Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Threesome - M/M/M, Spitroasting, Anal Sex, Face-Fucking, Cuckolding, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Fisting, Begging, Hair-pulling, Multiple Orgasms, Dom/sub, Sex Toys, Sexual Overstimulation, Orgasm Control, Shane Hollander's Barely Disguised Exhibitionism Kink, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Top Ilya Rozanov, Top Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Bottom Shane Hollander, boston public transit does not show up in this fic despite all appearances, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of heated rivalry pwp

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-10 Completed: 2026-08-21 Words: 13,005 Chapters: 2/2

change here for the commuter rail

Summary

Ilya suggests it a few days after Shane had come so hard he almost choked for real: the dildo they had suctioned to the headboard halfway down his throat, Ilya deep in his guts from behind.

"You want Marly to fuck your face at the All-Star game?"

Cliff keeps sending links to threesome porn. Ilya gets an idea.

"The doors will open on both sides of the train. Thank you for riding the T."

Notes

this one is dedicated to all my boston perverts. also I do apologize but they don't ride any actual trains in this 😔❌🚇

just need everyone who reads this to pronounce the title/description in the correct way so if you're unfamiliar with the mbta please see this link for optimal understanding of some of the overhead announcements baked into my brain from innumerable rides on the t: the red line my beloved and my behated

hope you enjoy! <3

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Ilya suggests it a few days after Shane had come so hard he almost choked for real: the dildo they had suctioned to the headboard halfway down his throat, Ilya deep in his guts from behind.

"You want Marly to fuck your face at the All-Star game?"

Something short circuits in Shane's mind— tripping every breaker and cracking open every insulated wire running through his muscles.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asks, voice frayed like exposed copper filaments. The light streaming through the kitchen windows is suddenly blinding. Overwhelming: reflecting off of the pristine countertops directly into his retinas. His hand clutches the sink's faucet, having just shut the tap off.

"Is simple yes or no question, Shane," Ilya replies. There's a nefarious look in his eyes that's barely concealed: a brightly colored Venus flytrap primed to snap shut. "You will suck Marleau's dick while I fuck you, or no?"

Stunned, all Shane can think to say is, "I'm pretty sure those are two different questions."

Ilya circles around from the other side of the counters, coming to stand behind Shane. He grabs onto Shane's waist and quickly spins him away from the sink so they're face to face. "You have so much fun with dildo," he croons. "Why not try real thing?"

"Where is this coming from?" Shane sputters. As the thought sinks into him, though, he can feel something blossoming in the pit of his stomach. Delicate, but growing with a crass hunger. Four hands running up and down his body— teasing, touching, caressing. Heavy and desperate and filled on both ends. Two voices whispering in his ears as he relinquishes control completely.

Shrugging, Ilya says, "Marly sends me lots of threesome videos lately. You have seen a few."

"Those were from him? You guys are still doing that?" Shane questions, dazed as his vision races back in time. It's not that he's felt threatened by them, or the people in them: he'd more say inspired. What Ilya wants, Shane does his best to supply— and Shane's been under the impression Ilya's wanted what these videos have been supplying.

A few recent moments jump to the front of his mind.

There was of course the one that instigated their sex a couple of days ago. A man who was being run completely through: taken from in front and behind, making noises like a squealing pig as he was ruthlessly pounded into— and seeing that from over Ilya's shoulder was the only convincing Shane needed to immediately procure a dildo from their extensive collection and drag them both into their bedroom.

At some point Ilya had a clip pulled up while sitting on the couch: not even doing anything, just observing. He had shoved it in front of Shane's face and asked, "You like this?" The person in the video looked like he was barely present in his body anymore, a ridiculous amount of come dripping down his upper half. Catching in the crook of his collarbone: glistening on his pecs in the incandescent floodlights. Shane, spurred by the heat of the moment, rode cowgirl and then had Ilya come on his face— but he hadn't felt completely satisfied after, even with his mouth wide open and his eyelashes sticking together.

Then another time they had been out for dinner. Shane had to smack Ilya's phone out of his hand because of the man, plainly visible, who had his palms each wrapped around a dick and another in his mouth. There was probably one inside him too, but Shane hadn't thought to look. He gave Ilya head about it on the drive back, and then again in the foyer when they got home. And maybe later that night, too, but it's a bit foggy— it's even possible they hit four rounds that evening.

When Ilya was showering a day or so after, he had left his phone open and paused on a guy getting fucked in the ass by two men. Shane joined him in the shower, body moldable like clay as he had Ilya shove him up against the ceramic tile walls— and the whole time he thought about what it would be like if there was another cock stuffed inside him. Disoriented by the sizzling steam of the shower: but curious.

Shane's consciousness returns to his body as the grip on his waist tightens. Nodding, Ilya says, "He only sends gay porn since we come out. He says is rude to you to send videos with women."

Mouth agape, Shane mumbles, "How considerate of him." Then gears start turning in his head, grinding against each other as they're persuaded into living again. He asks, "But is he— is Cliff gay?"

Ilya scoffs, "When it counts. We help each other out on roadies sometimes back in Boston. But I also ask him already if you can suck him off." One hand lets go of Shane in favor of digging into his own pocket. He opens up his messages and says, "Marly texts me: hell yeah man, would love to help a bro out."

"That can't be— give me that," Shane replies, indignant as he snatches the phone out of Ilya's hand.

[Yesterday, 9:01 AM]
you
Shane liked spitroast link very much
Had me fuck him with dildo in his mouth
Was so tight it felt like he was going to snap my dick off

marly
Nice, dude. That's awesome

you
If you want he can blow you while I fuck his ass
At all star game
I did not ask yet but he will say yes
Will be dream come true for him

marly
Hell yeah, man. Would love to help a bro out
Just like old times
It's a plan big dog

Shane mutters, "Nine in the morning… weren't you at the gym? And you two used to…"

"What is wrong with this?" Ilya asks, annoyed and blinking rapidly. "And we just get bored, was something to do. Sometimes with girls. You have not noticed he is hot?"

Suddenly Shane's mind is lost in the past again. Back to every time Cliff has skated up close with that cheeky smile, spurring Ilya to intercede. Or slammed him into the boards: brutish and unrelenting. The purple, splotchy bruises left on his body that Ilya could dig his fingers into after their games. Ephemeral pleasure-pain, numbing his skin and electrifying his pulse. They always fade, of course; just like the memories themselves have.

But it seems that Cliff has already helped Shane out in more ways than he's ever realized. Perhaps he should return the favor.

"Yes."

Ilya raises an eyebrow. "Yes, you have noticed he is hot?"

"No," Shane states, his affect flat. "I want to do it."

A vicious grin spreads across Ilya's face. He hooks his hands under Shane's thighs, lifting him upward to seat him on the edge of the countertop. "You want to do what?" he taunts, closing the distance between their faces. Rousing breath soaks into Shane's skin: dipped ink bleeding through thin paper.

"I want to blow Cliff Marleau while you're fucking my—"

Shane can't finish the sentence before his back is flat on the counter, his head slamming against the granite and sending a sharp stab of pain through his skull. He involuntarily moans: Ilya's teeth raking against his neck and hands dragging up under his shirt.

Just a regular morning for them.

Now for the agonizing wait.

The All-Star game isn't even too far away, but the more time has passed the antsier Shane has gotten. Not with nerves about maybe backing out: but the fact that it isn't now.

But finally the weeks have gone by, it's almost midnight on a Friday night, and Shane's being put on his knees by someone other than Ilya Rozanov for the first time in his entire life. There's already a dry ache distilled into him from both the skills competition and the afterparty, and his shins hitting the hardwood floor only cradles him further into a fuzzy haze.

Ilya's watching from a chair nearby as Shane nuzzles his face into the crease of Cliff's thigh: nose catching on the harsh line of the jeans' zipper. When he looks up, he's being stared at with dark eyes, widening pupils, and a face staining pink in the dim, ambient light dappled through the hotel suite's curtains.

"Damn, Roz," Cliff utters in disbelief. He cards his fingers through Shane's hair. Gentle, like Shane might vanish into thin air at any moment. "It's just that easy, huh? I would never leave the house."

Ilya flops his wrist around and says, "He enjoys this outside the house more."

A blush spreads across Shane's face, and he can feel Cliff's cock jump to attention in his jeans. Rough fabric scratches Shane's cheek as he slides a hand up to undo the zipper.

