loose sides of your dress and rips it off,letting the material fall away in one swift move,leaving you in just your underwear.You barely have time to gasp before he's lifting you up,carrying you without effort to the bedroom. There is no time for tender, he almost chucks you into that bed, before he's on top of you again, his body pressing you into the mattress.
He pins your hands above your head once more,looking down at you with intense eyes. Every muscle in his body is taut,vibrating,like he's barely holding himself back.You try to rock back into him,need driving you wild.He tuts,low,like a warning. "Stay. Still."
The command in his tone makes you shiver.You bite your lip,trying not to move,but the fire in you is relentless,needing friction,contact, him. His gaze flits down to your lips,then down the line of your body,taking in every curve,the heat in his eyes intensifying.
"God,look at you..." he whispers,voice ragged with desire.You tug at the grip on your wrists,the need to touch him almost unbearable. He holds you tighter, his eyes narrowing in warning.
"I said stay still. No touching."The firm,no nonsense tone sends another shiver through you,but you can't help the defiant spark in your eyes.
"You're being unfair," you say,a hint of challenge in your voice.He shifts,angling his leg between yours, pressing closer, his body flush against you.
"When it comes to you, I am very fair…" he murmurs against your ear,teeth just grazing the skin. He slowly releases your wrists, but his voice drops, dark and commanding.
"Don’t move. Hands above your head. you can’t touch me and you can’t touch yourself."
You obey,arms lifting back up,palms flat against the pillows,your breath already uneven.He watches you for a second like he’s memorizing the sight,before his hands slide down your body,reaching your thighs.With firm pressure,he pushes them apart,widening them until you're completely open to him,his gaze never leaving yours as he settles between them,his eyes dark with hunger and possession. "That's it," he murmurs,voice raw with satisfaction.
Your body is already on edge,sensitive,waiting. Every touch,every breath sparks a fire in you.Slowly, he leans down,lips tracing the inside of your thighs,leaving behind a trail of hot,wet kisses. Your breath hitches,fingers clutching the blankets.He's teasing you,teasing both of you, drawing it out. He looks up at you again,eyes burning into yours.
"You know the rules," he says softly,lips brushing your skin. "No hands," he murmurs, breath warm against your inner thigh. "You keep them right where they are."
You nod shakily, pulse thrumming under your skin. With deliberate slowness, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties,then stops. Looks up at you again, eyes dark and knowing.
“Unless you want me to stop.” A challenge in his voice. A dare. You swallow hard and shake your head no,not possible,never.
His mouth curves into a satisfied smirk.Then,in one smooth motion he pulls down the fabric with his teeth,his breath hitting you bare,wet.You gasp sharply,your back arching off the bed.He holds you open with firm hands on your thighs,not letting you close,pinching just enough to make you whimper.
Then he leans in.And tastes.Your moan is strangled,hands fisting in the sheets as he starts working on that bundle of nerves with relentless precision,mouth hot,lips sucking,giving no mercy.Every movement is controlled,every flick calculated to drive you insane,but beneath it all,you feel it,the raw hunger in him,the need to claim,every sound from him,a growl against your skin like possession made flesh. "God, I love the taste of you" he growls against you.
His hands leave your thighs for a second,but you don't dare look. Your eyes are clenched shut,fingers fisted in the sheets.But then you feel it,fingers replacing his tongue,as if he knows your body better than you do yourself.
"Look at me," he grits out, voice guttural. "Open your eyes. I want you to watch me, but remember love.. no touching”
Your eyes flutter open,half-lidded with pleasure, meeting his gaze. Ilya is watching you like a predator intense, unblinking,as two fingers curl inside you just right, thumb circling your clit in slow, torturous circles. His tongue returns,the heat of it flicks once,reverent and rough all at once,making you gasp and arch.
"Ilya..." You whimper,his name breaking on your lips.He growls low in his throat,a sound of pure possession,his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“Still not allowed to touch," he reminds you,breath hot against wet skin as he pulls back just enough to watch your face."But you can come… when I say so."
You bite down on the moan building in your chest,struggling between obedience and need.
He smirks.
"Good girl."
Then,faster now,his fingers move deep,curling with purpose,his mouth closing over that sensitive bundle again,sucking hard.The world explodes behind your eyelids,your body tightening,tremors building until…
"Now," he commands and that single word shatters you apart. You cry out, body convulsing,every muscle tensing,pleasure rocketing through you like fire.You're shaking,gasping for breath as he gently withdraws, mouth glistening with you,eyes glittering with satisfaction. Slowly, he crawls back up your body,a satisfied hum in his throat that's almost a purr.He presses a gentle kiss to your stomach,then to the underside of your breast,then your collarbone,marking his path until he reaches your lips.
His lips capture yours once more,this time with an intensity that steals your breath. The taste of you still lingers on his tongue,and you can feel his need,a matching fire building again,making you moan softly into his mouth.He breaks away, lips against your skin,breath hot,voice rough.
"Touch me," he whispers. "I need you to touch me."
Your hands,freed at last fly to him like they’ve been waiting a lifetime. One hand tangles in his hair, pulling just enough to make him growl, while the other slides down his chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt.
“Finally,” you breathe against his lips, smirking. “Thought you’d never let me.”
He laughs darkly, a rumble deep in his chest as he bites your bottom lip. “Don’t get cocky.” Then he grabs your wrist again,but this time, it’s different. He guides your hand lower, over the tense heat straining against his pants.Your fingers curl around him through the fabric and he exhales sharply, hips jerking forward.
