noise dept.
roma★
JBB: An Artblog!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
will byers stan first human second
art blog(derogatory)
No title available
DEAR READER
Xuebing Du
JVL
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
No title available
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
wallacepolsom
$LAYYYTER
Mike Driver
ellievsbear
Three Goblin Art
Kiana Khansmith
trying on a metaphor
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@vampysuccubus
send me some questions and requests i will answer everything 💋🧛🏻♀️
Truth or Dare?
Dean Di Laurentis x Female reader
Summary: Summary: It’s your first week in college when Hannah drags you to the Kappa Chi house party when you are playing truth or dare you are dared to kiss Dean.When you are on the way to your dorm you received a message from who can it be and what will happen next?
Notes: MDNI (18+) write me for requests!!
The bass from the Kappa Chi house vibrated through the soles of your heels as you and Hannah walked up the front steps. The porch was cluttered with red cups and laughing bodies, and the humid October air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, and smoke. You smoothed the hem of your black dress—the one you’d bought in secret last week, the one that dipped low in the back and clung to your hips like it was made for you.
Hannah grabbed your wrist, pulling you to a stop. She was dressed in a burgundy crop top and ripped jeans, her blonde hair curled perfectly, but her eyes were fixed on you.
“You look insane,” she said, voice low and serious. “Like, actually insane. Every guy in there is going to lose his mind.”
You flushed, shaking your head. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s a weapon,” she corrected, grinning. “Now come on. I need a drink, and you need to be seen.”
She pushed open the door, and the noise hit you like a wave. The living room was packed—sweaty bodies grinding to a thumping beat, a beer pong table on the far side where guys were shouting, girls perched on couches and armrests. Lights strobed red and blue. You felt exposed and electric at the same time.
Hannah led you to the kitchen, grabbing two cups and filling them from a keg. She handed you one. “Drink. Loosen up. You’re too stiff.”
You took a sip. It was warm and bitter, but the burn in your throat helped. You leaned against the counter, scanning the crowd. And then you saw him.
Dean Di Laurentis stood near the staircase, talking to two other guys—Garrett and John, you recognized from campus. He was leaning against the wall, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a red cup. His dark hair was slightly messy, stubble shadowing his jaw. He laughed at something Garrett said, head tilted back, throat exposed. Then his eyes swept the room.
They landed on you.
And stopped.
The laughter faded from his face. His gaze traveled down your body—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting you with his eyes. He didn’t look away when your eyes met. Instead, he raised his cup slightly, acknowledging you. A small smirk tugged at his lips.
Your stomach plummeted. Heat crawled up your neck.
Hannah noticed. “Oh my god. Dean Di Laurentis is staring at you.”
“He’s not—“
“He is. Don’t look. Actually, do look. Smile. No, not like that—“
“Hannah, stop.”
But your heart was pounding. You forced yourself to look away, taking a long gulp of your beer. The night stretched ahead, and you felt his gaze like a brand on your skin.
An hour later, you were three beers deep and actually dancing. Hannah had dragged you into the living room, and you let the music take over—hips swaying, arms above your head. You weren’t the best dancer, but in this crowd, no one cared. You closed your eyes and let the bass move through you.
When you opened them, Dean was across the room, watching. He wasn’t dancing. He was just leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you. His jaw was tight.
You felt a thrill—something dangerous and exciting. You held his gaze as you moved, letting your body roll to the beat. His pupils dilated. He didn’t blink.
Then Hannah grabbed your arm again. “Truth or dare room. They’re setting it up in the den. You have to come.”
“I’m not—“
“You are. It’s your first college party. You need the full experience.” She was already pulling you through the crowd, weaving between bodies. You glanced back, but Dean had disappeared.
The den was smaller, cozier—a worn leather couch, a few beanbags, and a circle of people on the floor. A bottle of cheap whiskey sat in the middle. Hannah pushed you down onto a cushion and sat beside you.
The game started slow. A freshman guy had to serenade the girl next to him. A girl admitted she’d hooked up with her roommate’s brother. The bottle spun. Laughter. Gasps. The alcohol was making everything hazy and warm.
Then the bottle pointed at you.
The girl spinning it—a redhead with a wicked grin—looked at you. “Truth or dare, new girl?”
“Dare,” you said without thinking. Hannah squeezed your knee.
The redhead’s grin widened. “I dare you to go find Dean Di Laurentis, walk up to him, and kiss him. Not a peck. A real kiss. Tongue. We’ll know if you wimp out.”
Your heart stopped. The circle erupted in cheers and hoots. Hannah was laughing, but her eyes were wide. “You asked for it,” she whispered.
Your throat was dry. Every cell in your body screamed no, but something else—something reckless and bold—pushed you to your feet.
“Fine,” you said.
The room went quiet. You walked out of the den, down the hallway, your heels clicking. You found him back in the living room, now leaning against the staircase banister, talking to Garrett. He saw you coming and straightened.
Garrett noticed you too. “Uh, Dean—“
“I know,” Dean said softly. He didn’t move.
You stopped in front of him. The party noise faded to a dull hum. His dark eyes searched yours, curious, amused, hungry.
“Truth or dare,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “They dared me to kiss you.”
“Is that so?” His lips curled. “And you chose to do it?”
“I always do what I’m dared.”
He stepped closer. A whisper of space between you. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”
You reached up, your hand sliding along his jaw. His skin was warm, rough with stubble. You pulled his face down to yours and pressed your lips to his.
It was soft at first—tentative, testing. But his hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Your lips parted. His tongue brushed yours, slow and deliberate. A low sound rumbled in his chest, and he deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. You melted into him, your fingers gripping his shoulder. The world tilted. Your knees went weak.
He broke the kiss slowly, dragging his mouth away just an inch, breathing against your lips. “That,” he said, voice rough, “was not a dare. That was a promise.”
Garrett let out a low whistle behind him. “Damn, Di Laurentis.”
But Dean didn’t look at him. He just kept his eyes on you, dark and burning. “I’ll find you later,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You nodded, barely able to speak. Then you turned and walked back to the den, legs shaking. Hanna grabbed you as soon as you sat down, squealing. “Oh my god, oh my god, that was intense.”
You couldn’t stop smiling. But your skin tingled, and your phone buzzed in your clutch an hour later.
Unknown: You’re not going home tonight.
You saved his number with trembling fingers. You didn’t reply. But you didn’t leave the party either.
You stayed, dancing, laughing with Hannah, feeling his gaze on you from across the room. Every time you turned, he was there. Watching. Waiting.
At midnight, Hannah found you on the back porch, looking up at the stars. “You’re going to his place, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
She hugged you tight. “Be safe. Text me. And tell me everything tomorrow.”
You hugged her back. “I will.”
Then you slipped out the back gate, phone in hand. The address he’d sent glowed on the screen. A ten-minute walk.
You didn’t run. You made yourself walk slow, savoring the cool air, the anticipation pooling low in your belly. His apartment building was old brick, a light on in the second-floor window. You climbed the stairs, knocked.
He opened the door before you could lower your hand. He’d changed into a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair damp, barefoot. His eyes were dark and soft.
“You came,” he said.
“I told you. I always do what I’m dared.”
He reached for you, pulling you inside. The door clicked shut. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “That kiss,” he said slowly, “has been on my mind every second since. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t talk to anyone. I just kept tasting you.”
Your breath hitched. “Then taste me again.”
He did.
He kissed you gently this time—slow, exploring, like he had all the time in the world. His lips traced yours, nibbled your lower lip, licked into your mouth as if savoring. His hands slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, pressing you against his hips. You felt him hard through his sweatpants, and you moaned into his mouth.
He pulled back, breathing ragged. “I want this to last,” he said. “I want to take my time with you.”
“Then take it.”
He smiled, a flash of teeth in the dim light. He took your hand and led you to his room.
It was simple—a bed with dark sheets, a lamp casting warm amber light, a stack of textbooks on the desk. He sat you on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, looking up. “I’ve been fantasizing about you all night. That dress. The way you moved when you danced. The way you kissed me like you meant it.”
He reached for your heel, unstrapped it, slid it off. Then the other. He pressed his lips to your ankle, kissing up your calf. Your skin prickled. You watched his dark head bend, his lips trailing a slow path to your knee, then to your inner thigh.
“Dean,” you whispered.
“Shh,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me worship you.”
He pushed the hem of your dress up, baring your thighs. He kissed higher, teeth grazing your panties. You gasped. His fingers hooked the lace and pulled them down, slowly. He pressed a kiss to the very top of your slit through the fabric, then eased them off entirely.
He sat back, looking at you—exposed, wet, trembling. “God, you’re beautiful.”
Then he leaned in, his mouth on you. And he took his time.
He kissed your inner thighs, your hip bones, the soft curve of your belly. He teased you until you were squirming, hands fisting in the sheets. His tongue finally—finally—found your clit, and you cried out. And then he licked you, slow and steady, like he was savoring every drop.
He brought you close, then pulled away. He’d slide a finger inside you, curl it, then stop. You begged. He made you wait, made you ask, made you feel every second of the tension.
By the time he finally stood, shucking his shirt and letting his sweats drop, you were a trembling mess. His cock was thick, hard, the head glistening. He rolled on a condom with deliberate slowness, watching you watch him.