"Hold him tighter," Ilya continues. From the corner of his eyes, Shane can see Ilya make an accompanying gesture: squeezing into a fist. "Or he will try to run away."

Talking about Shane like he's not even there.

The rolling of his eyes is interrupted by incisive nails, and then a bright, caustic sensation in Shane's scalp as his hair is yanked upward. A high-pitched whine escapes him, mouth falling open. The swift movement turns Cliff's jeans to sandpaper: abrasive and rugged.

Not daring to look away from Cliff this time, Shane can still tell that Ilya's smiling wickedly as he says, "That means he likes it."

And he does. Likes the burn, the maddening grip: the knowledge that Cliff can do whatever he wants, and Ilya will be watching, encouraging, from the sidelines. Goading, even. More, more, more. Give more. Take more. Be more.

But Shane can't wait any longer. He unbuttons Cliff's jeans and pulls everything down in one smooth motion. Needy. Crazed. Instinctive. Then there it is, in all its glory. Cut, and thicker than Shane's used to: sturdy and broad just like the rest of him. Dark, curly hair around the base, the tip flushed crimson and dripping precome. His skin smells earthy, almost untamed. Loam and cedar: cardamom and musk. Intoxicating.

Cliff's cock is different than Shane's been imagining— and he's been imagining it a lot. There's been lots of space for him to run wild with possibilities; all he's known for certain going into this is that it's not Ilya. But Ilya wouldn't have arranged this if Shane was going to be disappointed: and he definitely isn't. As long as Ilya's memory serves, at least. But questions have still been spiraling through Shane's head: how many times did they get each other off when they both played for Boston? How many times did they fuck women together? Was it multiple women, or just one at a time? Have they kissed, or done more than handies?

Though if he's truly honest with himself, he can't bring himself to care too much in this moment: because he's too busy licking a stripe up the cock of a man who's not his husband while his husband watches from across the room. And fuck, if he doesn't feel himself growing harder just at the thought of it.

Shane looks up through his eyelashes as he wraps his lips around the tip of Cliff's cock: teasing in small circles, precome pooling into the spit that's already started to collect around the sides of his tongue. This part he's familiar with, even though he's having to open wider than usual. All salt and sweat and debauchery.

Leaning forward, taking Cliff deeper, Shane's head leisurely bobs up and down. Dragging in his mouth: pressing up against all sides until it reaches his soft palate. As it does, Cliff's grip on his hair only tightens, and he starts pulling Shane forward. Holding a lit match to Shane's edges: singeing away at his already threadbare discernment.

"He's got a good mouth on him," Cliff says, his tone rough as he drives himself further in. With each thrust, the strain in Shane's throat gets harder and harder to ignore. "I can see why you keep him around."

Then there's footsteps: and Ilya's face appears in the periphery of his vision above him, body settling close behind. "Oh, but my pretty little slut can do much better than this," Ilya tsks. "Here, Marly, I will show you."

The words ring in Shane's ears, an echoing chorus of dinner bells as his eyes widen.

He's about to be eaten alive.

Ilya's hand meets the back of his head, already halfway down Cliff's cock. Then he's shoved forward— forcefully swallowing it in its entirety down to the base, drawing a harsh ghlk out of him as it fully lodges inside his mouth: jabbing against his pharynx. It's suddenly hard to breathe. Lightheaded, dizzy: his airway almost completely blocked. Nose and lips inset in wiry hair. A familiar feeling, but the spontaneity makes all of the blood in his face gush into his lungs instead.

Ilya questions, palm steady against Shane's skull and voice lilted, "See how he likes this more? Whored out by his loving husband? Showing you how well I train him by taking your cock down his throat?"

Shane can only attempt to make the smallest of nods, and hum around the cock sheathed inside him. The quivering vibrations rumble down his neck and into his taut jaw. Saliva is only accumulating faster, rushing to lubricate his esophagus.

"Fuck, Roz, look at him," Cliff groans. Nails claw into Shane's scalp. "Fuckin' made for this. Why do you ever let him off your dick?"

Then, Cliff's grasp on his hair loosens as Ilya's intensifies: and Ilya wrenches Shane completely off and away. Shane sputters, drawing in an ungraceful breath as a line of drool detaches from Cliff's cock and drips down his chin. Tears form on the outside of his vision, his lungs gulping down air in heavy pants as the blood returns to his face.

"He needs break to breathe sometimes," Ilya muses. "But I am lucky, because he has other hole I can fill."

It's like an artificial breeze is blowing right through Shane's ear and out the other, listless as Ilya lifts him up from his knees. Clothes come off: and he's not sure if he's the one removing them or not. Tossed onto the floor, no regard for where they land. It only matters that they're discarded as quickly as possible.

Suddenly he's on his hands and knees, firmly propping himself up at the edge of one of the beds, his head facing out towards the middle of the room.

But nothing's happening: there's no one behind him on the mattress, nothing being forced into his mouth. Shane whimpers, lifting his head. Both Cliff and Ilya are staring at him, completely naked. Their arms crossed: cocks rigid, standing at attention— but their bodies unmoving.

"What's…?" Shane mutters, blinking dramatically as his eyebrows push together. His hands grip the sheets beneath him: nails trying to stab straight through the fabric. A strangled noise escapes his mouth, and it's somehow more pathetic than the ones he'd been making while getting his face fucked.

"I dunno, does he really deserve it?" Ilya says, pompous as he brings a hand to his chest. He fully positions himself away from Shane, not so much as a glance in his direction. "What do you think, Marly?"

Cliff hums, and Shane can feel the vibrations of the sound deep in his chest even with the vacuous space between them. Making eye contact with Ilya, Cliff replies, "The guy doesn't even say please or thank you, Roz. I think he'd rather sit there and watch us jerk each other off like we used to."

"Mhm. Hotel rooms, buses— the team plane a few times," Ilya recounts as he sinks onto his shins. "I remember how you like it."

An embarrassingly loud whine breaks free from its cage between Shane's teeth. "No," he croaks, his throat threatening to swallow his tongue. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Ilya asks as he reaches a hand up to Cliff's cock, stroking it slowly. This earns him a deep groan. It's clearly well practiced between them— Cliff starting to melt as Ilya's thumb runs over his slit. Their eye contact still doesn't falter: ignoring Shane completely.

Pulling his lips in a thin line, Shane says, "I— thank you for fucking my face, Cliff. For letting me suck you off. Please… please let me do it again."

Cliff's eyebrows raise as Ilya's hand pauses its movement: the both of them finally looking back to Shane on the bed.

Shane continues, growing frantic, "And, Ilya… I need you inside me. I want you to fuck me so hard that I can still feel you on the ice tomorrow."

Ilya rises off of the ground at an alarming speed, walking the few feet to stand in front of Shane. He tilts Shane's chin up and says, "Was that so hard, lyubimy?" His hand drops as he climbs onto the bed, coming to rest behind Shane.

Ilya's palms slap onto Shane's ass while Cliff settles in front of him. There's a brief click of a lube bottle that had been thrown nearby earlier, and then wet fingers prod against his entrance: slick liquid coating the tight ring of muscle. It's a delicate touch— too fucking delicate. Shane tries to push back against them, but they retreat as soon as his hips roll.

Cliff holds Shane's hair in one hand and his own cock in the other, pressing the tip against Shane's barely parted lips. "Tell me what you want, slut," Cliff gnarls, a smile splitting across his face.

Sucking down a preemptive breath, Shane whimpers, "Please come in my mouth." The hand in his hair gives a swift tug upward: threatening to rip it straight out of him.

"Then open up," Cliff instructs— and Shane does.

His mouth spreads wide, and then Cliff and Ilya breach him at the exact same time: two fingers pressing inside as the tip of Cliff's cock hits the back of his throat. It's like someone's pulling a tightrope taut inside of him from both ends. Completely aligned, straight down the middle: balancing his body above a deep pit with no net.

When they had done this at home, the dildo couldn't have been more lifeless. Cold to start; solely heated by Shane's labored breath. Ilya fucking into him was the only thing that forced him forward onto it, his mouth being filled at an even tempo. But this— unpredictable motion, slammed back and forth between two men using his body like a toy: completely helpless, under irrefutable command. He wants— needs— more than just Ilya's fingers inside him.

Ilya finds Shane's prostate with a practiced precision, and Shane moans around Cliff, who's fucking his mouth at a steady pace. Languid, but forceful: slow strokes that slam into him, colliding skin on skin as his mouth starts watering again. Then suddenly Ilya's digits are spreading him open, a scissoring motion that makes him feel like Cliff's puncturing so deep that he's coming out the other end. And another— trawling against his insides as if they're trying to carve out a permanent space for themselves there.