“Fuck,” he mutters in under his breath before meeting your eyes again. “You do this to me… every damn time.”
You squeeze gently and watch him flinch,the powerful man undone by one touch from you and it fills you with wicked delight.
“I love how much you want me,” you whisper.He answers by tearing off his pants with rough hands,your name falling from his lips like a curse.And then he's pushing into you,powerful and deep,making both of you gasp at the fullness.
“Only for you, only ever for you”
You feel him everywhere,the hard strength of him,the heat,the need,the way he fits against you, like you were made for this.One hand wraps in your hair,tugging your head back. His lips find the sensitive spot on your neck where he can hear your heartbeat,thundering,his teeth grazing,almost playful this time.
"I love you," he murmurs,voice thick and rough, words like a prayer against your skin. "God, I love you."
You can’t answer in words,just a breathless moan, your hips rising to meet his, the rhythm building, deeper and harder now.He lets go of your hair only to trail his hands down,your breasts,your stomach,between you,his thumb circling that same sensitive spot again as he thrusts.
“Look at me,” he demands.
Your eyes flutter open,half lidded with pleasure,but locked on him. The intensity in his gaze takes your breath away. Love,power,possession,all tangled into one look meant only for you.He leans down,such tenderness suddenly as he brushes hair from your face.
Then a sharp snap of hips that makes you gasp out loud.
“You’re mine,”he says again,this time softer,but no less true.And with one final stroke deep inside you he comes,uttering your name like it's sacred,a sound torn from somewhere deep and raw inside him. He collapses onto you,chest heaving, still shaking slightly, hands still holding your body close, as if even now he can't bear to let go.You stroke his hair back with gentle fingers,still breathless,watching as he nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, lips brushing your skin in a gentle kiss.For a few moments,there's only silence,the air around you still charged, your heart slowly returning to a normal pace.Then, a breath,a soft sigh. "Are you okay?" Ilya murmurs against your neck.
You nod, a soft laugh escaping you.
"More than okay." He pulls back slightly,one strong arm wrapped around you,so he can look at you. His gaze searches yours, concern mixed with relief.You reach up, tracing the furrow between his brows with your thumb.
"I'm fine," you assure him,voice soft. "Better than fine." His eyes soften,a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Good," he says, voice gruff. "Because I'm going to do that again." You burst into laughter, burying your face in his neck as he tickles you lightly, his arms tightening around you.
“You're insatiable," you gasp between giggles.He grins against your skin,a rare,bright smile that makes your heart skip."Only for you."
But then the moment shifts. He rolls off,your bodies still touching,forehead pressed to yours,hands intertwined.
"You have training tomorrow,"he murmurs. "Last run before competition day."
You nod,suddenly serious. This was it,the final push.
He strokes your hair,tucks a strand behind your ear."Be careful."
The next day,training rink.
Cold air,stark lights,every breath visible in the silence between music and movement.Your partner skates up to you,warm smiles exchanged.
"Ready for one last headbanger?" he asks,jokingly nervous like always before big moves.
You nod with a grin. "Like we haven’t done this a million times."
Music starts,dramatic,intense,the kind that lives in arenas and echoes through Olympic dreams.The team skate, the routine flawless, then coming to the big finale, Spin into position,your partner bracing your legs with his hands, spinning on the ice, your head so close to the ice, it was a move you’d nailed ten times over.
But there’s something wrong,a patch of uneven ice?His grip slips at the worst moment.A crack of sound, your shoulder catches the ice first, taking more of the impact,your head then following,hitting the ice and then… nothing.Darkness takes over instantly,no pain,no thought,just blackness as medics rush on ice and alarms start blaring from all sides.
Ilya POV
Ilya is with your parents and Shane, laughing low at something Shane said, which is rare. When his phone rings. Your name flashes on screen. A smile instantly comes to his face.
He answers instantly. “hello love”
But it’s not you.
A woman’s voice, calm but urgent. “Mr. Rozanov? This is Dr. Lavoie from Olympic Medical Response. There’s been an incident during training…”
His blood turns to ice.One word cracks through his chest like glass.Incident.
The smile vanishes.
The laugh dies before it leaves his throat.
He stares straight ahead as the voice continues,loss of consciousness… head impact… stable now… being transported…
But he doesn’t hear most of it.His hands clench around the phone so hard his knuckles whiten,his breath coming short, uneven.
Your mom turns,"Ilya?What's wrong?"
He can't speak.Not yet.He looks at her,and for a terrifying second,she sees it,the raw panic in those pale eyes,the kind that comes not from fear alone. God,no,he can’t lose someone else.Not again.Not her.
No.No.No.
“We have to go,”he says,barely above a whisper,but then louder,cold and sharp.“WE HAVE TO FUCKING GO”
Shane reaches for him."Ilya wait”
But he's already running,as he sprints toward his vehicle,pulling out keys,fingers trembling only slightly,not from weakness,but rage at himself,at fate,at whoever decided life could be this cruel. As he speeds toward the hospital,tires screeching, the same thoughts looping in his mind. I can’t lose her. He pulls up in front of the medical facility, not bothering to find a spot, just leaving the car there and striding towards the entrance. Your family following him just as urgently.
A nurse at the desk stands,calling after him,but he's already through the doors,stalking down the hall with long,determined strides,his jacket already off, revealing the tight black shirt beneath,the shape of his muscles visible through the fabric.Another desk,another nurse,another name he can't be bothered to say.
"help” he snaps, "where is she?"
