livin' a teenage dream

Shane had been half hard for an hour before Sasha touched him.

He stood at the foot of the bed in just his briefs, the cotton straining, and tried to look relaxed. He was a professional athlete. He knew how to project confidence. But his hands were damp, and he kept glancing at Ilya in the armchair across the room — still dressed, charcoal trousers and an open-collared shirt, looking like he'd just come from a board meeting except for the obscene strain against his zipper. Ilya's knuckles were white against the leather. He wasn't allowed to touch. Not yet.

"You look like you're about to fight me," Sasha murmured, stepping close. He was still in his shirt, unbuttoned but hanging from his shoulders, and he smelled like bergamot and smoke. His hand settled on Shane's hip with no urgency at all, just warmth. "Or flee."

Shane's jaw tightened. "I'm not."

"I know." Sasha's thumb stroked the bone of his hip, slow and grounding. "You're excited. Your pulse is jumping right here." His fingers drifted up to Shane's throat, barely touching, feeling the rabbit-fast heartbeat. "Ilya told me you get like this before a game. Adrenaline. A little fear. Then you skate out and destroy everyone."

Shane huffed a laugh, some of the tension breaking. "You talk to Ilya too much."

"We grew up together. I know all his secrets." Sasha's voice dropped, intimate. "He told me you married him because he was the only one who could keep up with you. On the ice and off. Is that true?"

"Yeah." Shane's voice came out rough. He was still nervous, but it was shifting into something hotter now, something Sasha was carefully drawing out of him.

"Then think of this like that." Sasha stepped closer, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, could smell the salt underneath his cologne. "Something new. Something you want. Something you're going to be very good at."

Sasha's hand slid around to the small of Shane's back and pulled him in, firm but not forceful. Shane's cock brushed against Sasha's hip through the cotton and he sucked in a breath at the contact — hot, heavy, real in a way that made his knees feel loose.

"There it is," Sasha whispered, pleased. "You want to show him, don't you? Show Ilya what he married. What I get to have tonight."

Shane nodded, throat clicking. He did want that. He wanted it so badly his knees felt loose.

Sasha leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of Shane's ear, and switched to French. The shift felt like a door clicking shut, locking Ilya out just enough to make him burn.

"Il a rêvé de nous ensemble," He's dreamt of us together Sasha whispered."Des centaines de fois, je parie. Il se réveille en sueur, la main sur sa queue, et il pense à toi en moi. Moi en toi." Hundreds of times I bet. He wakes up sweating, his hand on his cock thinking about us. You inside me. Me inside you.

Shane shivered. Across the room, Ilya's jaw tightened. He didn't understand. He could see Sasha's lips moving, andprobably caught the rhythm of intimacy in the cadence, but the meaning was walled off from him. It made Shane feel powerful in a way he hadn't expected — the two of them conspiring, Ilya desperate to know.

"Ilya ne dit jamais ce qu'il veut, n'est-ce pas?" Ilya never says what he wants, does he? Sasha continued, his breath hot against Shane's ear. "Il est comme ça depuis notre jeunesse. Il pense que cela fait de lui un homme avide. Mais je crois qu’Ilyusha mérite tout ce qu’il désire. Allons-nous lui donner?" He's been like this since we were kids. He thinks it makes him greedy. I think Ilyusha deserves everything he wants. Are we going to give it to him?

"Oui," Yes Shane breathed. His hands found Sasha's waist of their own accord, no longer tentative. "Oui, on va lui donner." Yes. We are

"Tu te réveilles parfois avec lui dur contre toi?" Does he ever wake up hard against you? Sasha asked, and his hand drifted and long, elegant fingers traced the waistband of Shane's briefs with maddening patience. "Il rêvait de ce moment. À partir de maintenant, chaque fois qu'il le fera... tu sauras qu'il pense à ça. À nous." He's been dreaming of this moment. Now, every time he does you'll know he's thinking about this. About us.

Shane's cock twitched, straining cotton. He wanted to look at Ilya, but Sasha's fingers were under his chin, tilting his gaze back, keeping him here in this conspiracy.

Then Sasha stepped back, just enough that his voice carried, and switched to English. The room expanded with the change, Ilya suddenly brought back into the circuit.

"Should he be allowed to touch his cock tonight?" Sasha asked, loud and idle, like he was asking about wine pairings. His eyes stayed on Shane, but the question was for Ilya. "Or will we do that for him?"

Ilya's knuckles went paler against the leather. His voice came out strangled. "Please—"

"Please what?" Sasha smiled, cruel and fond, and finally let his gaze drift to the chair. "Look at him, Shane. Mr. Hollander-Rozanov. I think he'll come just from watching you fuck me."

Shane felt something unlock in his chest — that bratty, reckless confidence that usually only lived in him when Ilya had him pinned against the headboard. He let his hands move to his own waistband. He peeled his briefs down slowly, letting his cock slap heavy against his stomach, and he watched Ilya's nostrils flare, watched his thighs tense.

"Yeah?" Shane said, and his voice came out rougher, surer now. He palmed himself once, just to see Ilya's eyes go dark. "You think he'll last that long?"