In, and out, in, out, again— again.

Then he's suddenly empty: clenching around nothing as Ilya removes his fingers. The sensation isn't gone for long though, as Ilya starts rutting his cock on the cleft of Shane's ass. Delicious friction— hot as a rope burn. But Ilya just keeps fucking his ass cheeks: pushing them together to give himself something tighter to wrap around his cock.

Whining, Shane releases a hand from the sheets and taps twice on Cliff's hip. Saliva erupts down his chin as Cliff removes his cock from Shane's mouth. "Hah— fuck, Ilya-ah," Shane pants as he tries to maintain his composure. The tip of Cliff's cock presses against his cheek instead: indenting a harsh groove.

"Hm? What is it?" Ilya purrs. He doesn't falter, abrasive as he's turning Shane red and raw.

"Please, mmh, please fuck me," Shane responds, squeezing his eyes shut.

Ilya makes a deep, throaty noise. "But I am fucking you."

"Christ— my ass, Ilya. I need your cock inside. Or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" Ilya asks as he folds himself over Shane's back and nips at his shoulder blade.

Shane tilts his head up, eyes opening to meet Cliff's dark gaze. "Or I'll have Marleau do it first."

The rutting immediately stops, and Cliff's eyes brighten. Then, Ilya's hands release their grip: until one is brought forcefully down, a loud slap ringing through the air as a sharp sting zips across his glute. Shane lurches forward, forehead colliding with Cliff's pelvis as he wails, "Ah! F-fuck—"

Ilya growls, "You think he can fuck you better than I can, Shane?"

"I guess you'll have to show me," Shane replies breathlessly, shifting his hips from side to side. He hears another click of the lube bottle, and then a pressure against his entrance. Fucking finally. Cliff's hands return to Shane's hair, and he lines himself up again. Shane's opening wide— on both ends.

Ilya slams into him, immediately fully sheathed: and Cliff does the same.

It's fucking glorious. Every single nerve going haywire, igniting an inferno in his chest. White hot heat, boiling over his bounds as his mind turns to little more than vapor. Stuffed completely full— unending. A fabric effigy starting to rip at the seams: exposed cotton itching to erupt into the air and undo him completely. Shane's body begins to fall apart as the two of them start moving: driving themselves forward like the other isn't even there. Erratic. Bruising. Pinging him back and forth like a pinball between two flippers.

His own cock is still untouched beneath him, leaking onto the bed sheets like a broken faucet. Sweat rolls down his face, his chest. Liquified: purified. Maybe this is what he was made for. To be used, cracked open. To let others fuck him like he's a doll. Broken down into so many pieces that he doesn't even know where they end and he begins. Molten gold: a trophy they can proudly display on their mantle— the best hole they've ever fucked.

And it just doesn't stop. Ilya pitches Shane forward, far enough that Cliff's cock almost chokes him when the timing is right. Back, forth, back, forth. A gracious pain radiating through his thighs, his stomach, his jaw. Flesh turning pink like the dawning of a new day. Tears form at the corners of his eyes, but not from distress: from gratitude.

He barely even exists anymore. He's just a vessel for their pleasure: a warm hole to stick their cocks into. Pressed against his depths, sculpting his insides to be a perfect fit. Slotting into him in just the right places to get what they want. But Shane is more than happy to oblige.

Looking up, Shane can see Cliff's chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as he says, "Fuck, Roz— he's just begging for me to stuff come down his throat."

"The only thing he loves more is come in his ass," Ilya replies, digging into Shane's hips. Almost deep enough to expose muscle, or bone: or whatever else his body has turned into since the moment they entered this hotel room. "Do it—"

Then there's a stifled moan: and come starts shooting into Shane's mouth, trailing down his esophagus in thick streams. It's coating his insides with a layer of paint: smothering every unsanded, rocky edge— and he swallows diligently. The fingers in his hair are trying to disconnect his skin from his skull with how hard they're tugging. Cliff's movement slows, but Ilya's thrusts continue driving Shane forward with every stroke.

When Cliff finally pulls his cock out of Shane's mouth, both of them are panting like dogs. Finally able to open wide enough to speak, Shane moans, pooled spit slurring his words, "Hah, mmfh, Ilya— fuck. Please."

"Watch," Ilya smirks, pounding harder, harder— right into Shane's prostate. An arrow striking true. "Lift his face up."

Cliff yanks Shane's head upward, and Shane's hands scramble desperately for purchase: gouging into Cliff's waist. When the two of them make eye contact, Shane knows he's close. Pressure growing, his own lips parted and unable to shut. Something deep within: atom-splitting.

Then Ilya presses into him exactly where he needs it, and Shane squeezes his eyes shut as his orgasm tears through him. Every muscle constricts in on itself, shivering as his fingers tremble. Knees weak against the bed. Moaning like a whore. His body clenching, abdomen rippling— milking Ilya's cock inside of him like it's the only thing he's ever wanted.

"Holy shit," Cliff gasps. Shane's forehead collapses into Cliff's stomach as the grip on his hair loosens.

"He looks pretty like this, yes?" Ilya asks. He wraps his chest over Shane's back, not lightening up for even one second as he fucks Shane through his orgasm. His body is a signet to Shane's melted wax: stamping himself into Shane's skin. "Coming hands-free on my cock. He is very talented."

Needled teeth meet Shane's back: and he prepares himself for the inevitable. It's almost like Ilya's own orgasm also overtakes Shane, their bodies becoming one as Ilya fills his hole with come: and the moaning next to his ear is almost enough for him to immediately get hard again. Switchblade sharp canines in his shoulder blade, piercing like a wolf does deer hide. The motion against his hips slows, hearty plaps of Ilya's pelvis on his ass cheeks only scorching more and more.

Then Ilya stills, and removes his softening cock: and Shane can feel the constriction continue as his body tries to push out every single bit of Ilya's come. It drips down his perineum. Tacky: not wanting to let go of him.

The hands in Shane's hair release him completely, and his head drops like an anchor to the mattress: ass still high in the air and palmed at by Ilya's corrosive fingertips.

"Christ, Marly—"

Shane looks up.

Cliff's still hard.

"Just from seeing this?" Ilya says, out of breath as his hands run over Shane's ass cheeks. He freezes, then leans down over Shane's back. Hot breath falls on Shane's ear. "You can take one more for me, malysh? Marly needs to fuck you to come again: since you ask for him."

A whine rips itself from Shane's throat: but he nods against the fabric underneath him, suddenly scratching away at his very soul as drool falls out of his mouth and soaks into it in viscous strands. He's not sure he's going to make it out alive. Even so, the floaty feeling sinking into his veins isn't doing much to convince him that it's something he doesn't want. Because he does want it. Wants the all-consuming depravity, the loss of control— wants his mind to be emptied completely and his thoughts filled only with please, more, deeper, harder.

Ilya kisses Shane's back before rolling off of the bed, Cliff quickly taking his place. Ilya then gets on his knees on the floor at the foot of the bed, his face coming to rest right in front of Shane's. There's a look in his eyes that Shane could too easily get used to. Pride: ownership.

Fingers meet Shane's entrance and swirl in the mix of come and lube gathered there. He lets out a small wail as Cliff immediately pushes four fingers inside, dragging against his already oversensitive walls. It's almost embarrassing how easily they reach deep inside him, hollowed out and fucked into submission.

"He ever take your whole hand, Roz?"

Ilya's gaze is suddenly piercing— rending straight through his retinas— as Shane moans. His eyes squeeze shut, and his chin falls down towards his sternum.

"Not yet," Ilya replies: and Shane's immediately hard again.

He constricts around Cliff's digits, and they hook at just the right angle to glide against his prostate. A jolt of vulgar anguish bleeds into his extremities. It's labored: needy. Just imagining it— stretched wide, vulnerable, a simple puppet for their amusement, so fucking full— is almost enough for another orgasm to rip him to shreds.

Cliff removes his fingers. Before Shane can complain, though, Cliff drives his cock inside: seating himself fully up against Shane's pelvis, with nothing but the extant mixture of lube and come to slick him up.

Whining, Shane's mouth falls open, but is swiftly shut by Ilya lifting his jaw up off of the mattress with both hands. When Cliff starts fucking him in earnest, his already weakening spirit only dissolves further. He has a bare cock in his ass that's not his husband's: and he needs it more than anything. He'll never feel whole again if Cliff doesn't come inside him.