The nurse behind the desk startles, taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. But she knows when to prioritize.
"Room four," she says, "down the hall, last door before the stairs."
He's moving again, his strides eating up the distance, your parents and Shane on his heels.But every step feels like torture.He reaches the door, grips he handle. Takes a deep breath.
A doctor stands in the doorway, blocking his path.
"You can't go in," he says, voice firm.Ilya almost snarls in response, a low sound of frustration and anger.
"Get out of my way"
The doctor, to his credit, holds his ground, unintimidated.
"She needs rest, and we're still assessing her condition." His patience, never a strong suit in the best of times, snaps like a tightly wound string.
"Are you deaf?."
He takes a step forward, towering over the doctor, every muscle bunched, every fiber coiled. This man will not stop him from seeing you. Not now.The doctor, undeterred, stands his ground, jaw tight.
"I can't allow it. She's in a vulnerable state." Ilya glares at the doctor, his chest heaving, fingers clenched into fists at his sides.
But then your mom steps forward,calm, steady despite it all and gently places a hand on his arm.
"Let them work love," she says softly. "She needs them to help her."
He doesn't answer. Just stares through the small window next to the door. Inside,you lie unconscious,pale under the harsh hospital lights,tubes and monitors surrounding you,a bandage wrapped tightly around your head,blood seeping slightly through.Her shoulder immobilized by a brace,the doctor's voice faint as they speak making sure there's no swelling on the brain.He watches every breath,silent and still now,his face like stone except for one muscle jumping in his jaw.Your mum stands beside him,shoulder brushing his arm occasionally,offering quiet strength neither of them knew she had.Shane and your dad linger behind, the sheer panic from them all, the emotion. But Ilya doesn't hear any of it.
All he sees is you.Not moving.Not laughing.Not looking back at him with that defiant spark in your eyes.His throat works silently. He won’t cry. Not here.
But inside? He’s breaking apart all over again,just like when he lost his father. The grief still raw,no time to heal before this happened.History trying to repeat itself.Losing someone he loves most when he finally lets himself love fully. After what feels like an eternity, the doctors step out. One of them nods slightly to your mom.
"She’s stable. Concussion, head laceration,12 stitches but no intracranial bleeding. Shoulder is broken, but it could’ve been worse. She’s awake now… and asking for you."
Your mom exhales in relief and turns to Ilya. "She’s asking for you," your mom repeats softly, touching his arm again. "Go on, we will be in shortly”
Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice.He steps past the doctor, pushes the door open gently, and there you are,pale beneath the white sheets, one side of your head wrapped in gauze,stitches hidden beneath. Your shoulder held tight in a brace,your eyes slightly unfocused but searching.
And then they find him.
A weak smile tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper,half teasing even now,dazed from meds and injury.His heart cracks all over again.He crosses the room in three strides,as he carefully crawls onto the bed beside you, sitting there the best he can without hurting you.
“You scared me,” he chokes out,rare emotion breaking through his voice like a dam.“God,you scared me so much.”
You giggle,soft and dreamy,the meds making everything feel floaty,colors brighter, his voice like velvet.
"Ilya," you murmur,reaching up with your good hand to touch his face. "You're so pretty when you worry."
Another giggle escapes as your fingers trace his jaw.He catches your hand gently,staring at you in disbelief.
"Pretty?" he repeats,ruffled for the first time in years. "I'm sitting here losing my mind and you call me pretty?"
You grin,lazy and loopy. "Mhmm… big,strong,Russian hotness...scary when angry but super soft for me…"
He lets out a breathless laugh against your palm,kissing it softly.
"You’re high,” he mutters fondly,his eyes glistening.“Completely gone.”
You tilt your head,blinking slowly."Mmm maybe...but I know what I see..."
Then,your smile dims just a little,your voice softer now."I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare you."
His expression tightens. He leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
"Don’t apologize,” he whispers fiercely. "Ever," he continues. "Promise me you won’t ever apologize for being hurt."
Your hand cradles his cheek with your good hand.
"Okay," you whisper back, "I promise."
He takes a shuddering breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in your scent,letting the fear drain away.
"I love you so damn much," he mutters against your skin. "I can’t lose you. Can't lose you, too."
You stroke his hair gently, trying to soothe him. "Hey… hey, look at me."
He looks up,pale eyes meeting yours.
"You're not going to lose me," you assure him, as firmly as your drugged brain will allow. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm right here. He lets out a gruff laugh, burying his face in your neck. "You're drugged up and you still manage to make me feel better."
Your good hand continues to stroke his hair, fingers tangling in the silken strands.
"It's a talent," you murmur, smiling against his skin. He kisses your head, inhaling deeply, as if trying to memorize your scent, the feel of you alive and here. "A dangerous talent," he mutters,pulling back to look at you again.His eyes trace your face, taking in every feature. Then his gaze snags on the bandage.He gently lifts your chin, his thumb brushing over it, his eyes going to the spot on your head where the stitches are hidden.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, voice rough again. You shrug a little, wincing as the movement pulls at your shoulder.
"A bit," you admit, the meds starting to fade now and pain setting in. "Nothing I can't handle."
He frowns, gently touching the brace.
"And the shoulder?" he presses, his jaw tense.
You lower your voice to a dramatic whisper, eyes wide like you're sharing state secrets.
“It’s…totally fucked." Then, even quieter “I’m gonna have to get you off with my bad arm”
He stares at you for a beat.Then bursts out laughing,a deep, surprised sound that echoes softly in the quiet room. He covers his face with one hand, shaking his head.