Sasha laughed, low and dark, and began unbuttoning his own shirt the rest of the way. "Let's find out."

Shane stepped out of his briefs, and — without thinking, because he never thought about it, because it was just what he did — he bent and folded them neatly. Creased the waistband, aligned the leg holes, set them on the arm of the chair beside the bed.

Sasha paused, shirt half-off, and stared. Then he smiled, slow and delighted. "Are you serious?"

Shane's face went hot. "I just — it's habit, I don't like —"

"It's perfect," Sasha murmured. He stripped his shirt off completely and held it out to Shane. "Fold mine too."

Shane took it automatically, his hands finding the shoulders, smoothing the fabric. He folded it with precise, familiar movements, the cotton warm from Sasha's body. When he set it on top of his own briefs, Sasha made a soft, pleased noise.

"Look at him, Ilya," Sasha said, his voice warm with genuine affection. "Your husband is folding our clothes before he lets us ruin him. Isn't that the most endearing thing you've ever seen?"

Ilya's voice came out rough, wrecked already. "Yes."

"He does that every time, doesn't he?" Sasha asked, not taking his eyes off Shane. "Before you fuck him. He folds his clothes. Neat little piles. Like he's preparing for something important."

"Like he actually thinks he'll be able to fucking go anywhere when I'm done with him," Ilya breathed.

"Well," Sasha said, as he close again, his hand found Shane's waist and pulled him against his front. Shane could feel the hard line of his cock pressed against him as Sasha hooked his chin over Shane s shoulder to stare down Ilya. He groped Shane's pec and leered, "Ilyusha, we will see if you do anything tonight won't we?"

Sasha let his trousers drop and stepped out of them, and Shane —still blushing, still embarrassed —bent and folded those too.

It was automatic. His hands knew the shape of a crease before his brain caught up. He found the inseam, aligned the legs, smoothed the fabric with his thumbs. The wool was still warm from Sasha's body. Shane's cock hung heavy between his own thighs, flushed and leaking, bobbing slightly with every breath, and here he was making neat hospital corners out of another man's pants while Sasha stood over him, naked and watching.

He could feel Sasha's eyes on his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the way his ass lifted as he bent. The folding took ten seconds. It felt like ten minutes. Every instinct screamed at him to stop being ridiculous, to stand up, to grab Sasha and do something — but his fingers kept moving, precise and obsessive, because if he stopped, if he looked up and met Sasha's gaze, he would have to acknowledge how exposed he was. How hard he was. How badly he wanted Sasha to keep looking at him like that.

"There," Shane said, his voice rougher than he intended. He set the trousers on top of the small pile: his briefs; Sasha's shirt; now, the trousers. All neatly stacked. He kept his eyes on the fabric, on the straightness of the seams, because it was safer than looking at Sasha's cock, or his smile, or the dark hunger in his eyes.

Sasha didn't move. He just stood there, naked and lean and unashamed, watching Shane fold his clothes like a ritual offering.

"Do you know how filthy that is?" Sasha asked quietly.

Shane's throat clicked. "It's just—"

"It's not just anything." Sasha stepped close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating off of him. He reached down and traced the shell of Shane's ear with one finger, light and maddening. "You're on your knees with your cock dripping on the floor, and you're worried about wrinkles. You're making a little altar out of our clothes before I fuck you." His voice dropped, warm and wondering. "Ilya is the luckiest man I've ever met."

Shane's face burned. His cock twitched at the words, a fat drop of precum spilling onto the carpet between his knees. He was mortified. He was harder than he'd ever been in his life. The two feelings were indistinguishable.

"Stand up," Sasha murmured.

Shane stood. His legs felt unsteady. He was acutely aware of the height difference now — Sasha taller than him, and he forces Shane to look up at him. Sasha's hand settled on Shane's hip, thumb stroking the bone, and his eyes dropped deliberately to Shane's cock, then back up to his face.

"Still useless?" Sasha asked, his voice soft and teasing.

"Yeah," Shane breathed.

"Good." Sasha pulled him in and kissed him.

It was different from kissing Ilya. Ilya kissed like a fight for territory, all teeth and hunger and control, a demand that Shane surrender his mouth completely. Sasha kissed like an invitation, like he was leaving doors open on purpose— his lips soft at first, then hungrier, his tongue sliding against Shane's with a patience that felt dangerous. Shane melted into it, his hands coming up to grip Sasha's waist, and he felt Sasha smile against his mouth, felt the vibration of his pleasure at having unraveled him so completely with nothing but a pair of folded trousers and a moment of attention.

When Sasha pulled back, his thumb came up to trace Shane's swollen lower lip, his eyes dark and fond and predatory.

"Again," Sasha whispered.

Shane didn't hesitate. He kissed him harder this time, desperate and grateful, his embarrassment burning straight into arousal, and Sasha let him in without a fight.

Shane let himself get lost in it. He mapped Sasha's hipbones with his thumbs, dragged his palms up the ridges of Sasha's ribs, and felt Sasha shiver when his fingers brushed a nipple. Sasha arched into it, performative and genuine at once, and broke the kiss to let his head fall back with a theatrical, filthy moan.