Each thrust shoves him forward, Ilya's fingers rubbing against his jawline. Soft, yet dangerously close to peeling away at every layer until he's nothing more than the sinew that stitches him together. Fully, completely undone. He's an endothermic heat sink: absorbing every ounce of passion into his flesh as Cliff's hands hold his hips steady and fucks him as if it's their wedding night.

Ilya kisses him, but Shane's back and forth momentum parts them in between every feeble ah ah ah exhaling from his malfunctioning respiratory system.

"I can taste you, Marly," Ilya blithely remarks. He licks his lips. "Better than I remember."

Cliff barks out a laugh as his carnal tempo stays smooth. "Second best compliment I've gotten all day."

Ilya makes a halfway offended noise and says, "What was best compliment then? This is—"

Suddenly there's noises from out in the hallway, and the three of them quiet. Voices, boisterous and laughing and gruff: footsteps echoing as other players retreat to their rooms for the evening. Shane had forgotten that whoever's next door can absolutely hear his pathetic whelping— and maybe the people out in the hallway can too. If they know whose room this is… they probably know he's getting pounded through the mattress.

"Should I, Shane?" Ilya asks, his pupils somehow blown even wider as their gazes meet inches apart. A grin splits across his face, cruelly baring his teeth.

Timidly whimpering, Shane says, "What— hah, fuck, right there— do you, mmh-mean?"

"Our friends," Ilya states. His voice is flat, austere. He points his thumb toward the door. "In the hall. Should I invite them inside?"

Shane's lungs momentarily forget to work as designed. "Whuh—" he mumbles, eyes glazing over: ribs about to snap off one by one.

Ilya hums, "If I tell them you are here getting fucked I'm sure they will want to see. People talk. They may be interested. And they can join— I will allow it."

Not even asking. It's a given— it's Ilya's decision.

"Wouldn't you like that?" Ilya continues, his palms roughshod on Shane's bright red, incinerator-hot face. "You could have line out the door, lyubimy. Everyone wants piece of Shane Hollander, generational talent, best hockey player in the world, huh? Closest they will ever get to the Cup."

"Fuck, Ilya—" Shane pants, hands gripping the edge of the mattress in tight fists. Tighter, tighter— as his body does the same. He constricts inward, losing all manual command on his mind. Cliff doesn't slow as he's melting away, though: only getting faster, faster.

"He's squeezing me so fucking tight, Roz," Cliff says, breath catching halfway up his throat.

Ilya growls, "You come after he does, Marleau. Fuck him like you mean it."

Every thrust inside of him threatens to tear clean through the other side of Shane's body: brutish momentum against his pelvis. Fists punching into a brick wall— and the wall is slowly crumbling.

"My husband, all mine— but I will share. Show you off to them. Show them how you take them better than any other slut they've shoved their cocks into," Ilya states as he rubs his thumbs over Shane's cheeks. "How they will never have you like I have you."

Cliff's hand meets the back of Shane's head, and Ilya releases his grip as Shane's face smashes into the mattress. Blunt, trapping his airways— only hoarse breaths allowed to escape his mouth. Colors swirl in his vision as his eyes close, a galaxy light years away stained on the back of his eyelids.

Openly presented. Passed around. Fucked by people he barely knows: or maybe knows better than anyone. Would their teammates take up the offer, if they've liked what they've seen in the locker room? Would their faceless peers in the hallway, who understand him only as his reputation and stature on the ice? Would every other man in this hotel get their turn: have their way with him? Take him from behind, or below, or claim his mouth? Bodies and bodies and bodies. Endless, eternal. Fucked until he cries, until he can't walk— can't speak, throat in tatters. Fucked so thoroughly and so well that not even raging whitewater rapids could wash off all of the sticky, viscous come that would embed into his skin, or leak out of his holes.

It's too much.

No; it's not enough. It'll never be enough.

The hand on the back of Shane's head pulls him up again: just enough that his chin is resting on the sweat soaked fabric— and just enough to watch as Ilya gets up off of the floor.

"How is it, Marly?" Ilya questions. He innocently tilts his head to the side.

"Your boy? Could fuck him like this for days," Cliff groans, fingertips close to permanently imprinting on Shane's flesh. "He's perfect."

"I see," Ilya says, starting to turn towards the door, "I think guys in hallway would like to try these perfect holes, too—"

And that's all Shane needs. He comes so hard that it feels like cerebrospinal fluid is leaking out of his ears— decanting him into a swirling pit that's trying to swallow him whole. The noise that escapes his mouth is closer to a shout than a moan: and it's possible that it's the loudest noise he's ever made in his entire life. Everything lets go. His body shaking as hard as an earthquake, his lungs collapsing behind his ribs, his cock spilling onto the mattress.

Nothing else matters. This is all there'll ever be. An unholy, lecherous denouement.

Then the movement behind him slows, and he can feel Marly pumping him full of come with each wet slap of his hips. Stinging, raw agony. Head buzzing, throat sore. His eyes fireflies, internal light blinking in and out of existence.

When Shane's next able to see through the fog that's permeated his vision, he's collapsed completely flat onto the bed. Cliff's vanished from behind him on the mattress. But the remnants of his orgasm are still sweeping through: abs cramping and arms as stiff as coffin wood. His pelvis continues to rut against the bedspread, oversensitive cock trapped beneath, chasing the high.

Maybe he could take one more. Or two more.

In front of him, Ilya's there holding a damp towel: leaning in close. Heat radiates off Ilya's skin like a branding iron.

"Next time you will take both of us together."

Chapter End Notes

next time huh 👀

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Ilya makes good on his promise.

Chapter Notes

The next Ottawa-Boston game isn't for another month. It doesn't seem like too much of an issue until Ilya admits that he wasn't just saying it in their post-sex haze as a provocation. They're going to get off the team plane at Logan Airport, slip away from their hotel as fast as possible, go to Cliff Marleau's high-rise apartment, and then Shane is going to be fucked by both Ilya and Cliff at the same time. Or at least, that's what Ilya posits.

Shane's answer to the metaphorical statement of, "I want your ass to be cored out like an apple by me and Marly's cocks," is: "well then we better start prepping."

They readily size up to Ilya's whole hand.

Four fingers is trite for them by now anyway, as is Ilya using one or two more while fucking Shane into the mattress. Just a small stretch: not edging on painful, but enough to feel a burn. An entire hand— then an entire fist— is quite different, however. When Shane comes, constricting around it like a vice, it almost feels like it's locked inside of him and will never let go. Not that he'd complain very much about it, though.

The first time they try, Shane's on his hands and knees: legs spread wide and ruining the sheets with the amount of precome and lube dripping onto them. Shane's been teased and prepped for at least half an hour, Ilya's deft fingers moving inside him like flower petals opening in the sun. It only takes a single slide of the side of Ilya's hand against his prostate for him to blow his load. As soon as Shane's vision returns from an endless white void, he's already decided— one hit is not enough for whatever drug it is that's entered into his bloodstream courtesy of Ilya's calloused palm.

The next time, Ilya's already come inside Shane twice that evening: and Shane begs and begs and begs until Ilya slathers his hand with lube and his own spend and makes Shane's legs shake and tears roll down his face from God it's so fucking good Ilya 'm gonna come please want it so bad wan' you so fucking bad please fuck me harder pleasepleaseplease—

The third time, Ilya claims he's too tired to fuck him properly: so Shane ends up bouncing on Ilya's hand while Ilya scrolls on his phone with the other. His thighs ache and his chest heaves from the strain with every uh uh uh exhaled from his lungs but it doesn't stop him from coming hands free: shooting milky white ropes halfway across the bed while his eyes roll back and his mouth falls open.

As the date draws nearer, they spend a few days having Shane wear a plug when they're not at the rink— or when his hole is not otherwise occupied. One night Shane wakes up to Ilya slowly fucking into him while they're spooning: his briefs pulled down just far enough for Ilya to have access. He pretends to be asleep. This doesn't happen often as he likes, so he just enjoys himself and tries to not moan as loudly as he wants. After Ilya comes, he plugs Shane back up, licking soft kisses across the back of Shane's neck and jerking him off until he spurts into his underwear. Just knowing he's filled and plugged with his husband's come makes quick work of the orgasm even as he resists the urge to buck his hips. In turn, he wakes Ilya up the next morning with a blowjob, swallowing Ilya down and cleaning off all the dried fluid on his cock.