"Y/N," he growls between chuckles. "Why are you whispering? And for god’s sake we’re not talking about that right now."
You blink innocently. "What? Just trying to plan ahead... and in whispering because my parents are outside”
He leans down until his forehead touches yours again,suddenly serious beneath the humor.
"Your only job right now is healing," he murmurs.
He kisses your forehead, gently, tenderly.
"No worrying about anything else, especially how to get me off”
Then a sudden clearing of throat interrupts, breaking the solemn moment. Both your heads snap towards the door.Shane stands there, cheeks flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief on his face.He looks like a man who heard something he very much shouldn’t have. Ilya raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching to hold back a smirk.
"Shaneee," you say, voice a bit too innocent and still very much high. "How long have you been standing there? get in here”
Shane glances between you and Ilya, clearly flustered.
"I…ah...not long," he stammers out.
"Long enough, I'd say," Ilya replies dryly, his fingers still tangled in your hair.
You burst out laughing at the look on Shane’s face, wincing as your shoulder protests. Ilya gently shushes you, his hand instinctively moving to steady your shoulder.
"Laughing isn't helping," he murmurs.
You pout up at him playfully. "But it was funny."
Shane clears his throat again, trying to regain composure.
"I came to see how you're doing...and maybe bring real food when they allow it. mum and dad are outside" He smirks slightly. "Oh god please," you moan dramatically, closing your eyes. "Real food. I would kill for a burger right now."
Shane snorts.
"You just had major head trauma and you're still drugged. is that all you can think about?”
You crack one eye open, sticking out your tongue at him.
"Don't use logic on me. You're ruining my dream of a juicy, greasy cheeseburger."
Shane rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.
"You're still high as a kite," he points out. "A cheeseburger isn't going to do much for you right now."
You sigh, mock-glaring at him. "You're killing my dreams, you know that?"
Ilya shakes his head, clearly holding back a laugh.
"You are insufferable when drugged," he says, affection clear in his voice.
Shane nods in agreement. "She's always insufferable." You gasp in mock offense, trying for a scowl but it's too much effort.
"I am not insufferable," you protest, pouting again for maximum effect."I'm delightful."
Shane laughs outright at that, clearly amused. Ilya doesn’t answer your protest. Instead, he leans down and presses a slow, tender kiss to your forehead,lingering, like he needs the contact as much as you do.When he pulls back, his fingers find yours, threading gently through them despite the cast on your hand. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in quiet reassurance.Shane watches for a moment,the way Ilya’s shoulders finally relax just slightly when he holds your hand,the raw care in his eyes that only comes out around you.It hits him then. Not for the first time,but deeper this time,how much this man loves his sister.Not obsession.Not pride.Not rivalry.Nothing like his world where everything is measured in wins and losses.The door opens again,and your parents step in,murmuring softly to each other.Your mom’s eyes go straight to you,warm with relief when she sees you awake,talking.Your dad nods at Ilya, a small gesture,but meaningful.
Ilya nods back, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. He doesn’t let go, not even when your mom leans in to kiss your cheek or when your dad rests a hand on Shane’s shoulder. The room feels full now,not just with people, but with something heavier. Love. Worry. Relief.
“How you feeling, sweetheart?" your mom asks gently.
You blink up at her “Tired...but better,” you admit.
“I did mess up the Olympics though”
Ilya immediately shakes his head.“Doesn't matter.”
“It does” you say quietly
“No,” he says fiercely and softly at once."You matter.You’re alive.That's all that counts."
Shane watches him again,the quiet intensity,the way his entire world narrows down to you. As you talk to your parents, a small exchange occurs in the background. Shane, ever observant, takes a moment to speak with Ilya while you’re distracted.
"Hey," he says quietly, crossing his arms.
Ilya looks up, slightly wary but listening.
"You good?" Shane continues, his gaze not unkind.
Ilya nods, short and tight. "Fine."
Shane looks like he doesn't quite believe it, but he doesn’t press. "I saw you."
Ilya tenses. "Saw what?"
Shane leans against the wall, not taking his eyes off him.
"When they called you. I saw how you looked."
Ilya feels a prickle of annoyance. He hates having his emotions on display,especially for Shane to see,but when it comes to you he couldn’t care less.
"And?" he asks flatly.Shane shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"No smartass remark? No jab?" he says.
Ilya scowls. "Shut up."
Shane laughs softly, but it doesn't sound cruel.
"You're a good guy," he says suddenly, surprising them both.
Ilya looks at him, disbelief on his face.
"I...what?"
Shane shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"I'm not stupid. I know how I've acted towards you and you me. But I also see how you care for Y/N."He looks Ilya right in the eyes.
"I was wrong about you."
Ilya stares at Shane, jaw tight. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak.Then he exhales,short, sharp,not sure what to do with the honesty in front of him. This isn’t rivalry. Isn't pride. It’s just… two brothers in all but blood standing in a hospital room.Finally, Ilya nods once.
"Thank you," he says quietly. Not much more than a whisper.
Shane gives a small nod back,the kind that settles something between them once and for all.
No more games.
No more trash talk behind closed doors.
Just understanding.
Later,much later when your parents have gone back to the hotel and Shane’s sitting by your bed asleep in the chair,you stir slightly against the pain meds humming through you.Ilya is still there,his fingers gently tracing circles on your cast free hand,his presence steady like an anchor in the quiet dark of night. The soft sound of your stirring pulls his attention.