"Fuck," Shane breathed, and Sasha laughed against his jaw.

"Keep going," Sasha whispered. "He needs to see you want it. Not just for him. For you."

Shane did. He pushed Sasha back toward the bed and mouthed down his throat, his collarbone, the hollow of his sternum. He sank to his knees because it felt right, because Sasha's fingers were carding through his hair with gentle pressure, and because from this angle he could see Ilya's face—wrecked, pupils blown, still gripping the chair like it might float away.

But Shane didn't take Sasha into his mouth yet. He pressed his face against Sasha's hip, nuzzling the sharp bone there, breathing in the musk of him. He dragged his mouth across Sasha's lower stomach, his tongue tracing the trail of dark hair, and let his hands roam up the backs of Sasha's thighs, squeezing the muscle there. Sasha's breath hitched.

"Look at him," Sasha whispered in French, his fingers gentle in Shane's hair. "Regarde-le. Il est déjà tellement désespéré pour nous. Il va craquer avant même que tu le touches.” Look at him. He's already desperate. He'll break before you touch him.

Shane looked. Ilya's hips had bucked up once, involuntary, seeking friction against nothing. His hands were still white-knuckled on the armrests, but his chest was heaving.

"Il est magnifique quand il souffre, non?" He's magnificent when he's suffering, isn't he? Sasha continued, his voice barely audible. "Mais toi... tu vas bien, Shane? Tu es toujours avec moi?" But you ... are you okay Shane? Are you with me?

Shane shivered at the check-in, the warmth of it. "Oui. Je suis bien. Je veux ça." Yes. I am fine, I'm very good.

"Bien," Good Sasha murmured, and there was a smile in it. “Le bon garçon d'Ilyusha.” Ilyusha's good boy.

Then, in English, loud enough to carry: "He's going to break before you even touch him, Shane. Look at his face. Look at what you're doing to him."

Shane looked up at Sasha, then over at Ilya, and something devilish lit up in his chest. "You're not touching yourself, are you, Ilyusha?" he called, his voice hoarse and playful. He didn't wait for an answer. He dragged his tongue up the underside of Sasha's cock, slow and deliberate, and watched Ilya's nostrils flare.

Sasha's fingers tightened in his hair. "Good boy," he murmured. "Show me how well Ilya trained that mouth."

Shane opened his mouth and took the head between his lips, and the first taste of Sasha— salt and musk and something darker—made his own cock jerk against his thigh. He swirled his tongue around the ridge, mapping the shape of him, and Sasha's fingers tightened in his hair with a sharp intake of breath.

"Yes," Sasha hissed. "Just like that."

Shane pulled off with a wet, obscene sound and looked up, lips shiny, and dragged the head of Sasha's cock across his mouth, smearing the precum, painting his lips with it. He did it again, slower, holding Sasha's gaze, then turned his head to look at Ilya while he did it — while he dragged that wet, flushed cock across his cheek, his jaw, letting it leave a glistening trail on his skin.

Ilya made a noise like he'd been punched. His hips bucked up, seeking friction against empty air.

Shane pulled off and looked at Ilya slow and deliberate, his cock bobbing heavy and ignored against his thigh, still slick at the tip. Ilya's eyes tracked him with worship and desperation.

"Tu es incroyable," You are incredible. Sasha murmured, running his hands through Shane's hair. Tugging gently to take Shane's attention back. "Tu le traites si bien. Il est à toi, tu sais. Même quand il nous regarde, il est à toi." You treat him so well. He is yours. Even when he looks at us, he is yours.

Shane shivered, pressing close. His lets his breath ghost over Sasha s sensitive cock to watch him twitch, "Et toi? Tu vas bien?" And you? Are you okay?

"Mmhmm," Sasha moaned "Je vais très bien. Maintenant... s’il te plaît, mon beau. Montre-lui ce que tu sais faire." I'm fine. Now...please, gorgeous. Show me what you can do.

He opened his mouth and took Sasha deep. It was filthy. Shane had learned to take Ilya like this — learned to relax his throat, to breathe through his nose, to want the stretch of it — and now he used every lesson like a weapon. Sasha fed his cock in with shallow thrusts, gripping Shane's hair to guide him, and Shane let himself be used, let his throat go soft and yielding, let the tears prick at the corners of his eyes because he could take it, because he was good at this.

The sounds filled the room — wet and rhythmic and obscene, Shane's muffled groans mixing with Sasha's ragged breathing. Shane reached up with one hand and rolled Sasha's balls, heavy and tight against his palm, and then pulled off his cock and ducked lower to suck them into his mouth one at a time, lavishing them with his tongue, making them slick and shining before he went back to the shaft.

"Jesus, look at him," Sasha groaned, his voice fraying, his hips stuttering. "Look at your fucking husband, Ilya. Look what he can do."