He crawled over you, caging you with his arms. “You ready?”
“Yes. Please.”
He entered you inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours. Your back arched, your mouth falling open. He filled you completely, then stilled, letting you adjust. His forehead pressed to yours.
“Look at me,” he breathed. “I want to see you fall apart.”
And then he moved—deep, slow, dragging against your walls. He built a rhythm that was almost torturous, pulling out until only the tip remained, then pushing back in with agonizing care. You clawed at his back, gasping his name. He kissed you, swallowing your moans, his hips never stopping.
He brought you to the edge four times—teetering, clinging, begging—before he finally let you fall. And when you did, he followed, burying his face in your neck, shuddering.
Afterward, he lay beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hand stroked your hair. “You’re not just a hookup,” he said quietly. “I need you to know that.”
You looked up at him, heart aching. “I know.”
He kissed your forehead. Then he reached for his phone and, with a smirk, started typing.
Later, you found out he’d texted Garrett and John:
1:12 AM - Dean: She’s different.
1:47 AM - Dean: I think I’m in trouble.
2:03 AM - Dean: Don’t text me tomorrow. I’m busy.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a key in the lock. Hanna’s voice rang out from the living room: “Dean Di Laurentis, if you don’t tell me where she is, I will burn this apartment down.”
You smiled, stretched, and padded out in one of his shirts. Hannah saw you, her face lighting up.
“Oh my god—okay, spill.”
Hannah finally left after extracting every detail she could. The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment fell quiet. You were still wearing Dean's shirt—gray, soft, smelling like him—and you leaned against the counter, sipping the coffee he'd made. He came up behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his hands settling on your hips.
"She's intense," he murmured against your ear.
"She's protective."
"Good." He kissed the curve of your neck, lips grazing the spot where your pulse fluttered. "I like that you have someone who cares about you."
You turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes were dark again—that same hungry look from the party, but softer now, laced with something deeper. He brushed a strand of hair from your face.
"I don't want you to leave," he said quietly. "Not yet. Not for a while."
"Then I won't."
He kissed you. Slow at first, just a warm press of lips, but it deepened quickly. His tongue slid against yours, and his hands dropped to your ass, squeezing through the shirt. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair. He walked you backward until your hips hit the counter edge.
"Round two?" he asked, breathless.
"Round two," you agreed.
He lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs. The shirt rode up, exposing your bare legs, your lace panties. He looked down at you, raking his gaze over every inch.
"I want to take you in every way," he said, voice low. "I want to watch you from every angle. I want to hear you beg in different positions. And I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name."
Your breath caught. "Then show me."
He grinned—slow, wicked—and lifted you off the counter. He carried you back to the bedroom, but instead of laying you on the bed, he set you down beside it. "Turn around. Hands on the mattress."
You obeyed, bending forward, palms flat on the edge of the bed. The shirt fell forward, baring your back and the curve of your ass. He stood behind you, and you felt his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the shirt higher.
"You're so beautiful like this," he said, voice rough. "Spread open. Waiting."
He knelt behind you, pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. He pushed your panties aside and licked a slow stripe along your slit. You gasped, fingers gripping the sheets. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue circling your clit, then dipping lower, tasting you. Your legs trembled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips.
He brought you to the edge once, twice, pulling away each time you were close. You whimpered, begging. He laughed softly, standing up. The sound of his jeans dropping, the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then the head of his cock pressed against your wet entrance.
He slid in slowly—agonizingly slowly—filling you from behind. Your back arched, a cry escaping your lips. He bottomed out, holding still for a moment, letting you feel the fullness.
"You feel incredible," he groaned. Then he began to move.
He set a deep, steady rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in. Each stroke hit deep, pressing against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His hands were on your hips, then one moved up to grip your hair, pulling your head back gently. The angle changed, and you felt him even deeper.
"Dean—fuck—"
"Yeah," he breathed. "Keep saying my name."
He quickened the pace, slapping against you with wet, obscene sounds. Your legs shook, your knuckles white on the sheets. He reached around with his free hand, finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The pleasure built like a scream.
"I'm close," you gasped.
"Not yet," he said, voice strained. He slowed down, almost stopping, drawing out the ache. Then he pulled out completely.
You whimpered at the emptiness.
He turned you around, guiding you onto the bed. He lay back, patting his thighs. "Come here. Ride me."
You straddled him, hovering over his cock. He was slick with your wetness, flushed and hard. You sank down onto him slowly, both of you groaning. Your hands rested on his chest, and you began to move—up and down, rolling your hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you, but he let you set the pace.
You took him deep, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with each rotation. His jaw slackened, his eyes half-lidded. "Fuck, you're so good at that. Don't stop."
You increased your rhythm, bouncing faster. The new angle let him hit differently—deeper, fuller. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, and his mouth found your nipple. He sucked, bit lightly, while his hips thrust up to meet your descent.
Sweat slicked your skin. The room filled with the sounds of breathing, moaning, the wet noise of sex. He reached between your bodies, fingers pressing on your clit again, and that was it—the tension broke. You came with a sharp cry, your walls clenching around him. He groaned, gripping your hips, thrusting up into you as you pulsed around him.
Before you could recover, he flipped you onto your back. He pulled out, rolled you onto your stomach, and lifted your hips with a pillow beneath them. "One more," he said. "I want to feel you come on my cock again."
He entered you from behind again, but slower this time, more deliberate. His chest pressed to your back, his lips at your ear. "You're mine tonight," he whispered. "Every inch of you."
He fucked you with deep, grinding strokes, his hand sliding up to grip your hair again. The position made every nerve sing. You buried your face in the pillow, moaning. He built the rhythm—fast, then slow, then fast again—until you were a sobbing, trembling mess. He reached under you, fingers finding your clit, and within seconds you shattered again, convulsing around him.
He followed, burying his face in your shoulder, shuddering. His breath was hot on your skin. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a warm blanket.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Then he eased out, disposed of the condom, and pulled you into his arms. He kissed your shoulder, your cheek, your lips.
"Three positions," he murmured, smiling against your mouth. "And I still want more."
You laughed weakly. "Give me ten minutes."
He pulled the blanket over you both, his hand resting low on your belly. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬
𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭’𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠... 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲.
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 (𝟏𝟖+) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬
The front door of our apartment swung open with a familiar, determined thud—John Logan’s signature entrance. I looked up from the couch, where I’d been pretending to read for the past hour, and my breath caught as always. He was drenched in sweat, his gray Under Armour shirt clinging to every curve of muscle, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. The smell of ice, rubber, and raw exertion filled the room before he even said a word.
“Hey, baby,” he said, voice rough from shouting drills. He kicked off his sneakers without untying them, a habit I’d given up complaining about. His blue eyes found me, and even through the fatigue I saw the hunger there—a low, possessive heat that made my thighs press together.
God, I wanted him. Wanted him so bad it was a physical ache.
He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping his bag by the door, and leaned down to kiss me. His lips were cool from the rink, but the kiss was anything but. He tasted like Powerade and salt, and I melted into him, my hands fisting the damp fabric of his shirt.
“Missed you,” he murmured against my mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” I said, but I was smiling, pulling him closer.
John pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze dropping to my tank top, the way my nipples hardened under the thin cotton. “Shower first?” he asked, but his voice was thick, and I could feel exactly how much he didn’t want to wait.
I shook my head. “No. Now.”
He grinned, that lopsided, cocky grin that made half the girls at Briar swoon. “Eager, huh?”
I didn’t answer with words. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head. The sweat was slick on his skin, his abs glistening, and I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat. He groaned, his hands sliding into my hair, and in one fluid motion he had me on my back on the couch, his body covering mine.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t just a line. John Logan had a way of making you believe it.
He kissed down my neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark—I knew I’d have a hickey tomorrow, and I didn’t care. His hands were rough, calloused from the stick, and they worked my shorts down my legs with practiced ease. I was already soaked, the anticipation making me wet, and when his fingers brushed my pussy through the lace of my panties, he groaned.
“So fucking tight,” he breathed.
I arched into his touch. “Need you inside me, John. Now.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. In seconds my panties were gone, his shorts and boxers were shoved down his thighs, and his cock—thick, hard, pre-cum glistening at the tip—was pressing against my entrance. He lined himself up, his eyes locked on mine, and he pushed in.
It was a stretch, always that first moment, and I gasped. He was big, and I loved the fullness, the way he filled me completely. He started slow, deep thrusts that hit that spot inside me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Take it.”
But something was wrong.
I knew it. The pleasure was there, electric and searing, but it was like hitting a wall before the climb. I could feel myself tightening, feel the edge of the orgasm just out of reach, but it wouldn’t come. It never did. Not with him, not with anyone. Not since the first time we’d done this, when I’d faked it so well he’d never suspected.
But I was tired of faking.
John’s rhythm increased. He was close—I could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed. He grabbed my hips hard enough to bruise, his movements losing their grace, becoming raw and desperate.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he grunted.
“Wait,” I said, my voice small.
He didn’t hear me. He was too lost, his head thrown back, a groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside me. I felt the hot pulse of his release, and I held him, my body still a live wire of unspent tension.