"You awake?" he asks quietly,the circles continuing.
"Mmm," you mumble,eyes slowly opening.You stare at the ceiling for a moment,trying to orient yourself. Then you look over at him. Even in the dim light,you can tell he looks wrecked. Tired.Stressed.But his eyes soften when they meet yours.
"Hey" he says,his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. You smile faintly, the kind that’s small but real.
"Hey," you reply, your voice still rough from meds and sleep. "You're still here."
He doesn’t answer right away,just leans forward slightly, his free hand brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch is feather light, reverent.
"Where else would I be?"
You tilt your head just enough to press into his palm."Just… making sure you didn't run off to brood in some dark corner like you usually do when you're worried."
A small smirk tugs at his lips."I don't brood. I contemplate”
"Mhm," you mutter,dryly "Same thing when it's written all over your face.”He chuckles softly the sound low and warm in the quiet room and leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
"I'm alright now," he whispers."Now that you’re awake.And talking trash.Like normal."
He stays.Long after you drift back off again, your breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep, Ilya doesn’t move.
He watches you,the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitch slightly in his even now, like they’re reaching for him in dreams. The gauze on your head. The brace on your shoulder.His thumb keeps tracing that same circle on your hand,not to soothe you this time,but to steady himself.
Because when that phone rang...
When he heard those words “She’s been injured...lost consciousness..."
It wasn't just fear.
It was loss. A grief so sharp it stole his breath before he even knew what hit him. Like losing his father all over again,except this time it wasn't blood,it was something deeper.You are not just someone he loves.You are the quiet after the storm.
The only warmth in his life.
The only person who ever looked at him not as Rozanov,but as Ilya. Just Ilya.And for one terrible moment… she could’ve been gone.His jaw tightens as realization settles over him like snowfall,gentle but absolute.He doesn’t want a life without you in it.
Not tomorrow.Not ever.Not just by her side,but with her. Fully.His home.Everything tied to one name.Fingers tighten gently around yours,a silent vow made in stillness,no witnesses except moonlight through hospital blinds and sleeping figures across the room
“I will marry you,”he whispers so softly even he almost misses it.“I swear it.” And somewhere deep inside,you sigh softly in sleep,as if hearing every word.
Your POV
The doctors clear you to return home a day later, under strict instructions of rest,but the relief that washes over you and Ilya is palpable.He's even more overprotective than usual in the car ride home,his gaze flickering constantly to you in the passenger seat.His hand rests on your thigh as he drives, fingers rubbing slow circles there,as if he can't believe you're really there,unharmed and smiling.
You glance down at his hand, then up at him,raising an eyebrow.
"You keep touching me like I'm a piece of porcelain."He meets your eyes,the intensity in his gaze never wavering.
"You are… to me."
His hand tightens slightly on your thigh, a possessive gesture that leaves no misconception.
"I'm not going to break, Ilya."
He gives a small scoff,but the sound lacks any real weight.
"I'm well aware of how tough you are," he replies bluntly, "but you are also injured."
The fingers on your thigh start tracing another circle, absent mindedly. He doesn't say much on the drive to his,just keeps one hand on you the entire time, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a silent promise.
When you get inside,he helps you settle onto the couch with careful hands,tucking a blanket around your legs and placing pillows just right for your shoulder.You watch him quietly as he moves around,kettle boiling, tea prepared exactly how you like it,murmuring something in Russian under his breath as he works.
And then it hits you.
He's nervous. Not because of anything said,but in the way he avoids your eyes,a little too focused on routine,the slight tension in his shoulders even now.
"You're quiet," you observe softly,pulling one leg up gently.
He turns,pouring hot water into a cup,his profile sharp against the evening light.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
He walks over, placing the cup carefully into your hands.
"Nothing to worry yourself with," he says dismissively, but the way his jaw tenses tells you differently.You take a sip of tea, watching him over the rim.
"I can tell it's not nothing," you reply softly.He lets out a breath through his nose, as if debating how to respond. You sip your tea, watching him carefully. The way his eyes dart away, the muscle tensing in his jaw. Something is most definitely on his mind.
"Ilya," you finally say softly, setting down your cup. "Tell me."
He looks at you, his expression a mix of reluctance and something else.
"It's not the time."You raise an eyebrow.
"I'm injured, I have nothing but time."
But he just shakes his head, the wall up like a fortress.
"Later," he says, voice final. "You're supposed to rest, remember?"
You frown, frustration mixing with worry.
"Ilya, can't you just-"He cuts you off with a look, eyes dark and sharp.
"Later."And just like that, conversation over.Weeks pass. Your injuries heal, albeit slowly. You're cleared to fly home. The airfield, the familiar Montreal skyline, the way your heart beats just a little faster as you step off the plane.
Life settles.
Ilya is quieter than usual,more thoughtful, more distant in that way he gets when something big is brewing beneath the surface. He doesn’t mention Russia anymore.
When asked about next season’s location?
He says simply. “New York”
And then,the first game of the season in New York City.
The arena packed, roaring like thunder.
Shane isn't playing this year,but he’s there with your parents anyway,proud and grinning beside them in team gear as they watch Ilya lead his team onto the ice with quiet dominance and effortless power.
You’re near center stage seats,your eyes never leaving him throughout every moment of play.
And then,it happens. They win. Hard fought,sweaty triumph on ice,the crowd erupting as confetti rains down and cameras flash like lightning.
The announcer grabs a mic on ice.“Any words from Rozanov tonight?”