Shane pulled back, gasping, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to Sasha's cock. His chin was dripping. He looked ruined already, and he loved it. He looked over at Ilya — Ilya who was trembling, who was hard and trapped and desperate— and he grinned, wicked and wide.

"Watch," Shane said, and then he went down again.

He took Sasha to the root. His nose pressed against Sasha's pelvis and his throat worked around the intrusion, muscles fluttering, and Sasha's thighs shook. Shane held him there, eyes watering, until Sasha groaned long and broken and pulled him back by the hair.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm close," Sasha warned, his cock throbbing against Shane's tongue.

Shane pulled off and looked up, his mouth swollen and wet, his chin dripping. "Cum in my mouth," he demanded.

Sasha's hips jerked. He fisted Shane's hair and thrust deep, once, twice, and Shane felt the first pulse hit the back of his tongue — thick and bitter and overwhelming. Sasha kept coming, groaning in long, shattered bursts, and Shane held him deep, letting it flood his mouth, his cheeks bulging slightly with the volume of it. He didn't swallow. He let it sit heavy on his tongue, a secret burning in his mouth.

When Sasha finally eased back, gasping, Shane stood up. His own cock was leaking, untouched, bobbing against his stomach with every heartbeat. He walked across the room to Ilya, slow and deliberate, and Ilya's eyes tracked him with worship and desperation.

Shane straddled Ilya's lap and let his weight pin Ilya to the chair. Trapping him beneath him and stopping Ilya from humping up into him. Shane cupped his jaw with both hands. He ran his fingers across the seam of Ilya s mouth and pushed in.

Ilya's lips parted. His eyes were glassy, helpless.

Shane leaned in and kissed him. He pushed Sasha's cum into Ilya's mouth with his tongue, feeding it to him in slow, filthy pulses. Ilya moaned — dirty and desperate, the sound vibrating against Shane's lips — and his hips bucked up involuntarily, forcing Shane to tense to keep him pinned. Shane felt Ilya's cock strain, hot and trapped, and he reached down to wrap a hand around it, through the damp fabric. just to feel Ilya twitch and whine against his mouth.

"Good?" Shane asked against Ilya's lips, pulling back just enough to see his face — lips parted, chin wet with spit and cum, eyes blown wide and wrecked.

Ilya swallowed. His throat clicked. "Shane "

"Nuh-uh." Shane squeezed him, making Ilya gasp, then let go with a wicked smile. "Not yet."

He stood up and turned back to Sasha, who was watching from the foot of the bed with dark, pleased eyes, his cock soft and temporarily sated.

"Come back here, brat," Sasha said. "I m not done with you."

Shane kissed Ilya one last time, "Don't touch, okay? Just watch me be good for you."

Shane went back to Sasha, his cock heavy and flushed between his thighs and he felt Ilya's eyes heavy on him.

Sasha caught him by the wrist before he reached the bed.

He didn't pull hard just enough to stop Shane mid-step, enough to make him turn. Sasha's fingers slid down from Shane's wrist to his palm, interlacing their fingers for one brief, disarming moment. Then he used that grip to spin Shane around, to walk him backward the last two feet until the edge of the mattress hit the back of Shane's thighs.

"Turn around," Sasha said quietly.

Shane turned. He faced the bed, his cock jutting out heavy and flushed, bobbing slightly with his pulse. He was acutely aware of how he looked naked, hard, cum still drying on his chin, his skin flushed from the walk across the room. Vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with clothes.

Sasha's hand settled between his shoulder blades. It was warm, broad, and for a second it was just there grounding, patient. Then Sasha pushed.

Shane went down. His knees hit the mattress first, then his palms, then his cheek was pressing against the cool duvet, his arms folding under his chest. Sasha didn't let up the pressure. He kept his hand between Shane's shoulder blades and guided him lower, arranging him exactly how he wanted him chest to the bed, knees spread wide, ass in the air. The position was obscene. Shane's cock hung down heavy and ignored between his thighs, leaking a thin string of precum onto the sheets beneath him.

Sasha stepped back. His eyes dragged over Shane's body his shoulders, his spine, the curve of his ass and then lingered deliberately on the thick shaft hanging between Shane's legs. He didn't touch it. He just looked.

"Look at that," Sasha said, his voice idle and cruel. He reached out and wrapped a hand around Shane's hip, thumb digging into the bone, deliberately not touching the thick shaft jutting between Shane's legs. "All that cock. All that weight. And it's completely useless, isn't it?"

Shane's breath hitched. "Fuck you."

Sasha clicked his tongue chidingly and ground his palm meaningly into the tip of Shane's cock, "Oh, so you're fine coming while I jerk you off then?"

Shane's whole body went rigid, a jolt of genuine panic shooting down his spine. His cock twitched violently between his legs, leaking another fat drop onto the sheets, but the sensation wasn't pleasure it was alarm. The idea of Sasha's hand wrapping around him, stroking him to completion like some ordinary thing, felt like a threat to something fundamental. It felt like being robbed.

"No, no, no wait." His voice came out high and broken, barely recognizable. He tried to twist onto his side, to shield himself, but Sasha's hand between his shoulder blades held him firm, pinned face-down to the mattress. "Sasha please."