He collapsed on top of me, breathing hard, his heart hammering against my chest. We lay there for a minute, the sweat cooling, the heavy silence settling.
Then he lifted his head, his brow furrowed. “You didn’t come.”
It wasn’t a question.
I wanted to lie. Wanted to say, Oh, I was close, or I’m fine, it’s still good, but something in his eyes—that searching, earnest look—made the words die in my throat. John Logan was many things: a cocky hockey player, a frat boy, a lover. But he was also surprisingly perceptive, and he’d never let me hide.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t… finish. During sex. It’s been like that… always.”
The silence stretched. I could feel his weight on me, his softening cock still inside me, and I braced for the awkwardness, the pity, the platitudes. But John didn’t offer any of that. He pulled out slowly, gently, and sat up, pulling me with him. He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was quiet, not angry, not sad. Just… curious.
“I didn’t want you to think something was wrong with me. Or that you weren’t good enough.” My voice cracked. “Because you are. It’s not you. It’s never been you. I just…”
He silenced me with a kiss. Soft, tender, nothing like the hungry kisses before. This one was understanding. He pulled back and looked at me, his eyes soft.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said firmly. “And I’m not going anywhere. But we’re gonna fix this. Not because you’re broken, but because I can’t stand the thought of you not getting what you deserve.”
Then he shifted, pulling me off the couch and onto the floor. He grabbed a throw pillow and tucked it under my head, then knelt between my legs. I looked down at him, confusion and anticipation warring in my chest.
“John, what are you—”
He didn't wait for my answer. John shifted his weight, lowering himself fully onto his stomach between my spread thighs. The hardwood floor was cool against my back, but his breath was hot against my cunt, and I shivered in anticipation.
"Look at me," he said, his voice low and steady. I obeyed, meeting those blue eyes that had seen me break open. "I want to watch you while I do this. I want to see every expression, every twitch, every gasp. Don't close your eyes."
I bit my lip, nodding, my hands already reaching for his hair. He caught my wrists gently and pinned them to my sides.
"Hands down," he said. "Let me do the work. You just feel."
He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of my left thigh, then my right, trailing his lips slowly upward. His beard stubble rasped against my sensitive skin, sending tiny shivers up my spine. He took his time, kissing and nibbling along my inner thighs, avoiding my pussy with maddening precision. I squirmed, trying to push my hips toward his mouth, but he held me still with a firm grip on my hips.
"Patience," he murmured against my skin. "I've got all night."
His tongue traced a lazy line from my knee to the crease where my thigh met my hip. He lingered there, sucking a small mark into the skin, before moving to the other side. I could feel my wetness pooling, could feel the empty ache between my legs growing with every second he teased me.
"John, please," I breathed.
He looked up at me, his chin resting on my thigh, his eyes dark with hunger. "Please what?"
"Please touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
He smiled—that slow, wicked grin—and finally, finally, he lowered his head. His first touch was featherlight: just the barest brush of his lips against my outer labia. I gasped, my hips jerking, and he chuckled softly, the vibration sending a jolt through my nerves.
"Easy," he repeated.
He parted my folds with his thumbs, exposing my clit to the cool air. I saw him study me, saw his eyes darken as he took in the glistening wetness, the way my entrance pulsed with need.
"You're perfect," he said, and then his mouth was on me.
A long, slow lick from my entrance to my clit, tasting me like a man savoring fine wine. His tongue was soft but firm, exploring every ridge and fold. He circled my clit once, twice, then drew it into his mouth, sucking gently. I cried out, my back arching off the floor, but his hands on my hips kept me anchored.
He released my clit with a wet pop and looked up. "Do you like that?"
"Yes," I panted. "God, yes."
"Good." He dipped his head again, this time focusing on my entrance. His tongue slipped inside me, just the tip, probing and tasting. I felt his groan vibrate through my flesh, and the sensation sent sparks through my entire body. He fucked me with his tongue in slow, rhythmical strokes, his nose pressing against my clit with each push.
"John," I moaned, my hands fisting in my own hair. "That feels... I can't..."
He pulled back, a string of my wetness connecting his lip to my pussy. "You can," he said firmly. "You're going to come on my tongue, and then I'm going to make you come again with my fingers, and then we're going to find out how many times you can do it before you pass out."
My stomach tightened at his words. He meant it. I could see it in the determination etched into his face.
He went back to work, but this time he added his fingers. One thick digit slid into me easily, coated in my slick, and he curled it upward, pressing against that sensitive spot inside. He kept his mouth on my clit, alternating between sucking and licking, while his finger traced slow circles inside me.
"That's it," he muttered against me. "You're so wet, baby. So fucking tight. I can feel you clenching around my finger."
I couldn't respond. My breath came in short, sharp gasps, my hips rocking against his hand. He added a second finger, stretching me, and I whimpered at the fullness. He pumped them slowly, deeply, his tongue never pausing.
"Look at me," he said.
I forced my eyes open. My vision was blurry with tears of pleasure, but I saw him, his face buried between my legs, his eyes locked on mine. The sight was devastatingly intimate—John Logan, the cocky hockey captain, on his knees for me, his mouth and fingers working me with reverence.
"Close," I gasped. "John, I'm close."
"Not yet," he said, pulling back abruptly.
I cried out in frustration, the pleasure ebbing away. "Why did you stop?"
He sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Because I want to draw this out. I want you right on the edge, begging for it, before I let you fall."
He lifted my legs, hooking my knees over his shoulders, and leaned forward. His face was inches from my cunt, his breath hot and teasing. He licked a long stripe up my inner thigh, tasting the wetness that had dripped down. Then he sucked on my labia, pulling the flesh into his mouth, gently biting down—just enough pressure to send a shock of pleasure-pain through me.
I moaned, my hands scrabbling at the floor. "Please, John. Please let me come."
"Not yet," he repeated, but there was a smile in his voice.
He turned his attention to my clit again, but this time he used the flat of his tongue, broad strokes that covered the whole area. He pressed harder, faster, his fingers resuming their rhythm inside me. I could feel the pressure building again, stronger this time, a coiled spring ready to snap.
"You're trembling," he said, his voice thick with lust. "I can feel you shaking. You're so close, aren't you?"
"Fuck, yes," I sobbed.
"Then come for me. Right now. Let me taste you."
He sucked my clit into his mouth, hard, and his fingers curled in a perfect "come here" motion, pressing against my g-spot. That was it. The world exploded behind my eyes, my body convulsing, a scream tearing from my throat. I felt my walls clamp down on his fingers, felt my cum gush around them, and John groaned against me, drinking it all.
He didn't stop. He kept his mouth on me, gentle licks now, guiding me through the aftershocks. When I finally collapsed, limp and panting, he withdrew his fingers and crawled up to lie beside me. He was hard, his cock pressing against my hip, but he made no move to take his own pleasure.
"You okay?" he asked, brushing hair from my face.
I was still trembling, still gasping. "I... that was..."
"Good?"
"Incredible."
He kissed me, and I tasted myself on his lips—salty and sweet and raw. "We're not done," he said. "I told you I want to see how many times I can make you come. And I'm a man of my word."
He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him. I straddled his chest, my wet pussy pressing against his abs, and he looked up at me with that same intense focus.
"Ride my face," he said, his voice rough. "I want to taste you again, but I want you in control this time."
I hesitated, but the hunger in his eyes was undeniable. I shuffled forward, positioning my cunt over his mouth. He reached up, gripping my hips, and pulled me down onto him. His tongue found my clit immediately, lapping at me with renewed vigor, and I gasped, bracing myself on the wall behind his head.
"Like this?" I asked, grinding against him.
He groaned in response, his hands squeezing my ass, guiding my movements. I found a rhythm, rocking my hips forward and back, sliding my pussy across his tongue. He let me take what I needed, his only contribution being that insistent, skilled tongue, flicking and circling and probing.
I could feel the second orgasm building faster, the sensitivity from the first making every touch electric. I sped up, grinding harder, and he moaned against me, the vibration pushing me over the edge again.
"John, I'm coming," I cried, and I did, my body shuddering above him, my cum dripping onto his chin.
He held me through it, licking me clean, then gently guided me off his face. I collapsed beside him, boneless, my heart pounding.
He turned to face me, his face slick with my release, his eyes burning with pride and satisfaction. "Two down," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "How many more do you have in you?"
I laughed weakly, pulling him into a kiss. "Give me five minutes."
He chuckled, rolling me onto my side, spooning me from behind. His cock pressed against my ass, still hard, but he made no move to enter me. He just held me, his hand splayed across my stomach, his lips brushing my shoulder.
"Take all the time you need," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
And in the quiet of our apartment, wrapped in his arms, I believed him.
give me some fanfics ideas i can write for every character sooo send requests and i‘m currently writing a new Ilya Rozanov fic sorry for not being active angels.
Should i write smut with heartbreak high characters?
COMMENTTTT OR SENT REQUESTSSSS
No bc real
𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭
Ilya Rozanov x Shane Hollander x Fem reader
Summary: After a long day after the game Ilya was pushing boundaries and received a punishment when Shane interfered them and get a punishment too and at the end no one can hold back anymore.