Ilya skates forward,helmet off,sweat streaking through his hair,his chest rising steadily beneath his jersey.He takes the mic but instead of speaking,he scans.Searching until those pale eyes lock onto yours across hundreds of fans,in that sea of noise and celebration and suddenly,everything stills for him. He raises the mic, his voice cutting through the noise,calm, deep, steady.
“Thank you,” he says in that thickly accented English that always sends a shiver down your spine. “To my team. To the fans. This win… it means much.”
The crowd cheers louder.But then he holds up a hand,quieting them just slightly and his eyes never leave yours.
“And now…” he says slowly, “I have something else.”A pause. The arena hushes further, sensing the shift in air.
“I don’t care about trophies tonight.” His voice drops, intimate now, like this moment is only for you and him despite thousands watching. “Not really.”He takes another breath.
“There’s one person who has been with me through everything. someone worth coming home to.”
Your breath catches.
He turns fully toward you now and lifts a finger,not to gesture to anyone else but points directly at you.
“Come here,” he says gently but firmly into the mic.“Please.”
And suddenly,everyone is looking at you. Shane laughs beside your mom,your dad clapping quietly as tears well in her eyes.You stand on shaky legs,the world narrowing down as security helps guide you onto the ice,your boots slipping slightly on cold surface as confetti drifts around like frozen stars. The journey to the ice feels like a dream, fans cheering around you, a sea of faces blurring. You're hyper-aware of every movement, every beat of your heart echoing.You stop in front of him, the sound deafening now, his gaze locked with yours. In this moment, it's just the two of you.
He takes a deep breath, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I never thought I'd say this in front of this many people," he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear over the noise. You give a weak laugh, nerves and adrenaline coursing through. "You and me both, what are you doing," you manage to get out with a slight chuckle.
The mic is still in his hand,still on, but his entire focus is on you. The crowd is almost silent now, waiting.And then, he kneels, his knee hitting the ice, his eyes never leaving yours.The moment hangs between you like a breath waiting to break.
Then, he says, "I love you."
His voice is clear, strong, amplified across the arena.
"I love you," he says again, quieter now but no less powerful. "More than hockey. More than home and I realised home is wherever you are y/n."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box,black velvet but doesn’t open it yet. Instead, he holds it between his fingers like a treasure too precious to let go.A soft laugh escapes him as he glances around briefly at the thousands watching ,then back to you with that rare, unguarded look only you’ve ever seen.
“And if marrying you speeds up my damn Canadian citizenship…”
A beat.
"...then maybe I should’ve done this a long time ago"
The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers.
You’re crying already,trying not to laugh through tears,shaking your head at him even as your heart threatens to burst from your chest.
“But who cares?” he continues fiercely. “I don’t want Russia anymore.”
His hand finds yours on the ice cold surface.
“I want you,Your voice. Your stubbornness.”
He brushes a thumb over your knuckles.
“when I first met you, I think I knew it was always meant to be you”
Another pause,the smallest smile breaking through.
“My life isn’t worth living if it’s not with you”
And then, soft but sure
“Y/N… will you marry me?”
The arena is silent, the confetti still drifting like snow. Your breath hitches, tears streaming freely now, your injured shoulder forgotten in the overwhelming rush of emotion.You nod first,hard before realising he needs words.
"Yes!" you cry out,your voice breaking through the quiet. "Yes,Ilya,Rozanov,yes!"
The crowd erupts.
He lets out a breathless laugh,something between relief and pure joy as he slips the ring onto your finger,his hands trembling just slightly before pulling you into his arms,right there on the ice,mouth crashing down on yours in a kiss that tastes like triumph and forever.Shane whoops from his seat,jumping up with your parents cheering beside him,cameras flashing all around,but none of it matters. He kisses you hard, his arms tight around you like you're the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Then suddenly, he's laughing against your mouth,the sound bright and beautiful. You're both shaking, the adrenaline and emotion overwhelming.The crowd is cheering like a storm,but neither of you hear them,lost in your own little bubble. When the kiss finally breaks, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm with emotion.
He cups your face between his hands,rough and calloused but so incredibly gentle.
"You said yes," he whispers, almost to himself. A soft disbelieving laugh escapes him. "You actually said yes."
You smile through the tears,still a little unsteady on the ice.
"Of course,I did, dumbass," you whisper,laughing a little wetly.
He grins,that roguish expression that steals your breath even now.
"Watch your tongue, my love," he teases. "Going to be calling me your husband soon."
Your heart flutters at the word,the future suddenly incredibly real.
"Husband," you repeat softly. "Sounds kind of weird."
He raises a brow,a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Good weird or bad weird?"
You laugh, wiping tears away. "Good weird.Definitely good weird."
His thumbs brush softly across your cheeks, catching any stray tears.
"Good," he says lowly. "Because you're stuck with me now."
You pretend to consider this,like he's offering you anything less than the world.
"Hmm, stuck with you,you say?"
His hands wander,wrapping around your waist,pulling you closer even though there's barely space between you already.
"Stuck with me," he murmurs against your ear,his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Forever."
The word hangs in the air, heavy with promise. And despite the cameras, the roar of the crowd,you feel strangely...peaceful. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, the ring on your finger catching the arena lights like a tiny star.
"Forever sounds about right," you whisper.
He smiles,really smiles,the kind that reaches his eyes and softens every hard edge, every scar life has carved into him. The crowd is still roaring, cameras flashing from all angles, but he only sees you.