"Please what?" Sasha asked, his voice infuriatingly calm. He dragged his palm over the head of Shane's cock again just a light, teasing swipe, gathering the precum there and Shane jerked like he'd been shocked. "You don't want me to touch it? But it's so hard, Shane. It's practically begging."

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, his face burning against the duvet. He was humiliated by how true it was his cock was rock-solid, throbbing with every heartbeat, straining and desperate. But it wasn't desperate for Sasha's hand. It was desperate to be ignored, to be denied, to be proven irrelevant while his hole got what it needed. The thought of coming like this, from friction on his cock while his ass stayed empty and untouched, made something twist painfully in his chest. It would be wrong. It would be incomplete. It would be a waste.

"I can't," Shane gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily, trying to escape Sasha's palm. "I can't come like that, I need fuck, I need to be filled, please don't make me come like that, it's not—"

"It's not what?" Sasha pressed, merciless. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Shane's cock not stroking, just holding, a loose, possessive grip that made Shane sob into the mattress. "It's not how you're built? Not how Ilya trained you?" He leaned down, his mouth at Shane's ear again, his breath hot. "Poor Shane. All this gorgeous cock between your legs, and it doesn't even know how to make you feel good anymore. Does it?"

Shane shook his head frantically, tears pricking at his eyes. "No," he whispered. "No, it doesn't, please—"

"Please what?" Sasha released him, his hand lifting away, and Shane whined at the loss of even that cruel contact. "Please ignore it? Please focus on your greedy little hole instead?" He dragged his thumb down the cleft of Shane's ass and pressed against his rim, not entering, just circling. "Is that what you need?"

"Yes," Shane sobbed, pushing back onto that thumb, his hole fluttering and desperate. "Yes, please, fuck me, open me, I don't need—" He gestured helplessly at his own cock, hanging heavy and ignored between his thighs. "I don't need that, it's useless. I need something inside me. Please, Sasha."

Sasha laughed, low and pleased. "See? Even he knows." He looked past Shane to Ilya, still trapped in the chair. "You married a man with a gorgeous, useless cock, Ilyusha. All this time, and you've never once wanted him to fuck you with it, have you?"

Ilya's voice came out ragged. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's made to be fucked," Ilya said, and the words sounded like they were dragged out of him, like a confession. "He's made to take it. That cock is just for show."

Shane shivered, a full-body tremor. He shouldn't love this as much as he did. But his cock twitched, untouched, and he felt himself get wetter at the tip just from the words.

"Exactly," Sasha murmured. He spread Shane open with both hands, thumbs digging into the muscle of his ass, and Shane felt exposed in a way that made his face burn. He heard Sasha hum, pleased, and then felt the first hot, wet drag of his tongue.

"Oh fuck," Shane groaned, his fingers clawing at the sheets.

Sasha didn't tease. He ate Shane out with filthy, dedicated thoroughness — long licks from root to hole, his tongue stiff and pressing inside, his nose buried against Shane's skin. He pulled back to spit, deliberately, letting it drip down onto Shane's hole before he went back in, working him open with his mouth, his chin getting slick and shining.

"I see why Ilya likes you like this," Sasha murmured against him, the vibration making Shane whine. "Ilya's favorite thing. His greedy little hole."

"Please," Shane breathed, rocking back against Sasha's mouth. "Please, fuck, more "

Sasha pulled back and brought his hand down in a sharp, stinging slap against Shane's hole.

Shane yelped, his whole body jerking, his cock leaking a fat drop onto the bedspread. "What the fuck—"

"You're being bratty," Sasha said calmly, rubbing the sting with his thumb, pressing just hard enough to make Shane squirm. "Whining and begging. Ilya lets you get away with that, doesn't he? I don't."

He spanked Shane's hole again — a wet, filthy sound this time, his palm connecting with spit-slick flesh — and Shane moaned into the mattress, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Colour?" Sasha asked, his voice gentler now, checking in even as he held Shane open.

"Green," Shane gasped. "Fucking green, don't stop "

"Good boy," Sasha murmured. He went back to his tongue, softer now, laving and soothing the sting. Then he pressed a finger in — just one, thick and insistent, sliding in easily because Shane was ready, because he was greedy for it.

Sasha pressed two fingers in, deep and insistent, and Shane cried out into the mattress, his hips bucking back greedily. But Sasha stilled, his hand wrapped around Shane's hip, and looked over at Ilya with a dark, expectant smile.

"Ilyusha," Sasha said, his voice warm with old intimacy, the kind that came from knowing someone since they were boys. "Your husband is being a brat. Whining and pushing back like he decides the pace." He gave Shane's ass a sharp, stinging spank, making him yelp and clench down hard on Sasha's fingers. "I think he needs to be reminded to use his manners. Don't you?"

Ilya's eyes were glassy, his chest heaving. "Yes," he groaned. "Spank him. Please, Sasha, make him behave."

Sasha laughed, low and fond, and brought his hand down again — harder this time, right across Shane's spit-slick hole. The wet, filthy crack of it filled the room, and Shane sobbed, his whole body jerking, his useless cock leaking a fat drop onto the bedspread.