Warnings: MMF,tits sucking, oral fem receiving, sex, riding, 2 dicks inside, dirty talk, mentions of alcohol, all r dom, aftercare
Notes: sorry i forgot to add the request but ill tag him @peak-atrabiliar and write me for requests and questions.
The air in the dimly lit locker room still hummed with the echo of the final buzzer, the scent of sweat and ice lingering like a second skin. It had been a brutal game—Boston versus Toronto, the rivalry as fierce as ever. Shane Hollander, the golden boy of the Bears, had skated circles around Ilya Rozanov, the Maple Leafs' enforcer, but not without cost. Fights had broken out, penalties racked up, and off the ice, the tension between the two men simmered into something far more personal.
Their story wasn't one for the highlight reels. It started two seasons ago, during a heated playoff series that ended in Boston's favor. Shane and Ilya, both alpha personalities on the rink, clashed in more ways than one. A post-game bar brawl led to a drunken hookup in a hotel room, bodies slamming together with the same intensity they brought to the ice. What began as hate-fueled release evolved into a secret affair, stolen moments in anonymous hotels and quiet corners of arenas. But Shane, ever the protector, couldn't keep his mouth shut when it came to Ilya's self-destructive tendencies.
Ilya had a habit of pushing boundaries—too many late nights, too much booze after losses, skirting the edge of team rules. Their girlfriend, you, had become the anchor in their chaotic world. You'd met Shane first, through a mutual friend in the league's social circle, your sharp wit and unyielding support drawing him in like a moth to flame. When he confessed his tangled feelings for Ilya, you didn't flinch. Instead, you suggested bringing him into the fold, turning rivalry into a triad of passion and possession. It worked, mostly. But Ilya's punishments—your way of reining him in—were a ritual born from necessity. A firm hand, a night of denial or edged pleasure, always ending in release that left him begging.
Tonight, after Toronto's loss, Ilya had crossed a line. He'd shown up to the post-game presser reeking of whiskey, brushing off questions with his trademark smirk. The coach had benched him for the next practice, but you knew it ran deeper. Back at the shared condo you'd all bought in a neutral city—neutral ground for your unconventional family—you laid down the law. 'On your knees, Ilya,' you'd commanded, your voice steady as you watched him strip. The punishment was simple: he'd edge himself while you watched, no touching from you or Shane until he earned it. His cock throbbed in his fist, pre-cum beading at the tip as he stroked slowly, eyes locked on yours, growling Russian curses under his breath.
Shane paced the living room, his broad shoulders tense under his team hoodie. He hated seeing Ilya like this—vulnerable, punished. 'This is bullshit,' Shane muttered, stopping in front of you where you sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, your short skirt riding up your thighs. 'He's sorry. Let him off.'
You arched a brow, your gaze flicking to Ilya, who paused mid-stroke, his chest heaving. 'Stay still,' you ordered him, then turned to Shane. 'Interfere again, and you'll join him.'
But Shane, stubborn as ever, stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup Ilya's jaw. 'Come on, babe. You don't deserve this.' Ilya leaned into the touch, a low whine escaping his lips, his cock twitching untouched now.
That was it. You stood, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor. 'Both of you. Strip. Now.' Your voice was steel wrapped in silk, and they obeyed—Shane with a defiant glare, Ilya with hungry anticipation. Shirts hit the floor, revealing sculpted torsos marked by bruises from the game. Pants followed, cocks springing free: Ilya's thick and veined, Shane's longer, curving slightly. You circled them like a predator, trailing fingers over heated skin.
'This is your punishment,' you purred, shoving Shane onto the bed beside Ilya. 'You think you can play hero? You'll suffer together.' You stripped slowly, letting your blouse fall, then your skirt, revealing lace panties already damp with arousal. Their eyes devoured you—Shane's blue gaze darkening, Ilya's hazel ones smoldering.
You pushed them back, knees spreading as you straddled the space between them. 'Touch each other. But not yourselves. And don't you dare cum without permission.' Shane groaned as Ilya's hand wrapped around his cock, stroking firmly, thumb circling the head. Ilya mirrored the motion, their grips syncing in a rhythm that had hips bucking. Pre-cum slicked their lengths, the wet sounds filling the room.
'Fuck, Ilya,' Shane hissed, head falling back, his free hand gripping the sheets. 'Your hand feels so good... tighter.' Ilya obliged, squeezing until Shane swore, his abs clenching.
You watched, your pussy aching, fingers dipping under your panties to circle your clit. 'Look at you two, so desperate. Ilya's been bad, and now you're paying for it. You want my pussy, don't you? Want to bury your cocks inside me?'
'Yes,' they chorused, voices rough. Shane's eyes pleaded. 'Please, baby. Let me fuck you.'
'Not yet.' You climbed onto the bed, positioning yourself over Ilya's face. 'Eat me first. Make me cum, and maybe I'll let you inside.' Ilya dove in eagerly, tongue lapping at your folds through the lace before you yanked it aside. His mouth was sinful—sucking your clit, delving into your wetness, nose bumping your sensitive nub. You ground down, moaning as Shane's hand found your breast, pinching the nipple.
'Good boy, Ilya. Lick that pussy like you mean it. Taste how wet you make me.' Your words spurred him, his tongue fucking into you, hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer. Shane jerked himself now, unable to resist, until you slapped his hand away. 'No. Suck my tits instead.' He latched on, mouth hot and demanding, teeth grazing as he sucked hard enough to leave marks.
Orgasm built fast, your hips rolling against Ilya's face. 'Fuck, yes—right there. Drink my cum, Ilya.' You shattered, juices flooding his mouth, body trembling as waves crashed over you. He lapped every drop, growling against your skin.
Panting, you slid down, kissing Shane fiercely, tasting yourself on his lips from the shared air. 'Your turn to beg.' You sank onto Ilya's cock first, inch by thick inch stretching your walls. He was huge, filling you completely, and you rode him slow, savoring the drag. 'So big... feels like you're splitting me open.'
Shane watched, fist clenched around his own dick until you batted it away again. 'Stroke him, Ilya. Keep him hard for me.' Ilya reached over, pumping Shane's length as you bounced, tits jiggling with each thrust. The bed creaked, bodies slick with sweat.
'Take it deeper,' Ilya grunted, hips snapping up to meet yours. 'Your pussy's so tight, gripping me like a vice. Ride me harder, malyshka.'
You did, slamming down until your clit ground against his base. Shane's jealousy flared. 'My turn. I need to fuck you.'
You dismounted, pussy clenching around nothing, and pushed Shane flat. Straddling him reverse, you guided his cock inside, moaning at the different angle—deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst. 'Oh god, Shane... your cock's perfect. So long, stretching me just right.' You leaned forward, ass up, and Ilya didn't hesitate, kneeling behind you.
'Both of you? Greedy girl.' Ilya's voice was gravel, hands spreading your cheeks as he pressed his tip against your ass. Lube from the nightstand slicked the way—he pushed in slow, the burn exquisite, turning to pleasure as he bottomed out.
Double stuffed, you cried out, the fullness overwhelming. 'Fuck—yes! Fill me up, both of you. Pound my holes.' They moved in tandem, Shane thrusting up into your pussy, Ilya pulling back from your ass before slamming in. The friction was intense, cocks rubbing through the thin wall separating them.
'Dirty little slut,' Shane growled, hands bruising your hips. 'Taking two cocks like you were made for it. Your pussy's dripping all over me.'
Ilya spanked your ass, the sting heightening everything. 'Da, squeeze us tighter. Milk our cocks with that hot ass.' His pace quickened, balls slapping against you.
You were lost in sensation, pushing back to meet them, clit throbbing. 'Harder—fuck me like you hate each other on the ice. Punish this pussy and ass.' They obliged, thrusts brutal, grunts mingling with your moans. Sweat dripped, bodies slapping wetly.
Shane reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles. 'Cum for us. Soak my cock while Ilya wrecks your ass.' The pressure built, coiling tight.
Ilya leaned over, biting your shoulder. 'Cum now, or we'll stop. Beg for it.'
'Please—don't stop! I'm cumming!' Ecstasy ripped through you, walls pulsing around their cocks, milking them relentlessly. They groaned, holding back by sheer will.
You collapsed forward, but they weren't done. Flipping you onto your back, Shane took your pussy again, folding your legs to your chest. Ilya straddled your chest, feeding his cock into your mouth. 'Suck it clean. Taste your ass on me.' You did, hollowing cheeks, tongue swirling as he fucked your throat.
Shane hammered deep, the angle punishing. 'Look at you, stuffed at both ends. Our perfect fucktoy.' His thumb pressed your clit, drawing out aftershocks.
Ilya pulled out, stroking himself. 'Open wide. We're gonna cum all over you.' Shane followed, both kneeling over you, cocks erupting in thick ropes—across your tits, face, dripping down your chin.
Exhausted, they collapsed beside you, cleaning you with gentle kisses. 'Punishment over?' Shane murmured, nuzzling your neck.
You smiled, sated. 'For now. But next time, no interfering.' In the quiet afterglow, the three of you tangled together, the heat of the night binding you closer than any game ever could.