It's been a while since they've used the smaller dildos in their collection, and Shane whines pathetically when Ilya pulls one out so they can have their first attempt at it a few days later. Cliff is definitely much bigger: but it's still smart to gradually make their way up to it, as much as Shane protests.

"Nngh, fuck," Shane squeaks as Ilya finally squeezes both himself and the dildo inside, pelvis pressed against his ass from behind. It's like he's made of rubber: compressed flat and ready to tear at any moment. "Holy fucking shit. Oh my fucking God."

Sweat coats him like a second skin. He's been under the impression that he has a particularly good grasp on the feeling of full— and now knows he couldn't have been more wrong. His body's practically glowing a flushed pink from the inside out: soft putty pulled thin between two palms spread a full wingspan. At any second, Ilya could snap his fingers and Shane would disappear from existence.

Shane says, teeth grinding hard enough to catch fire, "I need… I need—"

"I know, malysh," Ilya purrs, pressing a kiss behind Shane's ear. He starts thrusting, guiding Shane's hand up to hold the dildo in place as he grips Shane's waist tight enough to bruise. "Such a good boy. Your greedy little hole begging for more."

It's an agonizing pace, and the stretch is agonizing as well. Almost like his whole body is buzzing, made of a delicate honeycomb structure: flesh starting to detach from his muscles. Every swell rolls off of him and dissolves into a bliss that covers their bedspread through desperate keens and falling sweat.

They end up only going for one round that night— Shane collapsing onto the bed after his mind gets wiped clear of all thought for a good five seconds when he comes. Exhaustion oozes out of his pores like he's an overripe peach.

When his thoughts return to him, it's in the form of a single word:

Again.

The next thing Shane knows, the Centaurs are on their plane flying to Boston. He couldn't possibly be more excited, but their teammates definitely know something's up just due to the weird looks he's been receiving all day. What they don't know, however, is that Shane's been wearing his biggest plug and has been absolutely slathered with lube from the moment that he and Ilya left the house that morning— just to make everything easier once they get to Cliff's.

The pressure on his prostate is gradually driving him crazy: half-hard and trying to hide it for the first twenty minutes of the flight. Slowly grinding down onto his seat isn't doing enough, so he ends up fleeing to the bathroom to try to quietly get off at least once. He's settled one hand onto the bathroom sink, the other dipping into his pants when he hears a knock on the door. He rolls his eyes at the fact that someone is so clearly ignoring the red In Use placard. Projecting his voice, he flatly says, "Occupied."

There's a scoff from the other side of the wall, and then he hears Ilya reply, "Mm, I do not think so."

The noise of the door clicking open hits Shane's ears before he even realizes that his hand has moved to unlock it.

"Shhh," Ilya whispers, settling behind Shane as the two of them make eye contact in the mirror in front of the sink. He inhales sharply as he palms at Shane's ass, fabric rubbing against him: wearing a jock strap for easy access. "You have to be quiet, lyubimy. Here."

Three fingers appear at Shane's lips and he opens his mouth to start sucking on them. They're warm, hooking incisively against the inside of his cheek. His tongue suddenly feels numb: a low crackle of voltage thrumming in his veins.

Ilya mutters, his breath hot on the back of Shane's ear, "Having a hard time? Need to come?" A hand slips under Shane's waistband, cupping one of his ass cheeks before yanking his pants halfway down his thighs. Then there's a swift snap of elastic: a stinging zip that radiates through his hamstring from one of the bands of his jock striking skin.

Shane just whines in response. Spit pools in the pockets of his cheeks as he works his tongue around Ilya's digits.

"How bad?" Ilya asks. His hand moves from Shane's jock to the plug: lightly tugging at it. Not hard enough to pull it out completely, but enough that it threatens to leave Shane empty and lonely and clenching around stale air. There's truly no worse imagineable fate.

"Ba-hd. Please-uh," Shane manages to slur. He rubs his head backward, colliding gently against Ilya's forehead. It's taking every ounce of strength within him to not grab his cock and coax an orgasm out on his own. It doesn't matter if he ruins his jock, or his pants, or the bathroom sink in front of him. He has more underwear, more trousers: he can lick the sink clean.

Humming, Ilya pauses: then replies softly, "No." His wrist rotates in small circles, putting pressure on Shane's rim with the fat base of the plug.

A sob gets caught in the back of Shane's throat. Trying to swallow around the intrusion of Ilya's fingers, he whimpers, "Ilya—"

"You can come when we get to Marly's," Ilya says, his fingertips tapping on Shane's waist. The touch is as light as a spider's on a web: and Shane knows better than to get himself trapped in his mind's own weavings. "Be good for me, Shane?"

Ilya takes another deep breath in. The sound almost whistles in Shane's eardrum. "Or," he adds, "is my little slut so needy that he is going to come in his pants in front of everybody if I let him walk out of here still hard?"

Instinctively, Shane's hips jump forward. They rut against the sinfully empty air, and he hisses as the action gives him no relief. His body is suddenly white-hot: a grease fire threatening to burn down his already smoldering foundation. There's a throbbing want deep in the pit that he keeps at the bottom of his stomach, and it's threatening to drag its way out through his esophagus along with every instinct he's ever compressed into its lining.

Shane looks at the mirror above the sink, intending to beg Ilya with his eyes instead of his inhabited mouth. When he does, however, he freezes as his gaze meets his own visage: wholly unfamiliar in its smudged surface.

His skin is flushed a deep crimson. Painted red from the tips of his ears, down his throat, and settling at his collarbone. His lips are parted: slick with spit and plumped from the pressure of Ilya's fingers. A sheen of moisture, while dulled in the dingy bathroom light, clings to his every pore. He can practically see his heartbeat in his chest— lungs overturning as fast as the jet engines that spin their turbines all too close by. His hips haven't stilled: making small movements like he could convince the air to turn solid if he does it enough times. God, he looks like…

A whore, his mind easily supplies. A filthy, cock-addled whore.

But that's sort of the whole point, isn't it? He's wearing a plug in his ass because in a few short hours he's about to have two cocks in there instead. Even just thinking about it is making his head feel so fuzzy that it could fall right off of his shoulders and he wouldn't even realize.

The plane jolts: a small bump that rocks Ilya's pelvis against Shane from behind. Unintelligeable voices from outside the bathroom drone louder in response to the motion. Shane has to hold steady enough to not jizz all over himself as someone stumbles on the other side of the door, and then laugh at their own close call.

Suddenly Ilya moves both of his hands away, and Shane huffs from the loss. He doesn't dare look behind him: he knows better. There's a shuffling noise, then one of his ass cheeks is gripped with strong fingertips and pulled off to the side. It's held aloft for too long of a moment— as if Ilya's trying to imprint the picture of Shane's glistening, sloppy hole convulsing around the plug directly onto his brain.

Shane hears a shuddering click of a camera. Then, the whoosh of a text message being sent.

He stiffens.

Only a second goes by before there's a ding from Ilya's phone. It echoes carelessly off of the oppressively small bathroom's walls.

Ilya chuckles, "Marly says you look pretty."

"Hnn," is all Shane can manage as his fingers pull against the sink hard enough for it to tear off of the wall. Their eyelines meet in the mirror: and he can see that as much as Ilya's posturing, his pupils are also blown wide with want. He watches Ilya lean forward, chin settling on top of Shane's shoulder. It fits into the divot there like a die-cut puzzle piece.

"So?" Ilya asks as he presses a kiss to the side of Shane's neck. "What will it be, malysh?"

Shane gulps. Hard.

It borders on painful, but Shane just takes the few minutes that they spend in the cramped space to calm himself down from his arousal. Deep breaths in through the nose: out through the mouth. Taking in Ilya's scent— the pine needles, crackling firewood, and freshwater notes of the cologne Shane got him for his birthday last year— always settles him back into an even rhythm. As desperate as he is to stick a hand down his pants and finish the job, he knows that waiting will only make things better later.

And it makes Ilya happy. Shane loves making Ilya happy.

"You two have fun in there?" Wyatt calls from a short distance as him and Ilya leave the bathroom: Ilya walking out first with his hands squarely in his pockets.

"Eh, we just like to hold each other's dicks while we piss," Ilya replies, the smarm quite evident even without Shane having to put any eyes on him. A chorus of laughter rings out and Shane feels his face only getting redder. At this point he's surprised that he's not permanently stained the color of madder root.