"Thank me, Ilya," Sasha commanded, rubbing the sting with his thumb, pressing just hard enough to make Shane squirm and whine. "Thank me for disciplining your husband. We both know you never have the heart to spank him hard enough."

Ilya's voice came out broken, wrecked with gratitude. "Thank you, Sasha. Spasibo, thank you for spanking him, for making him good."

"You're welcome," Sasha murmured, satisfied. He leaned down and bit the meat of Shane's ass, leaving a mark, then soothed it with his tongue. "I'm very generous, aren't I, Shane? Teaching you and your husband manners because you're too much of a slut to have any."

Shane sobbed into the mattress, pushing back onto Sasha's fingers, his face burning. "Please," he begged. "Please, more, I need more—"

Sasha stilled again, his fingers buried deep, and turned back to Ilya. "How many fingers does he get, Ilyusha? You decide. He's your husband. How wide do you want him opened before I plug him?"

Ilya's thighs tensed, his hands white-knuckled on the armrests. He looked at Shane — at his wrecked, beautiful husband, spanked and begging— and his voice came out ragged. "Four," he said. "Open him to four. Make him feel it. Make him know he's being stretched for us."

"Four it is," Sasha said, and he sounded smug that Ilya would listen.

He worked in deep, twisting, searching, and when he found Shane's prostate. Shane screamed into the mattress, his cock twitching, his balls drawing up tight. Sasha didn't let up. He pressed a fourth finger against Shane's rim, working it in slowly, relentlessly, until Shane was sobbing with the stretch, his hole burning and clenching, his body shuddering with the effort of taking it.

Sasha leaned down close, his mouth at Shane's ear, his four fingers buried deep and motionless. "You feel that?" he whispered, just for Shane. "How wide you're open? Next time — and there will be a next time, Shane, don't pretend you don't want it — Ilya and I are going to do this together. Both of us. Fingers and tongues and cocks, taking turns opening you up until you're loose enough to take both of us at once." He twisted his hand slightly, making Shane keen. "Can you imagine it? Both of us inside you, stretching you until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. You'd be so full you'd cry. And you'd beg for more. I bet you'll be so stuffed full of us and your greedy little hole will still beg for a third."

Shane's whole body went rigid, then shook with a violent tremor. He clenched down hard on Sasha's fingers, his cock spurting a thin, desperate stripe of precum onto the sheets. "Oh fuck," he gasped, his voice barely recognizable. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, please—"

"Colour?" Sasha asked, his voice gentler now, checking in even as he held Shane open on the promise.

"Green," Shane sobbed, tears on his face, his voice cracked. "Fucking green, don't stop, please."

"Good boy," Sasha murmured. He held all four fingers deep for a long moment, letting Shane feel the fullness, letting Ilya watch his husband take it. Then he slowly withdrew, leaving Shane empty and whimpering, his hole fluttering and gaping slightly.

Sasha reached for the lube and the plug — large, thick, unyielding. He slicked it up slowly, letting Shane watch, letting Ilya watch.

"Ask nicely," Sasha said.

"Please put the plug in me," Shane begged, his voice wrecked. "Please fill me up, please, I'm so empty, Sasha."

Sasha pressed the tip against Shane's hole and pushed. It slid in easier now, Shane opened so wide, but it was still a relentless stretch, filling him inch by inch. Shane's mouth fell open in a silent scream. His cock twitched, leaking steadily, completely ignored.

"That's it," Sasha murmured, working it deeper. "Take it. Good boy. Ilya's good boy. Such a greedy, well-spanked hole."

When the plug finally seated, the base flush against Shane's rim, Sasha gave it a sharp twist and a tug — and Shane came.

He came untouched, his cock jerking against empty air, spilling thick and white all over his stomach and the bedspread, his hole clamping down on the plug, his whole body shuddering through it. He sobbed into the mattress, tears pricking at his eyes, overwhelmed and ruined.

Sasha let him ride it out, one hand soothing down his spine. Then he scooped up the cum from Shane's stomach with two fingers, thick and glistening, and walked over to Ilya.

"Open," Sasha commanded.

Ilya opened his mouth, desperate and obedient, and Sasha fed him Shane's cum, sliding his fingers over Ilya's tongue and pressing into the back of his throat.

"Now he's open for later, Ilyusha," Sasha purred, watching Ilya suck his fingers clean. "If you stay good for us. If you keep your hands off that cock. Do you understand?"

Sasha smiled, dark and satisfied, and turned back to Shane, who was still trembling on the bed, plugged and fucked-out and beautiful

Shane lifted his head, his eyes bright and defiant even through the haze. "Fuck you. I'm not done."

"No," Sasha agreed, his voice dropping to something almost tender. "You're not. And neither is he."

He held out his hand. Shane took it, letting Sasha pull him to his feet. The plug shifted as he stood, a thick, relentless reminder, and Shane gasped, swaying. Sasha caught him around the waist, steadying him, and walked him across the room to where Ilya sat.