Shane shifted first, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest. His breath was warm against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. 'You're incredible, you know that? The way you take us... the way you make us feel whole.' His voice was soft, laced with reverence, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine, soothing the faint aches from their earlier intensity.
Ilya, on your other side, pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder, his hand finding yours and interlacing fingers. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent to memory. 'My beautiful girl,' he whispered, his accent thickening with emotion. 'You give us everything. I don't deserve you, but I'll spend every day trying to.' He lifted your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one, his touch feather-light.
You melted between them, the contrast from the raw passion moments ago wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth. Shane reached for a soft cloth from the nightstand, dampening it with water from the bedside pitcher. He wiped away the remnants of their release from your skin with careful strokes, his blue eyes locked on yours, full of unspoken apologies and adoration. 'Did we hurt you at all? Tell me, and I'll make it better.'
'No,' you assured him, cupping his cheek. 'It was perfect. You both were.'
Ilya joined in, fetching a bottle of lotion scented with lavender—the one you loved for its calming effect. He warmed it between his palms before massaging it into your thighs, working up slowly to ease any lingering tension. 'Relax, lyubov' moya,' he cooed, his hands firm yet gentle, kneading away the soreness. 'Let us take care of you now. You've given us so much tonight.'
Shane nodded, his own hands joining Ilya's, trailing up your sides to your breasts, rubbing soothing circles around your nipples without teasing. 'We love you,' he said simply, leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss that spoke of forever. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. 'You're our everything. Our anchor off the ice.'
Ilya smiled, pulling the covers over the three of you, cocooning you in softness. He spooned against your back, his body a solid, comforting presence. 'Sleep now, dorogaya. Dream of us, and tomorrow we'll make breakfast. Pancakes, just how you like them—with extra syrup.' His chuckle rumbled low, vibrating through you.
You sighed contentedly, eyelids growing heavy as their words and touches lulled you. 'I love you both,' you murmured, voice fading into the peaceful hush. In their arms, the world outside—the rivalries, the pressures—faded away, leaving only this: a bond forged in fire and tenderness, unbreakable.
SHANE & ILYA + parallels
do u think Ilya has a type? like for both women and men there's specific things hes attracted to? I think his life would be changed if he was into latinas lolll
i don’t think he has a SPECIFIC type but for example i think in woman he would like when she would be tall and have long legs but not taller than him.
he would like moles and freckles a lot in his partner because he finds it attractive.
i think he would be more the tits guy tbh he has just the vibe for it but it’s my personal opinion.
but he like every woman and when she is confident? holy shit he wants her 10 times more.
for a good example he had fucked and he finds Svetlana very attractive, in the club scene was a woman who looked the complete opposite of her so he’s type is basically everyone.
And in men…
He is obviously the dominant one and he likes men a bit shorter than him,and who does sports.
I think in men Ilya prefers brunettes so dark haired men.
But he also likes every men looks and doesn’t have a specific type.
love yalll ask questions and i will answer!
i think shane would watch a punishment between ilya and you and start getting concerned when you start crying, like if ilya was spanking you. once he starts seeing tears fall, shane will freak out.
he would tell ilya that that’s enough but ilya would shrug and say “she is fine. she knows her safe word.” and pull you up to look you in the eyes. he’d wipe your tears and ask if you needed a break, if you wanted to safe word, and when you say no to both, he pulls you back over his lap and continues. ilya knows that you are EXACTLY where you want to be.
once ilya is satisfied that you’ve learned your lesson he will of course comfort you (think of how he talked to shane when shane’s dad found out about them. “you are brave.”) but he definitely lets shane take more of a leading role with aftercare/comforting you afterwards. he’s ready to be gentle with you and ilya and you are on good terms and everyone’s consciences are clear.
plus shane knows better than to interfere with a punishment unless he wants one himself
couldn’t described it better fr.
This is so Shane and Ilya uhhgg i love them sm!
guyssss send me some questions about anything i am boreddd baeessss
i will answer anything
i’ve already asked another writer about this but i need literally EVERYONE’S opinions…. ilya getting annoyed with shane and how much he babies you, shane is MUCH more of a soft dom with you than ilya. ilya KNOWS how far he can push you and when you need to be talked to straight and not sugarcoating. in any kind of context and scenario.
ilya lets a lot go and lets shane baby you but if you do disobey either of them, ilya is the one to dole out punishment. shane doesn’t have the heart
yesss 100%
guyssss send me some questions about anything i am boreddd baeessss
Fuck this | Second Version
Dom!Ilya Rozanov x Dom!Shane Hollander x Sub!Fem reader
Summary: After the last time yall couldn’t stop thinking about each other, and when you see each others again no one can hold back the lust anymore.
Warnings: MMF, dirty talk, rough sex, p in v/a, oral, after care and sweet talking trough it.
word count: 3k,write me for requests (Minors don’t read this).
The dim glow of the Boston skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite at the Mandarin Oriental, casting long shadows across the king-sized bed. It was a crisp autumn night in 2016, the kind where the city's energy hummed outside but inside, the air crackled with anticipation. You, Y/N, had arrived first, your pulse already quickening from the text exchange earlier that day: Meet us at the hotel. Room 2501. Bring nothing but yourself. The words from Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins' enigmatic Russian forward with his intense stare and unyielding build, had lingered in your mind all afternoon. And Shane Hollander, the team's rugged defenseman, his message following: We're gonna make you forget your own name tonight.
You'd been drawn into their orbit months ago—Ilya's secret glances during games turning into stolen nights, Shane's flirtatious banter evolving into something raw and shared. What began as separate flames had merged into this inferno, a threesome dynamic that pushed boundaries and ignited every hidden desire. Tonight, after a grueling practice, they wanted to unwind, and you were the center of their focus.
The door clicked open, and there they were: Ilya in a fitted black shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, jeans low on his hips, his dark hair tousled. Shane followed, his blond waves damp from a shower, wearing a simple white tee and cargo pants that did little to hide the power in his legs. Their eyes locked on you immediately—you in a silk slip dress that skimmed your thighs, the fabric whispering against your skin as you stood by the window.
Ilya crossed the room first, his hand cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up. 'You've been thinking about this all day,' he said, voice low and accented, thumb brushing your lower lip. It wasn't a question. Shane flanked your other side, his breath warm on your neck. 'We could tell from your texts. Wet already, aren't you?'
You nodded, heat flooding your cheeks, but they didn't rush. Ilya's mouth descended, capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—lips firm, tongue teasing the seam until you parted for him. He tasted like mint and determination, deepening the kiss with a groan that vibrated through you. Shane watched for a moment, then pressed against your back, his hands sliding up your arms to your shoulders, massaging lightly before trailing down to your waist. 'Kiss him like you mean it,' Shane murmured, nipping at your earlobe. 'Show us how much you want this.'
You did, pouring hunger into the kiss, your hands fisting Ilya's shirt as your tongues tangled. Shane's fingers danced along the hem of your dress, inching it up slowly, exposing the lace of your panties. He didn't touch further yet—just ghosted his knuckles over your thighs, building the ache. Ilya's free hand joined, cupping your breast through the silk, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened into a peak. You arched into him, breaking the kiss to gasp. 'More,' you whispered.
'Tell us what you want,' Ilya demanded, his blue eyes boring into yours, hand squeezing your breast harder. Shane chuckled softly from behind, his erection pressing insistently against your ass. 'Yeah, spell it out. We want to hear how bad you need our hands on you, our mouths.'
'I want you to touch me everywhere,' you breathed, voice trembling with need. 'Strip me slow, make me beg.'
They exchanged a glance over your shoulder, a silent agreement passing between them. Shane's hands hooked under the straps of your dress, sliding them down your arms inch by inch, the fabric pooling at your waist. Ilya's mouth followed the path, kissing along your collarbone, then lower to the swell of your breasts. He tugged the dress further, exposing you fully to the cool air, your nipples tightening further. Shane spun you gently to face him, his lips claiming yours now—hotter, more urgent than Ilya's, teeth grazing your lip as he backed you toward the bed.
Ilya pressed in from behind again, his chest to your back, hands roaming your bare sides while Shane's kiss devoured you. 'Feel that?' Ilya growled against your ear, grinding his hardening cock against you. 'That's what you do to us. Hard as fuck just from looking.' Shane's hands cupped your ass, kneading the flesh before slipping between your thighs from the front, fingers tracing the edge of your panties without dipping in. 'These are soaked,' he said, voice rough. 'You been dripping for us?'
'Yes,' you admitted, hips bucking toward his touch. But he pulled back, smirking. 'Not yet. We take our time.' They guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, Ilya kneeling before you to slip the dress off completely, leaving you in just your panties. Shane stood, stripping his shirt slowly, revealing the defined lines of his abs and the trail of hair leading down. Ilya followed suit, his body a masterpiece of lean muscle from years on the ice, scars from games adding to the rugged appeal.
Ilya's hands parted your knees, but instead of diving in, he kissed the inside of your thigh, teeth scraping lightly. 'Spread wider,' he ordered, and you did, exposing the damp spot on your panties. Shane knelt beside him, their shoulders brushing—a casual intimacy that sent a thrill through you. 'Look at her,' Shane said to Ilya, voice laced with hunger. 'Pussy's begging through the fabric.' Ilya's response was a low hum, his breath fanning over you as he leaned in, lips brushing the lace without pressure.