Then he leans down and kisses you again. Slow this time. Deep. Tender. A promise sealed in front of the world.When he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he murmurs in Russian,soft, intimate words meant only for you:
“Ty moya lyubov'. Moya sud'ba."
You are my love. My fate.And then,he takes your hand and raises it between them so everyone can see the ring glittering under the stadium lights.
The crowd explodes.Shane’s whistling from the stands while your mom is openly crying into her program,your dad claps slowly with quiet pride glowing on his face,his daughter… his everything.
Later that night,in private,you lie tangled together in bed,lights flickering outside like stars brought down to earth.
Your fingers brush over the ring again,wondering if it's really real,"I can't believe this happened."
He watches you from beside,his arm draped loosely over your waist,his breath even and calm for perhaps the first time since Montreal all those years ago when he first laid eyes on you by that glass rink wall…
"I can," he says simply,tucking a strand of hair behind your ear."It was always going to be us,y/n.Even if it took me years to prove it."
You turn into him,curling close despite healing wounds,because home isn't somewhere anymore,it's someone.And as sleep begins to pull at both ofyou,Ilya presses one last kiss onto temple,murmuring “sleep my love”
And you do,deeply, peacefully, for the first time in a long while,wrapped in the warmth of a love that started with a glance through glass and ended with the whole world watching him choose you.
Figured I'd make a HR fic (based off book). Also, I need to feed my bisexual brothers. Had inspo by...1, 2, 3 country songs! (I don't know how Ilya and reader would meet, so I made two. Read the blue or orange text first, then black.) TW: I don't see any, LMK.
~In-season Beginning~
So, NHL doesn't have a halftime. You were asked to perform before the match. Classic celebrity co-branding. Now, this is a match up in Montreal, so the chances of anyone hearing a south western twangy voice in person is low.
Ilya is no exception. When he first heard you singing, it was a new thing. Even though he spent a long time in Boston, your accent is different from the ones he heard there. (Obviously, Massachusetts is miles up north).
Anyways, after performing a mashup of some songs, and the match ending, there's always the meet 'n greet with VIP fans. You weren't in your forte, so you were pretty much off to the side. Not to say you were forgotten, there were plenty of fans that met up with you.
After all was done (Marlow asked for a picture of you and the whole team), Ilya came up to you, bluntly asking if you wanted to go out. Both of you looked up each other (you looked up both teams that played in the match) online, and found out y'all had no s/o.
You agreed. Of course, you had other concerts down south, so a simple number exchange would have to suffice. Meanwhile, you could just tag along with him to any events, team and family outings, or just with him during the remaining days.
After a few months of texting each other, calling, secret visiting, y'all became a couple.
~Vacation Beginning~
After winning the last match of the season, Ilya decided that a break in the warm countryside would be very much needed. He booked an Airbnb on a high-end ranch that was on the south of the U.S., as he decided that it'd be interesting to see the stereotypical cowboy and horse western town. Plus, if he then wanted to visit Mexico, (who wouldn't) it would be more close to him.
After a LOOONG plane ride, he finally reaches his destination- a large farm with a house up front, and smaller houses to the side. No doubt for the guests. When he finished settling his things down, he went down to the ranch- it was open for the wealthy public.
Despite the mild jet lag, he was still up to check some of the late dusk activities- produce stands, corn maze, petting zoo, and line dancing. In this version of the introduction, I feel like you would be more indie than mainstream, but still a celebrity to some degree.
Ilya would walk around taking it in; enjoying the ambience and giving selfies with the occasional fan. (Hockey isn't as popular, so he's less recognizable).
Out in a portable stage was you, singing with people up front listening/dancing. Ilya was drawn in by you, so half of the time he spent close to the concert area. He came up to you during a break, asking if he and you could meet up together sometime (may or may have not used his position as Team Captain of the B.B. to charm you).
You agreed. Luckily for you both, the next day you only worked the dusk shift again, so you were free morning, afternoon, and early evening. During which time, you gave him a tour of the area. You used to work as one of the farmboys, so needless to say, you knew the place and people well.
The next few days went like this- Ilya and you going out on small dates on the farm, sometimes to nearby towns, doing activities, and then you having to work. Ilya would sometimes listen to you, or do his own thing. Eventually, he had to leave, so y'all exchanged digits.
After a few months of texting each other, calling, secret visiting, y'all became a couple.
~Relationship~
🏒First things first, if y'all decided to announce your relationship to the public right after forming it, it would've been Ilya's suggestion. If you haven't come out, the relationship would've been private.
🤠If you come out (if you hadn't already), you'll def sing a song about a male partner. (Most of your songs before were gender neutral. Some about a female partner.)
🏒Now that you're together, each of your fame rises. Bc of the unlikely pairing- a Russian hockey player and country singer in a same-sex male relationship? Unheard of! Fortunately, the majority of both fan bases are accepting.
🤠Speaking of, the two of you are very much involved in each other's careers.
🏒You always get a seat in the VIP box during one of Ilya's games, and whenever he makes a goal, he glances up at you in that stupidly charming grin, pushing you to cheer him on.
🤠After each game, when the team heads out on a celebratory dinner with friends/family, you go along with them. You sometimes interact with fans, only before and after the matches.
🏒When he's free, it's mandatory that you learn how to ice skate- either as leisure or playful one-on-one games with him. He'll obviously teach you how, his soft side sometimes slipping out.
🤠If Ilya has the time, he will also go to your concert tours. Sometimes up front, or in the backstage. You have written songs inspired and dedicated to him, earning awwws and coos from your audience when you announce it.