Ilya looked up at them, his chest heaving. He was still dressed— shirt clinging to his shoulders, trousers straining, his hands white-knuckled on the armrests. He looked wrecked and powerful at the same time, like a man who had been holding up a building with his own spine.

Shane dropped to his knees first. His legs gave out, or maybe it was intentional— either way, he was kneeling between Ilya's thighs, his hands reaching for Ilya's belt with trembling fingers. He knew this belt. He'd bought it. He undid the buckle with practiced ease, his knuckles brushing the straining bulge beneath, and Ilya groaned at the contact, his hips jerking up.

"Greedy," Sasha murmured. He stood behind the chair, his hands sliding down Ilya's chest, undoing the last buttons of his shirt. He peeled the fabric back, exposing Ilya's shoulders, his collarbones, the dark hair trailing down his stomach. "You couldn't even wait for us to get your shirt off."

Shane dragged the zipper down. Ilya's cock sprang free, thick and dark and leaking, and Shane's mouth watered. He pushed the trousers down Ilya's hips, lifting him slightly to get them past his ass, and let them fall. He didn't fold them. He didn't even think about it— his hands were too busy, his mind too loud, his hole too full of the plug to care about creases.

"Please," Ilya groaned, and his voice was unrecognizable— stripped of every layer of control he usually wore like armor. His hips were canting up off the chair, his cock straining and dark, and his hands had left the armrests to grip his own thighs, digging in hard enough to bruise. "Please, touch me, I need you, I need both of you."

Sasha looked over at him with dark, assessing eyes, then turned to Shane. "Has he been good, do you think?"

Shane pushed himself up on his elbows, his abs still streaked with the remnants of his own orgasm, his cock heavy and half-hard against his thigh. He looked at Ilya— at his husband, wrecked and begging— and felt that wicked, bratty thing light up in his chest again.

"He's been okay," Shane said, drawing the word out. He rocked and settled and felt his cock kick when the plug jerked over his prostate. He looked down at Ilya's cock, dark and leaking against his stomach. "But he looked like he was gonna touch himself when I fed him your cum, Sasha. I saw his hand move."

Ilya's eyes went wide. "You fucking liar "

Sasha laughed, low and pleased as he finished removing Ilya s shirt. "You heard him, Ilyusha. You almost broke the rules." He reached down and wrapped a hand around the base of Ilya's cock, squeezing just enough to make him gasp. "But I think we can be merciful. Just this once."

Sasha joined Shane on his knees in front of Ilya. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, and Shane reached for Ilya's cock at the same time Sasha did. Their fingers brushed, and Shane felt a jolt of competitive heat. He wrapped his hand around the base and Sasha mirrored him, and they both leaned in and licked up the shaft from opposite sides, their tongues meeting at the ridge in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

Ilya groaned, his head falling back, his hands finding their hair — not guiding, just holding on, desperate.

They made out around him. Shane took the head into his mouth and Sasha mouthed at the shaft, licking and sucking the skin, and then they switched, Sasha's lips sealing around the crown while Shane dragged his tongue down to Ilya's balls, heavy and tight, and sucked one into his mouth.

"Fuck, fuck," Ilya chanted, his hips bucking up involuntarily. "Please, please, don't stop."

Shane pulled off with a wet sound and looked at Sasha, eyes bright with challenge. They were both panting, lips swollen, Ilya's cock throbbing wet and dark between their faces. Sasha caught Shane's gaze and smiled— slow, wicked, conspiratorial. He leaned in close, his cheek brushing Shane's, his mouth at Shane's ear, and switched to French. Ilya heard the shift immediately, his hips stuttering, his hands tightening in their hair.

"Tu sais combien de fois on peut l'edge avant qu'il craque?" Do you know how many times we can edge him before he breaks? Shane whispered, his breath hot against Sasha's jaw, loud enough for the cadence to reach Ilya but not the meaning. "Trois? Quatre? J'ai envie de le voir supplier." Three? Four? I want to see him beg.

Sasha shivered, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe up Ilya's shaft as he answered, his voice rough and deliberate. " "Autant que tu veux. C'est ton cock, Shane. Ton jouet. Ton beau cock dur." As much as you want. He's your cock, Shane. Your toy. Your beautiful hard cock. He pulled back just enough to look Shane in the eye, genuine warmth underneath the filth. "Tu me le prêtes. Merci de me le prêter." You're lending him to me. Thank you for lending him to me.

Shane looked down at Ilya's cock— flushed, leaking, straining up between them — and dragged his thumb over the head, spreading the precum with reverent slowness. "Il est parfait, non?" He is perfect, isn't he? he murmured. "Si dur pour nous. Si désespéré." So hard for us. So desperate.

"Très parfait," Perfect Sasha agreed, his lips brushing Shane's jaw. "Et il va être encore plus beau quand il suppliera pour nous." And he ll be even more beautiful when he begs for us.