When he sits again, Ilya's hand falls on his thigh from the seat beside him and squeezes twice. Shane places his hand on top of Ilya's before entwining their fingers.

He looks at the flight tracker.

Fifty eight minutes. Fifty seven minutes. Fifty six minutes.

Shane's never cared less about unpacking when they get to their hotel room, the door clicking shut behind them. Ilya, however, seems to be taking his sweet time: carefully placing Shane's bag on the luggage rack while Shane stands there tapping his foot on the hardwood floor.

"Marly lives in Seaport. We can take Orange line from North Station," Ilya states flatly, unzipping Shane's luggage. The only look to him Ilya makes is a glance out of the corner of his eyes. "Did you bring your CharlieCard?"

Shane's foot stills. This man can't seriously be asking him to ride public transit while he's so horny he could spontaneously combust. He huffs, "Ilya. Please tell me you're joking."

"What? It was only on fire a little last summer."

Shane glares at him: but the wrinkles around Ilya's eyes and mouth tell Shane everything he needs to know.

After closing the distance between them, Ilya gropes Shane's pecs with both hands: earning him a stifled groan. "Uber will be here in five minutes, lyubimy," he says, pressing a kiss to the underside of Shane's jaw.

"It better be," Shane mutters. He can't help but wiggle his hips, the plug still lodged inside his ass making him even more restless. The only thoughts that he's been able to house in his mind since he woke up have been variations on a theme: You're both going to fuck me so hard I forget my own name, and it's practically killing me that it hasn't happened yet.

Teeth sink into Shane's neck, and he yelps from the unexpected bite. His eyes meet Ilya's again. They're filled with a roused anticipation, bright as an ocean glistening in the sun. There's something lurking underneath, though; a shadow from the depths. Stalking, spiraling, encroaching ever closer to its unsuspecting prey.

But Shane's barely prey; he's willing bait.

No turning back now.

Cliff's apartment is nice. Nicer than Shane's been expecting, at least. "Seaport" is apparently just another way of saying "an absurdly expensive high-rise condo." When Cliff opens the door, he's already shirtless: and Shane can tell by the thickening imprint pressing against his jeans that he's also eager to get things started.

The living room is filled with sleek, modern furniture: their edges sharp enough to wound. Toward the back of the space, the wall is made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling city below.

There's a brief moment of silence as Ilya and Shane shuffle inside the foyer, kicking off their shoes. Shane's heart has already been beating at the pace of a hummingbird's since they got in the elevator, and it only quickens as Ilya's hand falls on his shoulder. Possessive: or maybe afraid that Shane's lungs are about to burst out of his chest.

"Marly," Ilya states, a smile curling at the ends of his lips.

"Roz," Cliff replies, smirking in turn.

Shane's mouth gapes for a second too long, and Ilya croons, "Now, is that any way to greet our host, Shane?" His hand drags up the side of Shane's neck: a line of pinpricks following his palm.

Shane's stripped down to his jock strap in ten seconds flat.

Cliff flicks his gaze over Shane's body and simply remarks, "Better," before guiding the three of them to the bedroom.

A king sized bed stands pressed up against more large windows on the far side of the room Cliff leads them to. Its pillow and comforter are all tasteful shades of blue, matching the sky made visible just past the solid, dark wood bed frame. Shane allows himself to be bent over onto the bed by Cliff, upper half folded while his feet stay firm on the ground.

Something scrapes across the floor nearby. When Shane turns his head to look, Ilya's pulled up a plush wingback chair around five feet away. "Best seat in the house," Ilya grins.

One of Cliff's hands slips under a loop of Shane's jock, and the other meets the plug. He tugs at it: almost like he's testing its resolve. His fingertips skirt around Shane's well-lubricated rim. Friction builds against it with every moment that goes by. "Damn, how long have you been wearing this thing?" he asks cautiously. "Been thinking about that picture all day."

"Just since this morning," Ilya muses. The chair squeaks underneath him as he settles into it. "After I fucked him awake."

It feels like it's been ten lifetimes since Shane woke up with Ilya buried deep inside of him, was stuffed full of come, was given a kiss on the forehead, and then plugged up like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Without warning, Cliff rips the plug out of Shane's hole with a resounding squelch, leaving Shane clenching around the sudden void. Shane gasps, quavering from the loss of sensation. It's entirely alien after wearing the plug for so long— empty empty empty.

"Fuck, this thing is huge," Cliff mumbles. There's a brief clatter from it hitting the floor: and Shane shudders at the thought of maybe having to clean that up later.

Ilya replies, smirking, "We buy it just for you."

"You two are something else," Cliff says as he snaps the elastic of Shane's jock. Two of his fingers immediately dive into Shane's hole, scissoring, spreading him open: and Shane whimpers. Not enough, his body insists. As if Cliff could sense his desperation, he pushes in another— then another. Finally a stretch larger than the plug. Filling Shane like he's wanted the entire time.

Then he's empty again.

Resisting the urge to curse under his breath, he's told, "If you want me to fuck you, suck me off first."

Shane's maybe never moved faster, turning around and falling to his knees. They sting as the hit the floor, heavy as brick and just as red. He unzips Cliff's pants, yanking everything down until Cliff's half-hard cock springs free from his boxers.

Mouth watering, he sticks out his tongue: licking soft lines around the veins spanning Cliff's length. The skin is soft against him— warm as it fills him with the taste of salt. He wraps his lips around the flushed tip, tongue thin as he teases the weeping slit. Spit pools at the sides of his mouth as he takes Cliff down to the base. Wetness envelopes around pulsing heat as Cliff digs his fingers into Shane's hair.

"That's it," Cliff coos. He tugs at Shane's tresses— stopping just short of giving him whiplash. "Choking on my cock like a slut."

Up, down: Shane hollows out his cheeks as he sucks Cliff's cock like his life depends on it. Cliff, nails steady in Shane's scalp, drives his hips forward: drawing a surprised ghlk from the back of his throat. Shane hums, low and steady. The reverberations tingle down his esophagus, swallowing viscous, sticky precome.

His scalp starts to burn as Cliff fucks his face, gagging with exaggerated noises that he knows Ilya likes to hear. A slow breath draws from nearby— and Shane smiles as much as he can with a cock stuffed in his mouth. Bingo.

Shane allows his throat to be filled for what feels like forever: a growing tingling sensation carressing his small palate as if it's been set to a low boil. The noises from the chair close by only get louder. When Shane looks, Ilya's taken the opportunity to palm himself through his jeans. There's a firm line pressing up against his zipper: and Shane wishes he could fit it in his mouth along with Cliff.

Then Cliff pulls away with a grunt— Shane's lips offering a vulgar pop as they disconnect from Cliff's cock. A line of spit dribbles down his face as he gulps down air like a man drowned, tears welling in his eyes.

Offering another tug on Shane's hair, Cliff states, "You're going to ride me, and then Roz and I are gonna fuck your ass."

Shane nods vigorously, a peep escaping his mouth as the motion pulls harder against his hair. It's like needles of glass digging into his skull, careful yet seething.

Their clothes are discarded in a hurry: Shane stripping off his jock and helping Cliff rid himself of his own restrictive fabric.

Shoulders against the mattress, Cliff and his cock stand at attention as Shane moves to hover over his pelvis. As expected, when Shane reaches around to his entrance, his fingers easily slip inside. Ready.

Shane bottoms out in one smooth motion. He can't help but moan, his mind sinking down through his body like its made of quicksand. His hips rock in short motions from side to side. It's what he's needed the entire time— his sensitive inner walls pressed up against on all sides without remorse. The plug's been fine: good enough to tide him over, and large enough that they've been confident it will keep him prepped. But it's nothing compared to the real thing. He wonders to himself if he could have somehow had a whole dildo stuffed inside himself for the trip instead.

Cliff's hands meet Shane's waist, and Shane shivers at the touch as they caress their way down to rest on his hips. "Well?" Cliff asks, one eyebrow raised. "Get to work."

Letting out a small noise, Shane rocks his hips experimentally, engrossing himself the way Cliff's fingers sink into his skin. He lifts himself up: high enough that just the very tip of Cliff's cock stays sheathed, before slamming down again with a solid unh. Then again, little faster than a snail's pace— up, down, up, down, until he feels the tops of his thighs start buzzing and his pink-tipped cock bobs off his stomach.