🏒During backstage meet and greets with fans after concerts, Ilya will, without shame, also sell himself. No harm though, you're used to it, the listeners (and your managers) love it, and he does so moderation. He can and will make cameos in one or two of your music videos.
🤠You'll still visit your home state and community, with Ilya going with you. When visiting your farm, (the one you grew up with, not one you own) Ilya will be more than down to play and work with the animals and plants.
A/N: Finally, my contribution to the Heated Rivalry fandom
sum. you seem to have a problem articulating your words, and he doesn’t have time for your bullshitting.
authors note: hi guys, i know- i’m back. not permanently, but back nonetheless. life has been lifing, unfortunately. and if you can’t tell, i have indeed watched heated rivalry. it was great, btdubs.
warnings implied nsfw content (blowjob), sense of urgency, reader is implied to be slightly new, implied rivalry/dislike, sneaking around
“what was your game plan to score the win against montreal?” the reporter asks with a voice full of faux sugar, microphone held up to her mouth before she tilts it towards the russian.
“i just went in and did it.” he answers cut and dry, his accent wrapping around each and every syllable as he looks at the camera for a split second before flitting his eyes back to the reporter. the lady frowns at the quick and impatient sounding answer, but quickly schools her expression to ask the next question.
“how do you feel about montreal’s newest player checking you on the ice? do you think he’s imposing any competition to the league so far?”
“he is not great. montreal’s fourteenth best, just above pike.” he flashes a side grin before offering a wink to the camera.
“what the fuck? fourteenth best?” you yell at your tv from the comfort of your hotel bed, furious at his words. you quickly switch the channel, but not before rolling your eyes. for his information, you were playing a damn good season-
“don’t listen to him. he’s a dick, dude.” pike would comment as he stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up fresh, white linen. “he only says that shit to agitate you. plus, you’re playing a good season. don’t let him get under your skin.” damn right you are, but rozanov still manages to irritate the living hell out of you. pike was right- it was agitating. you don’t know how pike manages to keep his mouth shut or his head down. actually, he doesn’t do either- but you don’t hear him freaking out about rozanov everyday, unlike you.
“blow off some steam. get laid while im gone or something.” he walks over to your bed before patting you on the shoulder. “how do i look?” he asks, fixing his sleeves for what seems like the umpteenth time. just some normal slacks and a button up. simple but effective. you give him a small nod, tell him he looks good- and just as quickly, he’s out the door.
left with the silence of just your thoughts and the background noise of your tv, the only thing that runs through your mind is rozanov. before you can think, you’re picking up your phone.
ME
fucking seriously, rozanov?
nope, delete.
fourteenth best?
ILYA
you are not good, rookie. i did not lie.
goddamn him and his arrogance. it’ll come back to get him one day, you think.
ME
i’m playing a good season.
ILYA
no.
why do you text me at this hour?
actually, you don’t know why. do you just enjoy the thrill of texting a rival? i mean, you’d chalk it up to that if hayden’s words weren’t ringing through your ears.
‘blow off some steam. get laid while i’m gone or something.”
ME
i need you.
okay, a bit forward. maybe too forward.
maybe i want something.
ILYA
do you want my cock? 🍆
ME
yes.
who taught you how to use emojis?
ILYA
you didn’t answer question.
ME
1210. ⏰
oh, what the fuck? as soon as you send the text, he hearts it and you feel something similar to regret. why did he have so much power on you indirectly? god, you were so easy. you try not to overthink it as you get up from the bed and head to the bathroom.
before you know it, a loud knock rings through your hotel room, stopping your pacing in its tracks. you practically swing the door open, ilya slowly walks in with that confident swagger that you know all too well, moving to close the door behind him. “nice hotel,” he observes, giving a quick glance over of the room. “are you rooming with pike?”
“yeah, but he’s gone. out with his wife.” you assure, backing up as rozanov steps towards you, your back hitting against a wall.
“we have to be quick then, da? he is one pump chump.” that gets a laugh out of you, and he falls down to his knees just as quickly.
“how would you know?” you raise a brow in mock concern as he shimmied down your sweats in one go, already hard cock springing free from the confines of the fabric.
“were you hard thinking about this? how long?” he doesn’t make a move to do anything yet, just stare up at you with those eyes.
“shut up, asshole. do it already.”
“do what?” okay, now he’s being a dick.
“…you know what.” your cheeks redden at being questioned like this. he knows what you want, but he refuses to give it to you. it’s like he enjoys watching you suffer.
“tell me what you want me to do to you?”
“say it, say it, say it…”
“what do you want? i need you to say.” his hand slides up and down your thigh as he looks up at you with those pouty lips, fingers occasionally dipping into your inner thigh to tease.
“okay! suck my dick, rozanov. are you happy?”
“that’s not nice. what is magic word?”
whatever dignity that you had left is completely lost as the words leave your lips. “please?”
“hmm. that’ll do.”
a/n: this is so not proofread because it was made in a day i’m sawry :( happy birthday connie baby
so, I'm writing this from my laptop right know xD if you're not new to my world, than you probably know that I have writer's block and even though I write and release stuff, the inspiration is basically the same (themes of night or summer for example) so please, if you like my stuff or you're just bored, please request something and I'll see what I can do. you can also just request a theme or a song for inspiration or whatever (currently writing for ilya rozanov, maybe hollanov x reader soon). love you guys, we're almost at 500 which is crazy. I love you guys, I love my mutuals that always support my posts <3