You whimpered, hands reaching for them, but Shane caught your wrists, pinning them to your sides. 'Watch us first. See how we worship this body.' He leaned in from the side, tongue flicking out to trace your inner thigh, mirroring Ilya's path on the other leg. They worked in tandem, kisses and licks inching upward, avoiding your core entirely. Ilya's fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down agonizingly slow, the cool air hitting your bare pussy. 'Fuck, she's glistening,' Ilya rasped, eyes fixed on you.
Shane took the panties the rest of the way off, tossing them aside. Now fully exposed, you felt their gazes like caresses. Ilya parted your folds with two fingers, not entering, just spreading you open. 'So pink and wet. Dripping down your thighs.' Shane's mouth hovered close, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe along your outer lips, tasting the slickness there. You moaned, hips lifting, but Ilya held you down with a firm hand on your hip. 'Stay still. Let us taste every inch.'
They took turns then—Shane's tongue delving shallowly into your entrance, lapping up your arousal with broad strokes, while Ilya sucked gently on your clit, the suction pulling a cry from your throat. 'Tastes like sin,' Shane muttered against you, his stubble scraping deliciously. Ilya pulled back to watch, stroking himself through his jeans. 'Suck her harder. Make her grind on your face.' Shane obeyed, mouth sealing over your clit, tongue flicking rapidly as he hummed vibrations into you.
Your hands fisted the sheets, body trembling as pleasure built layer by layer. Ilya stood, shedding his jeans, his thick cock springing free—veined and heavy. He stroked it lazily while watching Shane work you. 'Look at him eating your pussy like it's his last meal,' Ilya said, voice thick. 'You like that? His tongue fucking into you?' 'Yes—god, yes,' you panted, thighs quivering. Shane added a finger, sliding it in knuckle-deep, curling to brush your inner walls. 'Tight as hell. Gonna feel so good around my cock later.'
But they switched again, drawing out the torment. Ilya took over, two fingers plunging into your pussy now, scissoring to stretch you while his thumb circled your clit. Shane rose to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. 'Suck my fingers,' he commanded, pressing two into your mouth. You did, swirling your tongue around them as Ilya's fingers pumped faster, the wet sounds filling the room. 'That's it—get them wet for your pussy,' Shane growled.
He replaced Ilya's hand with his own slick fingers, three now, thrusting deep and twisting. Ilya knelt again, his mouth joining—tongue lapping at where Shane's fingers stretched you. 'Fuck her with those fingers. Make her soak the bed.' The fullness, the dual sensation of fingers and tongue, had you on the edge. 'I'm close—please,' you begged. 'Not yet,' Ilya said, pulling back. Shane withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, leaving you clenching around nothing.
They stripped fully now, cocks hard and leaking pre-cum. Shane's was long, curved slightly, Ilya's thicker with a pronounced head. They pulled you to your feet, maneuvering you between them. Ilya's cock pressed against your ass, Shane's against your belly as they kissed you alternately—hot, messy exchanges that left you dizzy. 'Feel us?' Shane whispered, grinding forward. 'Both throbbing for you. Gonna fill you up soon.' Ilya's hands roamed your back, dipping to squeeze your ass cheeks, spreading them slightly. 'But first, more teasing.'
They laid you on the bed, Ilya climbing over you to suck on your breasts—teeth grazing nipples, tongue soothing the sting. Shane settled between your legs, but instead of entering, he rubbed his cock along your slit, the head nudging your clit with each pass. 'Slide it over her clit,' Ilya instructed from above, his own hand pinching your other nipple. 'Make her hump it.' You did, hips rolling desperately, the friction building heat without penetration. 'Fuck, your cock feels so good like that—rubbing my pussy,' you moaned.
Shane groaned, pre-cum mixing with your wetness. 'Pussy's clenching like it wants to suck me in.' Ilya shifted, his mouth trailing down your body to join Shane at your core. While Shane frotted against you, Ilya licked your clit, then lower to where Shane's cock slid. His tongue flicked over both of you, tasting the combined slickness. 'Suck my balls while you do that,' Shane said to Ilya, voice strained. Ilya did, briefly, mouth enveloping one heavy sac before returning to your clit, the male-male touch adding a forbidden edge that made your arousal spike.
The foreplay stretched on, endless in its intensity. They flipped you to your hands and knees, Shane behind you, cock teasing your entrance without pushing in. Ilya in front, feeding you his length—shallow thrusts into your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks. 'Suck harder—take more,' Ilya grunted, fingers in your hair. Shane's hands spread your ass, thumb circling your tight hole while his cockhead dipped just inside your pussy, then out. 'Gonna fuck this pussy raw later. Stretch it with my dick until you can't walk.'
You moaned around Ilya's cock, the vibrations making him thrust deeper. Shane finally sank in an inch, then pulled out, repeating the tease. 'Tell us how empty you feel,' he demanded. 'So empty—need you deep,' you gasped when Ilya let you up for air. They laughed lowly, the sound dark and promising. Ilya pulled you up for a kiss, tasting himself on your lips, while Shane's fingers replaced his cock—four now, pumping furiously, thumb pressing your clit.
Orgasm crashed over you then, unavoidable, your pussy gushing around Shane's hand as you cried out into Ilya's mouth. They didn't stop, riding it out until you sagged. 'First one down,' Shane said, licking his fingers clean. 'Now we really start.'
Ilya lay back, pulling you onto him reverse, your back to his chest. His cock nudged your entrance, and you sank down slowly, inch by thick inch filling your still-pulsing walls. 'Fuck, so tight after that,' he groaned, hands on your hips. Shane watched, stroking himself. 'Ride him. Show me how you fuck that cock.' You did, rolling your hips, the drag exquisite. Ilya thrust up, meeting you, his hands reaching around to spread your pussy lips, exposing your clit.
Shane knelt on the bed, leaning in to suck your clit while you bounced. 'Tongue on her while she rides,' Ilya said, voice rough. Shane's mouth worked magic, sucking and licking as Ilya's cock pistoned into you. 'Feel that? My dick deep, his tongue on your clit—gonna make you come again.' The words, the sensations, built fast. You ground down harder, Ilya's hands bruising your hips. 'Come on my cock—milk it.' You shattered, walls fluttering around him, juices coating his length.
They switched, Shane taking your pussy now, laying you on your side with Ilya spooning behind. Shane entered slow, his curve hitting new spots. 'Fuck, different angle—hits so deep,' you moaned. Ilya pressed against your back, cock sliding between your ass cheeks, not entering but thrusting along the crease. 'Feel us both rubbing you?' he whispered. Shane fucked steady, hand between your legs to rub your clit. Ilya's fingers joined from behind, pinching your nipples.
'Pound her harder,' Ilya urged. Shane did, hips snapping, the slap of skin loud. 'Your pussy's gripping me like a vice—sucking my cock in.' You came again, screaming, body shaking between them. But they held off, pulling out to reposition.
On your knees now, you alternated sucking them—deep throating Shane while stroking Ilya, then switching. 'Take it all—gag on my dick,' Shane grunted, thrusting into your mouth. Ilya fingered your pussy from behind, four fingers stretching you wide. 'So wet and open now. Ready for both?'
The finale built: Ilya beneath you again, cock in your pussy. Shane behind, lubed and pressing into your ass slowly. 'Relax—take my cock in your ass while he's in your pussy.' The stretch burned then bloomed into pleasure, both filling you completely. They thrust in rhythm, cocks dragging against each other through the thin wall. 'Fuck, feel that? Both our dicks owning you,' Shane growled. Ilya's hands guided your hips. 'Bounce—fuck us both.'
Dirty talk poured out: 'Your holes are made for our cocks—tight and greedy.' 'Come with us inside you—squeeze every drop.' The overload hit, your third orgasm ripping through as they followed, hot cum flooding your pussy and ass, spilling out as they kept thrusting through it.
Collapsed in a tangle of limbs, breaths ragged, the room smelled of sex and satisfaction. Shane was the first to move, easing out of you with a gentle kiss to your shoulder. 'You okay?' he asked softly, his voice stripped of the earlier roughness, now laced with concern. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch feather-light as he scanned your expression. Ilya shifted beneath you, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you steady as he slipped free, a low hum of contentment rumbling in his chest. 'Breathe,' he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing soft, reassuring pecks along your skin.
They didn't let you crash alone. Shane slid off the bed, grabbing a warm washcloth from the en-suite bathroom—he'd anticipated this, the steam from the recent shower still lingering in the air. Returning, he knelt beside you, parting your legs carefully. 'Let me clean you up,' he said, his tone gentle, eyes meeting yours for permission. You nodded, and he wiped away the evidence of their release with slow, tender strokes, avoiding any pressure on your sensitive spots. The warmth soothed the ache, and he murmured praises the whole time: 'You took us so well. Look at you—still glowing.'