"Mm," Shane mumbles. He moves quicker, rolling his pelvis with every downward motion like he's riding a wave. As he looks down at Cliff, he sees a smile that rivals a hyena's splitting his face in half. "Hah— fuck."

Cliff palms at Shane's skin like it's the first time he's ever touched it. Light, playful. He says, a chuckle escaping his lips, "You know, we all heard stories about Roz's mysterious 'Montreal girl' in the locker room."

The blush on Shane's face starts creeping towards the tips of his ears. The words settle into something that sends a radiating pulse through his temples and sticks into his eye sockets. He hears Ilya laugh and ask, "And you remember these, Marly?"

"How could I fucking not," Cliff replies, scraping at Shane's low back with his nails. He thrusts his pelvis upward, meeting Shane's downstrokes with blunt, aching pressure. "Like how she had back dimples deep enough to fill with come," he says, his fingers flat against said dimples, "and loved it when he slapped her bruises. Or how he would get to her place and she'd be on her knees on the other side of the door with her mouth wide open. So easy for it. We even taught him a new word. Insatiable. Isn't that right, Roz?"

Ilya just hums in response, but Shane can feel the warmth in his tone from afar.

Fuck— really? Ilya went around… bragging, about what they did in the bedroom together while he was still in Boston? Blush maybe isn't the right word anymore. Shane's flesh starts simmering as he bounces on Cliff's lap, his own cock rosy and untouched, leaking a ridiculous amount of precome. It drips down his length, starting to pool in the creases of Cliff's abs.

"And never in a million years would I have guessed that it was you back then, Holls," Cliff smirks. One of his hands collides with a smack on the top of Shane's glute, which earns him a small wail. "Well, now I would."

"I… I—" Shane starts, cutting himself off as his teeth try to dissolve in his mouth. The heat is starting to overtake his mind. Every fluctuation of his body above Cliff's feels more and more like he's starting to drift away. His breath sticks in his esophagus as he attempts to breathe deeply, and the pace of his bouncing slows: struggling against Cliff's upward movement. Even his prostate is being bullied into submission by the thick weight of the cock inside him.

Suddenly two more hands meet his skin: this time settling on his waist from behind. Lips meet the nape of his neck— Ilya.

"Here, Shane," Ilya whispers. At some point he apparently also rid himself of his clothes, and Shane can feel the stiff line of his cock pressing against the base of his spine. "Let me help."

Palms dig deeper into his waist— and lift.

Shane yelps as Ilya pulls him upward, hollowed out as he's dragged to about an inch above Cliff's cock and held there. The bottom of his ribcage threatens to cave in. "Ah!—" he squeals, his hole fluttering from the unwanted loneliness. "Ilya, what are you—"

Then he's dropped: taking Cliff fully to the hilt, gravity doing the work of slamming him back down onto Cliff's lap. Shane sputters, "Oh, oh fuck—" as his legs tremble from surprise. His nails stab into Cliff's skin, unsheathed like butterfly knives.

At the same time, Cliff moans, "Roz, holy shit. Warn a guy next time. You're gonna drive me fucking crazy."

Ilya repeats the motion, guiding Shane up and down Cliff's cock as if he's some sort of human fleshlight. Again. And again.

The burn under Shane's skin starts swallowing his extremeties: vibrating like a cicada's wings on a sweltering summer afternoon. Hotter, hotter. Thighs begging for relief. Hole filled with a pinned pressure. Four hands span his lower abdomen like the space belongs to them. His own scramble to grip onto something, anything that can anchor him back in reality.

"I'm, mm, gonna— 'm gonna come, fuck," Shane whines. Every collision of his ass onto Cliff's pelvis sends a raucous slap into the air, accompanied with the squelch of lube and his attempt at making a noise that isn't a moan. It comes out closer to halfway between a choke and a sob each time his mouth falls open. His lungs push out ahs like they're bellows aimed at a hearth. The erratic pain spreads to his knees, shins rugged against the bedspread below.

"Did I say you could come?" Ilya asks, fingernails digging crescent moons into Shane's sides. His breathing covers the back of Shane's neck in a cloying fog as he presses his forehead into Shane's hair.

Shane replies, his voice warbling, "Yes… on the, on the plane—"

"And are we on the plane now, malysh?" Ilya says. His teeth catch on Shane's earlobe, suckling.

Shane bites down so hard on the inside of his cheek that it tastes like he's swallowed a handful of pennies. "N-no," he mutters as his back arches: the cock inside him sliding against his prostate with jolting bliss. The words are spat with an unsteady vitriol— lungs collapsed as Cliff's thrusting tempo crescendos. "We're not."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means I— that I, hah, have to ask permission," Shane says, lips wrapping harshly around the consonants. He feels Ilya's head ticking to the side like a dog hearing an unfamiliar command. "Please… please, can I come?"

"Hm," Ilya purrs as he jabs against Shane's ribcage. If he presses down any harder Shane's sure he could score lines into his bones. "How about it, Marly?"

Cliff's thumb rubs along the protuding line of Shane's hipbone. "The whore's only good for one thing, Roz," he groans. "And that's coming on my cock."

Reaching up to Shane's thoroughly ignored cock, Cliff grips a firm hand around the base. A single stroke upward: and Shane's body is seizing like he's been electrocuted, drawing tight into himself with a searing pleasure pulsing through his stomach, come spilling in cloudy ropes onto Cliff's torso. Sparks nestle deep in his muscles as his spend shoots so far up it covers Cliff's collarbone. He moans, swallowed with a gasp that refills his lungs with purpose. All the while Cliff stays ramrod stiff, fucking into him like a piston.

Cliff only stops moving as Ilya lifts Shane up and off Cliff's cock again, this time hooking under Shane's armpits: Shane's hole clenching so hard that viscous liquid drips out of him. He feels like a limp noodle: pliable and wet. Ilya sets him down further up Cliff's torso so that Cliff's cock is trapped between their stomachs, Shane's thighs still tight against Cliff's sides. His own come sticks to his skin, tacky as it cools.

"Hah, shit," Shane pants, his head lolling back. "I— thank you."

Then a hand meets the back of his shoulder, and he's folded down: head coming to rest in the crook of Cliff's neck, gripping onto Cliff's shoulders. Their torsos press together. The dark, downy hair on Cliff's chest dances against him like feathers tracing his skin. Cliff's rigid cock ruts against his lower abdomen, Shane's own softening as he comes back down to Earth.

"Good boy. Marly, help me out," Ilya says, voice lilted. There's a click of a lube bottle, then Ilya's slick fingers trail across Shane's entrance.

"Anything for my best bro," Cliff smirks. Palms grip onto Shane's ass cheeks: arms reaching around to pull them apart like he's made of dough.

Shane can't help but squirm, feeling much too exposed, but as soon as Ilya shoves four fingers inside him he stops his struggle. They curl against his inner walls, twisting back and forth like a dial before adding a fifth finger.

Pressure slowly builds, and Shane can feel his rim stretch as Ilya cautiously pushes his knuckles inside, followed by the rest of his hand down to the wrist. The sting is grounding, focus sharpened against the pleasurepain of the breach. He's spread with a motion like Ilya's trying to flick water off his fingers.

"Uhn, fuck," Shane whimpers, his pelvis involuntarily nudging backward to take the hand deeper. Cliff's hands spread him wider, a compliment in turn to Ilya's rotating wrist. "Ngh-ahh."

"Settle down, baby," Ilya sighs as he runs his free hand over the expanse of Shane's bare skin. He pulls back: fist now dragging against his entrance before he thrusts inward again. Clenched fingers graze Shane's prostate. "I have you."

The rotations of Ilya's hand get wider, wider— fueled by a fervor named devotion. Jutting back and forth like a strike against the surface tension of water.

Shane tries to time his breathing with the push-pull, Cliff's chest steady underneath his own. He can feel himself getting hard again as he ruts against the harsh protrusion of Cliff's cock against his stomach.

More lube gets poured over his hole as Ilya moves faster: methodically drawing his hand almost fully out before plunging back in. Punching uh uh uhs out of Shane's lungs with every shove, lovingly defiant to intended biology. A knot, furling and unfurling in his guts. All the while, Cliff's pelvis grinds against Shane: another persuasive argument for his re-budding arousal.

Cliff groans, his head falling back onto the mattress. "Fuck, Roz," he gasps, "what the hell've you two been up to? His hole's fuckin' swallowing you like you're meant to be there."

"He has been very excited," Ilya says: and Shane can feel the gilded, smothering honey of his tone just from the words alone. There's no telling what his face looks like, but Shane doesn't need to see it to know. His eyes are soft— but his mouth is razor-edged. "Begging for me— for this— all day and night."

By the time Ilya pulls his fist out, Shane's a sopping, sweating mess. If he was made of glass, every part of himself would have shattered and spliced into Cliff's flesh. A tingling sensation has spread across his muscles and locked into his vertabrae: hole opened wider than it's ever been, cock straining again. Beneath him, Cliff's breath has also quickened. Their chests heave together as they share the suffocating space between their breathing, sticking together like damp skin on dry ice.

"Malysh, can you lift yourself up?" Ilya asks, mellow and sweet.

Shane raises his upper half off of Cliff's torso, shivering with the strain, and pushes his thighs up so he's hovering above Cliff again. His hole constricts around the gape that's formed there. It's as if he's been split in two, and the halves will never rejoin because they've drifted so far apart.

Then he hears the lube again: this time presumably slathering a thick coating over Ilya and Cliff's cocks.

Ilya croons, "Down you go. There you are."

Legs giving out from under him, Shane spears himself back onto Cliff. It feels different somehow: like he's clenching around more air than cock.

Ilya slots his hand above Cliff's shaft, dragging upward to make room for himself. Fingers trawl along Shane's insides like Ilya's playing piano keys. The harmonic chords sound a lot like moans.

Then Ilya pulls out, and Shane feels another blunt strain against his entrance.

The moment it happens, Shane blacks out as he comes harder than he ever has in his entire life. Numb. Gushing. All sensation leaves his body before rushing back in again, overwhelming him with stuffed, laden, brimming— fit to burst at any moment. Whatever seal that had imprinted itself into the bottom his spine breaks open with a sickening crack. White lines streak across Cliff's abdomen, viscous come coating tensed muscle.

Ilya and Cliff are both inside of him. They're really both inside of him. It's nauseating pleasure. Dizzying, merciful anguish. Stretched is barely a word anymore. It's closer to—

Cleaved.

And it's everything he's been wanting. He's wanted it so fucking bad, and he's more frantic with need than he ever could have imagined— but it's too much. His cock just twitches as his orgasm slices through: still impossibly hard.

"Jesus motherfucking Christ," Cliff, shaky and wired, mutters under his breath.

"Holy, mmfh— oh my God," Shane keens, glazed-over eyes squeezing shut like he's trying to convince himself he doesn't need his vision anymore. Claws dig into Cliff's waist. They carve thin red lines into tanned skin. "Fuckfuckfuck. God, I'm so fucking full. No, I, I don't know if I can, I can't, hah— shit—"

Ilya says as he presses an unsteady kiss into Shane's hair, "You can." A strangled hiss escapes from his mouth. "Mm— I know you can. So good for me— for us. Taking us so well."

The swollen air around them fizzes with electricity, flares skipping across every muscle fiber before settling in Shane's trembling knees. Ilya shifts slightly, adjusting his angle, and a spark of ecstacy snaps Shane out of his delirium. Keys in the ignition. Hand on the ripcord. He asked for this and he's already come this far: so he's going to get it.

Shane moans, lungs trying their best to fill with air, "Ah— fuck, please. Please."

"Please what?" Cliff asks. His voice is strained: the heady weight of the moment seeming to bleed into him as well.

"Please fuck me," Shane wails. An echo from the depths of his soul. "I need you to fuck me harder."

Ilya pulls back: cock sliding halfway out before slamming back in, and Shane lets out a startled squeal. "Marly, you heard him," Ilya pants. His hands clutch at Shane's waist, while Cliff's stay at Shane's hips. "Move."

There's nothing Shane can do but shiver as both Cliff and Ilya start to thrust. They slide against each other: each drag forceful and out of sync. The sensation careens into frenzy— Shane digging onto Cliff's shoulders, elbows locked like they could dislocate if they moved even an inch. He feels like a toy, a puppet. Held up only by strings, led by an unknown shepherd. Manhandled by calloused palms. A visualization ready to splinter into before and after.

He doesn't move. He can't move. Every surge is directed by the tempo of two cocks, two bodies ramming into him like the other isn't affecting them. It pushes against his inner walls, his spine, his throat— bliss bubbling up to the surface like welts. Skin flogged by carnal desire. His eyes fly open from a particularly brutal pounding against his prostate, and he tries to not choke on his own spit. His cock still drools, even though he doesn't know how much more it has to give: weak strings dripping from the brick red tip.

From behind, Ilya guides one of Shane's hands to his own stomach and presses: as firm and decisive as the crack of a whip. Their fingers interlace like a braid. Ilya nips at the sensitive spot behind Shane's ear, possessive, and questions, "You feel that, lyubimy?"

"Nngh—" is all Shane manages to say, a dense feeling settling inside his browbone.

He nods. He feels it. Fuck, of course he feels it; the slight bulge in his lower abdomen with every thrust. Shane knows that it's not actually Ilya and Cliff's cocks, just his organs being shifted around from the intrusion: but the thought makes his head spin. Everything in his vision becomes soft around the edges. His whole body is made of dead weight. Heavy and waterlogged like a bucket with a hole at the bottom.

"Mine," Ilya growls.

"Yours," Shane whispers— cutting his teeth on his own consciousness.

Up, down, in, out, forward, backward, deeper, deeper; every direction establishing its own rhythm within his hole with raw connection of skin on skin. Slap slap slap followed by ah ah ah followed by cries of more harder faster. Gone is the tranquility of a quiet, unspoken desire. Shane's been carved out: leaving only his outermost flesh like a fruit rind as a barrier between him and a one-way trip to another plane of existence. He feels drunk, hazy: brain sloshing around in his skull, back arching obscenely, eyes rolling back in his head.

Then Ilya and Cliff's speed increases: panting, breathing straight into each other's lungs. Radiating through Shane's guts, hot and wet and squelching.

"Marly, fuck, are you going to—" Ilya stutters. Labored. Frantic.

Shane wishes he could see what Ilya looks like. How his expression is contorting; how his breath is hitching. How he's found divinity in the primal.

"Y-yeah," Cliff replies, the back of his head strained against the sheets below: face awash with a bright blush, splotchy like watercolor. Chin upturned, mouth wide open. "Are, are you—? God, fuck!—"

Shane blinks— and he's gone.

Both Ilya and Cliff empty themselves into him, moaning in time with the cadence of their slowing thrusts. Even with the overtaking numbness, screaming, he can feel their come filling him and oozing out of his loosened, abused hole, spilling down his perenium and his thighs.

His body tries to bring itself over the brink, and succeeds in the way of the tightening, the quaking, the curling toes; but his cock just sputters, dry as the remnants of whatever he hasn't already flooded onto Cliff's torso joins the rest of the spend sticking there.

He can't think. He can barely breathe.

Tears swell on his waterline. His ears ring like church bells: jaw tensing hard enough to fracture. Half of himself has fallen out of his mouth: the other stuck in the come that's painted his insides white.

Every moment bleeds into the next. He's floating on endless waves, rippling around slowly softening cocks that slide out of him: leaving him with a gaping void in his heart and his body as his arms buckle and he crumples on top of Cliff.

"Holy fucking shit," Cliff groans, and Shane can feel his ribcage trying to pry itself out of his torso as he removes himself from Shane. "Damn. That was… God."

Dismounting, Ilya rubs his palms over Shane's waist. The touch is like a flamethrower against his pores. Ilya rasps, "You did so good, baby. Fuck."

Finally empty save for slick liquid, Shane rolls off of Cliff, laying on his back on the bed: limbs splayed. The sheets scrunch in silken pleats beneath him. Tears fall down his ruddy cheeks, seeping into the linens. He lets out a surprisingly unexaggerated sigh: his arms and legs tingling, body tightly clenched everywhere except his ass.

An eternity passes before he finally says, voice scratchy like he's never used it before, "Does anyone… can someone…"

Ilya leans down and kisses Shane's billowing chest. It takes a moment for his lips to disconnect from the tacky surface. "What is it?"

"Do either of you know when the next Boston-Ottawa game is?"

Chapter End Notes

yippee! everyone give it up for the orange line catching fire

it's funny but there were some moments writing this where I fully scandalized myself lmao. like actual hand to chest "oh my" moments lollll

also in my heart of hearts I know Ilya loves a literal cuck chair. and fucking Shane until he cries <3

hope you enjoyed!