Ilya helped maneuver you into a more comfortable position, pulling you against his chest as Shane worked. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, dipping occasionally to massage the tension from your muscles. 'Rest here,' he whispered, his accent thicker in the quiet aftermath. Once Shane finished, he joined them on the bed, fetching bottled water from the minibar and a soft robe for you. He draped the robe over your shoulders, tying it loosely before handing you the water. 'Drink slow. You've earned it.'
They sandwiched you between them again, but this time it was all comfort—no urgency, just shared warmth. Shane's hand rested on your thigh, thumb circling soothingly, while Ilya combed through your tangled hair with his fingers, untangling knots without pulling. 'Tell us if anything hurts,' Shane said, pressing a kiss to your temple. 'We pushed hard tonight.' You shook your head, sipping the water, feeling the care wrap around you like a blanket. Ilya nodded in agreement, his free hand finding yours, interlacing fingers. 'Next time, we go slower if you want. Or harder. Whatever makes you feel good.'
Conversation drifted to lighter things—their practice earlier, a funny story from the locker room that had them both chuckling softly, careful not to overwhelm you. Shane fetched snacks from room service remnants—fruit and chocolate—feeding you bites with a playful grin. 'Replenish those energies,' he teased gently. Ilya hummed a quiet tune, something from his homeland, the vibration lulling you as exhaustion settled in. They took turns massaging your legs, working out the cramps from the positions, their touches firm yet loving.
As the night deepened, the city's lights twinkling outside, they pulled the covers over the three of you. Shane spooned behind you, arm draped protectively, while Ilya faced you, foreheads touching. 'Sleep now,' Ilya said, voice a soft command. 'We've got you.' Shane echoed it with a kiss to your neck. 'Unforgettable,' he added, 'and we're not going anywhere.' In their arms, sated and cherished, you drifted off, the bond between you all feeling deeper than before.
Secrets in Love 🐚
Ilya Rozanov x Actress Fem reader (Y/N)
Summary: You and Ilya are a couple in secret, and it shows in passionate and intimate situations and moments in life, which are intense and romantic what also shows the passion you have for each other.
Warnings: Soft and hard p in v, fingering, eating out, riding, romantic, FLUFF…
Months and Places
The crisp autumn air of Boston in 2016 carried the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant ocean salt, a perfect backdrop for secrets whispered in the shadows of the city. You were Y/N, a rising actress whose latest indie film had just premiered at a local festival, drawing whispers of potential awards. Ilya Rozanov, the brooding Russian forward for the Boston Bruins, was navigating his second season with the team, his on-ice intensity earning him both fans and critics. To the world, you were two separate orbits—yours in the glittering world of Hollywood's East Coast outpost, his in the rough-and-tumble of NHL rinks. But in the quiet corners of Boston, where the Charles River wound lazily under bridges and the streets buzzed with unnoticed lives, you shared a hidden romance that bloomed like the hidden gardens in the Public Garden. Your love was a delicate balance of stolen moments, deep conversations, and passionate encounters in discreet hotel rooms, where the city's prying eyes couldn't reach.
It started innocently enough, in the spring of that year, at a charity event for local arts and sports. You were there promoting your film, he was signing autographs for wide-eyed kids. Your eyes met across a crowded room, his sharp blue gaze cutting through the noise like a skate on fresh ice. A mutual friend introduced you, and what began as polite conversation about Boston's unpredictable weather stretched into hours at a nearby café after the event. No one noticed the two of you slipping away, laughing over shared stories of homesickness—yours from the constant travel of auditions, his from the vast distance to Moscow. 'You know, I never thought I'd find someone who gets the loneliness of this city,' you said, sipping your coffee as the sun dipped low. 'It's like everyone sees the glamour or the glory, but not the quiet parts.' Ilya nodded, his eyes softening. 'Da, exactly. In Russia, winters are long, but here... it's the waiting between games, between scenes for you. But maybe we fill that for each other.' By summer, those meetings had turned into stolen dates: walks along the Esplanade at dusk, where the city lights reflected on the water like scattered stars, and he'd hold your hand just out of sight from prying eyes. Those early days built a foundation of trust, leading to your first secret overnight in a small boutique hotel near Beacon Hill, where the passion ignited.
The Bracelets
By early fall, as the leaves turned shades of amber and crimson, Ilya surprised you with something simple yet profound. You'd been dating in secret for months now, careful to avoid the paparazzi that swarmed both your worlds. One evening, after a particularly grueling day of rehearsals for your next role, you met him at a discreet hotel in the Seaport District, the room overlooking the harbor with floor-to-ceiling windows that muffled the world's noise. The space was intimate, with a king bed draped in white linens and a plush armchair by the window. Ilya, fresh from practice, arrived with a small velvet box, his hair still damp from a shower.
'Sit,' he said, guiding you to the edge of the bed, his voice low and accented, sending a shiver down your spine. You watched as he knelt before you, opening the box to reveal two thin silver bracelets, each engraved with a tiny bear—the Bruins' mascot—intertwined with a delicate film reel. 'For us,' he murmured, sliding one onto your wrist, his fingers lingering on your skin. 'Something to wear when we're apart. No one will know what it means, but we will.' You traced the engraving, your heart pounding. 'Ilya, it's beautiful. It feels like... like we're connected, no matter where we are.' He fastened the matching one on his own wrist, then leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow kiss that deepened quickly, his hands roaming up your thighs.
The conversation flowed as you both stood, bracelets clinking softly. 'Tell me about your day,' he prompted, unbuttoning your blouse with deliberate care. 'The rehearsal—did it go well?' You sighed, recounting the director's notes while his mouth trailed kisses down your neck. 'It was tough, but thinking of you helped. And now this... it makes everything better.' He chuckled against your skin. 'Good. Now, let me show you how much I missed you.' He guided you back onto the bed, his lips moving lower, parting your legs as he settled between them. His tongue flicked against your clit, slow and teasing at first, then more insistent, lapping at your pussy with hungry strokes. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair. 'Ilya... oh god, yes, right there.' He hummed in response, sucking gently while two fingers slid inside you, curling to hit that spot that made your back arch. The pleasure built fast, your words tumbling out in moans—'Don't stop, please, it feels so good'—until you came hard, trembling around his mouth.
Not done yet, he rose, shedding his clothes, his cock hard and ready. 'Ride me,' he whispered, lying back and pulling you on top. You straddled him, sinking down onto his length with a shared groan. 'You feel perfect,' you breathed, rocking your hips as his hands gripped your ass, guiding your rhythm. The bracelets brushed against each other with every thrust, a metallic whisper amid your gasps. 'Faster, lyubov' moya,' he urged, his accent thicker with arousal. You obliged, grinding down until he flipped you beneath him for the third round, his fingers working your clit while he fingered your pussy alongside his cock's shallow thrusts, drawing out another orgasm before he followed, spilling inside you with a guttural moan.
Afterward, tangled in sheets, you talked more, his head on your chest. 'These bracelets... they'll remind me of tonight,' you said softly. 'Every time I see mine on TV during a game, I'll think of this.' He smiled, kissing your wrist. 'And I'll score for you.' From that night on, the bracelets became your silent vow. You'd catch glimpses of his during games on TV, the silver glinting under the arena lights as he scored a goal, and you'd smile to yourself, twisting yours absentmindedly during interviews. In public, they were just accessories; in private, they were anchors, reminders of the love—and lust—you guarded so fiercely.
Cooking Together
Winter crept in with the first snowfalls, blanketing Boston in a hush that mirrored your secret. Ilya's schedule was relentless—practices, games, travel—but he always carved out time for you. One snowy December evening, after a Bruins win against the rival Canadiens, he texted you to meet at a cozy hotel in the Back Bay, the kind with a full kitchenette in the suite for privacy. The room was warm, fireplace crackling, with a view of the snow-dusted streets below. You arrived bundled in a scarf and coat, shaking off the flurries from your hair. Ilya, still in his post-game sweats, greeted you with a kiss on the forehead, his hands warm despite the chill outside.
'No takeout tonight,' he announced with a grin, pulling ingredients from a bag—beets, cabbage, broth. 'We make borscht. My mother's recipe. But you help.' Laughter filled the air as you chopped vegetables at the counter, your hands staining red while he stirred the pot on the induction stove. 'You're terrible at this,' he teased, bumping your hip with his. 'Actress hands, too pretty for knives.' You flicked water at him from the sink, starting a playful splash war. 'Hey! If I cut myself, you'll have to kiss it better.' His eyes darkened with promise. 'I plan to kiss more than that.'
As the soup simmered, filling the space with earthy aromas, the tension shifted. He turned off the stove early, backing you against the counter. 'Can't wait,' he murmured, dropping to his knees. His mouth found your pussy through your leggings first, nipping teasingly before pulling them down. Tongue delving in, he ate you out with fervor, lips sucking your folds while a finger joined, then two, pumping steadily. 'Taste so good,' he growled between licks. You clutched the edge, legs shaking. 'Ilya, fuck... talk to me, tell me what you want.' 'Want you to come on my tongue,' he replied, adding a third finger to stretch you, his free hand pinching your nipple. The orgasm hit like a wave, your cries echoing softly in the suite.
He stood, wiping his mouth, and lifted you onto the counter. 'Now ride me here.' You wrapped your legs around him as he thrust in, your hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm. 'Harder,' you demanded, nails digging into his shoulders. 'Like this?' he asked, slamming deeper, the bracelets clinking with each movement. Yes, just like that—until you both neared the edge. For the third, he spun you around, bending you over the counter, fingers circling your clit while he fingered your ass lightly, building you up again before pulling out to let you ride his hand to a shuddering climax, his own release following as he stroked himself over your back.
You set the table by candlelight later, the snow falling silently outside the window. Over bowls of steaming borscht and fresh rye bread he'd picked up from a Russian bakery in Brighton, you talked about everything and nothing. 'That was... intense,' you said, blushing as you sipped. He grinned. 'But the food is good too, no?' You laughed. 'Perfect. Tell me about the game—did that goal feel as good as it looked?' He shared stories of his childhood winters in Russia, skating on frozen ponds; you recounted the nerves of your latest audition, how you'd channeled his strength to nail the scene. His hand found yours across the table, thumbs brushing the bracelets. 'This,' he said softly, gesturing to the meal, the warmth, you, 'this is home. Not the city, not the team. You.'
That night, as you curled up on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate, the world outside faded. No headlines, no spotlights—just the two of you, building something enduring in the quiet, bodies and hearts sated.
Late Night Calls
The new year brought a whirlwind. Your film hit theaters in January, propelling you into a frenzy of press junkets and red carpets. Ilya's Bruins were pushing for playoffs, games stretching late into nights. Distance tested you, but late-night calls became your lifeline, often leading to rendezvous in hotels when schedules aligned. It was February now, the city gripped by a brutal cold snap, and you were in a hotel room after a premiere in New York, but you'd flown back early for him. He surprised you at a midtown Boston hotel, the suite lavish with a jacuzzi tub and city views.
Your phone buzzed at 1 a.m., but he was already there, slipping into bed behind you. 'Hey, lyubov' moya,' he whispered, voice husky from exhaustion, his body pressing close. 'Saw your interview today. You looked... incredible.' You turned, smiling in the dim light. 'Flatterer. How was the game?' He chuckled, hand sliding under your nightshirt. 'Tell you later. First, this.' His fingers dipped between your legs, stroking your pussy slowly. 'Missed touching you.' Conversation wove in as he fingered you deeper, two digits curling inside. 'The goal I scored? Thought of you the whole time,' he said, thumb on your clit. You moaned, rocking against his hand. 'Show me how much—eat me out now.' He obliged, shifting down, tongue lapping eagerly at your wet folds, sucking your clit while fingers continued their work. 'So responsive,' he murmured. 'Come for me, tell me it's good.' 'It's amazing, Ilya, don't stop!' The first orgasm crashed over you, but he kept going, building to a second with relentless licks.
'Ride me,' he demanded after, positioning you atop him on the bed. You sank onto his cock, gasping at the fullness. 'Talk dirty—tell me what you want,' you urged, bouncing steadily. 'Want to fuck you all night, feel you squeeze me,' he groaned, hands on your breasts. The rhythm intensified, bracelets tapping, until you both teetered close. For the third, he flipped you, fingers plunging back into your pussy while he thrust, fingering you to a final, quivering release as he came deep inside.
Post-bliss, you talked for hours, his arm around you. He recounted the near-miss goal, his excitement pulling you in. 'You watched the stream?' 'Every second.' These calls and meetups evolved—planning secret escapes. One night in March, another hotel in Cambridge, after a loss, he arrived brooding. 'Rough game,' he admitted over wine. 'But you make it better.' The night repeated the pattern: his mouth on your pussy, fingers stretching you; you riding him with whispered encouragements—'Yes, like that, harder'; and a finale of mutual fingering on the balcony, overlooking the river, your moans lost in the wind.
Wearing His Hoodie in Public
April bloomed with cherry blossoms along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall, and your relationship had deepened into something unbreakable. But secrecy demanded creativity. One sunny afternoon, you had a casual outing planned—a walk through the Boston Common, pretending to be just another local. Ilya had left his Bruins hoodie at your place after a sleepover, oversized and carrying his scent. But that evening, you met at a hotel near the Common, the room with a private patio for discretion.
'Wear it,' he'd insisted that morning via text. 'So I feel close, even if I can't be there all day.' You pulled it on over your jeans and sneakers for the walk, the fabric swallowing you whole, the team logo bold on the chest. At the Common, amid families and joggers, you strolled the paths, the hoodie's sleeves dangling past your hands. Fans occasionally glanced, assuming you were a supporter, but no one connected the dots. It was thrilling, this subtle claim—his without saying it.
Back at the hotel, he waited, grinning when he saw you still in it. 'Looks better on you.' He pulled you inside, hands under the hoodie. 'Now, off with the rest.' Conversation sparked as he kissed you. 'How was the walk? See anything fun?' 'Just thought of you the whole time,' you replied, shimmying out of your jeans. He knelt, eating out your pussy with slow, savoring licks, fingers joining to pump rhythmically. 'Tell me more—did anyone notice?' 'No, but I wanted them to know you're mine.' His tongue circled your clit, building you up. 'Come on my face,' he urged, and you did, crying his name.
You pushed him to the bed. 'My turn to ride.' Straddling, you took his cock deep, hoodie still on, bouncing with abandon. 'Feel good?' you asked, grinding. 'Perfect—faster, da.' The second peak hit together. For the third, in the shower later, his fingers worked your pussy under the spray, fingering you against the tile while you stroked him, orgasms mingling with the steam.
Later that week, during a rare day off, you met him at another spot—a hotel in Jamaica Plain with gardens. He arrived in street clothes, cap pulled low. You spent the afternoon wandering trails nearby, hands linked, sharing picnics. A light rain started, and you huddled under the hoodie together, laughing. Back in the room, the pattern repeated: oral devotion, riding with dirty talk—'Fuck me like you own me'—and fingering to exhaustion.
Public appearances were trickier. At a film panel in May, you wore the hoodie layered under a jacket. Backstage, his message: 'Saw you on the stream. My hoodie? Bold. Love it.' It made the isolation of fame bearable.
Watching Each Other's Interviews
Summer arrived with the sizzle of street fairs and the Bruins' offseason buzz. Your career skyrocketed—a role in a major TV series filming in Boston kept you local, while Ilya trained and did media rounds. You made a habit of tuning into each other's worlds, often debriefing in hotels. One humid June evening, you settled into a waterfront hotel suite with popcorn, streaming his post-practice interview on your laptop. He was all intensity on screen, but you caught the subtle twist of his bracelet.
When he wrapped up, your call came—but he was at the door, key in hand. 'You watched?' he asked, breathless, pulling you close. 'Every second. You were great.' Over dinner in the room, talk flowed. 'That strategy question—smart answer.' His hand wandered. 'Now, reward me.' He laid you on the table, eating out your pussy with precise laps, fingers thrusting deep. 'What did you like most?' you gasped. 'Your voice on TV—turns me on.' Two orgasms from his mouth and hands left you limp.
'Ride me on the couch,' he said, and you did, cock filling you as you rocked. 'Tell me about your day.' Words mixed with moans—audition details, his training—until release. Third: mutual fingering in bed, his digits in your pussy, yours on his cock, whispering affections.
In turn, he watched yours in July from a hotel in Brookline. Afterward, he sent a voice note, then arrived. 'That inspiration answer? Me, right?' The night unfolded similarly: tongue on your clit, riding his length with encouragements—'Deeper, yes'—fingering finale.
One night in August, after your interview, he surprised you at a harbor-view hotel with takeout sushi. 'Watched from the plane.' On the balcony, fireworks lit the sky. You dissected segments, his head on your shoulder. Passion followed: oral, riding under stars, fingers exploring.
Hitting Headlines
By September, as the leaves began their fall dance again, the strain of secrecy showed. A tabloid photo from a charity gala—you in an elegant gown, him across the room—sparked rumors. 'Bruins Star and Rising Actress: Secret Sparks?' Fans speculated.
It rattled you both. That night, in a secluded hotel in Newton, rain pattering, you paced. 'What if they find out?' Ilya pulled you onto the couch. 'Then we face it. But for now, we protect this.' He kissed your temple, but desire flared. 'Distract me,' you whispered. His head between your legs, he ate you out slowly, fingers curling inside. 'Forget the headlines—focus on this.' 'Yes, Ilya, just like that.' Orgasms piled: tongue and digits first, then you riding him desperately—'Fuck the world, just us'—and fingering each other to sleep.
The headlines faded, but lingered. In October, during a Bruins home opener, you watched from a private hotel box nearby. Post-game, at another suite: the ritual—oral worship, riding with post-win adrenaline, fingers sealing the night.
November brought Thanksgiving, a private feast at a suburban hotel. You cooked turkey with Russian twists. No family, just you two, toasting. Sex wove in: eating out over dessert, riding on the floor, fingering by the fire.
As December circled back, snow blanketing, your love had weathered seasons. A quiet Christmas Eve at a festive hotel, hands hidden but bracelets touching. Passion in every corner: mouths and fingers, rides that shook the bed, building to profound connection.
In Boston's embrace, through months and places, Ilya and you carved a romance eternal—fluff of hearts, fire of bodies—hidden yet profound, intertwined forever.