They both turned their heads and looked at Ilya — two pairs of dark, wicked eyes, their mouths wet and shining, his cock trapped between their faces like a shared toy. Ilya made a noise, strangled and helpless, his thighs trembling, his hands white-knuckled in their hair

"Please," he groaned. "Please, what are you saying, tell me—"

Sasha laughed, low and fond and cruel, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Shane's lips right above the head of Ilya's cock, their tongues sliding together, letting Ilya feel the wet vibration of it against his sensitive skin.

"Switch?" Shane asked in English, his voice hoarse, and the shift felt like a door opening back up, letting Ilya back into the room.

"Switch," Sasha agreed, grinning.

Shane took Ilya deep. He'd learned the shape of his husband by heart, knew exactly how to relax his throat, how to breathe, how to take him to the root and hold him there while Ilya sobbed above him. Sasha didn't waste the opportunity— he ducked lower and sucked Ilya's balls into his mouth, one and then the other, rolling them with his tongue, his chin pressed against Shane's where their mouths met around Ilya's base.

It was filthy. It was collaborative and competitive at once, Shane and Sasha working in tandem but each trying to draw the sharper reaction, the louder groan. Shane pulled back, gasping, and Sasha took him deep in one smooth motion, hollowing his cheeks, and Shane watched with dark eyes before leaning in to lick at Ilya's shaft where Sasha's lips didn't reach, to mouth at his husband's hip, to bite a mark into his inner thigh.

They switched again. And again. Shane deepthroated him until his eyes watered and his throat worked, until Ilya's hands were shaking for the effort of keeping himself in place and pliant for them. Sasha pulled him off by the shoulder and took his place, his mouth sealing around the head and sucking hard, his hand working the base while Shane mouthed at Ilya's balls, laving them with his tongue, making them slick and shining.

"You're going to come for us," Sasha commanded, pulling off just enough to speak, his lips swollen and wet. "Aren't you, Ilya? You're going to fill our mouths."

"Yes," Ilya groaned, his whole body trembling. "Yes, please, I'm so close—"

Shane took him deep one last time, hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard, and he felt Ilya's thighs go rigid, felt the pulse against his tongue — and then Ilya was coming, thick and bitter and endless, flooding Shane's mouth. Shane held him deep, swallowing around the head, but he didn't take it all. He pulled back, Ilya's cock still twitching, still spilling, and grabbed Sasha by the hair and pulled him in.

They made out around the head, messy and desperate, Ilya's cum spilling from Shane's mouth into Sasha's, swapping it back and forth, their tongues sliding through the mess. Sasha groaned into it, his hand finding Shane's jaw, tilting him to get a better angle, and they passed the load between them until it was smeared across both their chins, their lips, their tongues.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were panting, wrecked, Ilya's cock softening against his stomach.

But Shane wasn't done being a brat.

He ducked down and sucked Ilya's softening cock into his mouth, gentle now, almost tender, his tongue swirling around the oversensitive head. Ilya cried out, his hips jerking, his hands shoving at Shane's shoulders.

"Too much— ," Ilya gasped. "Shane, too much, I can't— "

Shane pulled off with a wet pop and looked up, his eyes bright and wicked, his chin still streaked with cum. "But I have to wait for you to fuck me," he whined, deliberately pathetic, deliberately bratty. "You're all soft now. How long do I have to wait? Sasha made me come already but I still want you inside me. It's not fair."

Sasha laughed, loud and delighted, and ruffled Shane's hair. "You fucking menace."

Ilya was looking down at him with something like awe and desperation, his chest still heaving. "Give me a minute," he breathed. "A minutes and I'll fuck you until you can't walk."

Shane grinned, sharp and pleased, and sucked a last, teasing kiss to the head of Ilya's cock just to feel him twitch. "Promise?"

Shane didn't wait. He turned on his knees to face Sasha, his cock — heavy, flushed, finally useful — bobbing against his stomach with every heartbeat. The plug shifted inside him as he moved, a thick reminder of how open he still was, how ready.

"Your turn," Shane said, and his voice came out rough, almost feral.

Sasha stood up and grabbed Shane s hand. He tossed a teasing look back to Ilya as the pair returned to bed. Sasha settled back against the pillows, legs spreading wide with deliberate casualness, but his eyes were dark and assessing. He looked at Shane's cock, then up at his face, a smirk playing at his lips. "You? Fuck me? Ilya told me about your first and only attempt, Shane. You got three strokes in and then begged him to flip you. You cried when he pulled out. Actual tears."

Shane's face burned, but his cock twitched, betraying him. "That was when I was in my twenties. And you're not Ilya."

"No," Sasha agreed, his voice dropping to something hungrier. "I'm tighter. I'm meaner. And I won't go easy on you just because you're pretty."

Ilya made a soft, wrecked noise from the chair. "Don't listen to him. He's desperate for it. He's just as much of a fucking cock slut as you are Shane. You just have to get in him and that'll be enough."

"Liar," Sasha shot back, but his cheeks flushed, and Shane saw the way his own cock stirred against his stomach.

"Yeah? Prove it," Shane said.

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed Sasha's hips and dragged him down the bed, then pushed his legs back and sank down between them. Sasha's breath hitched as Shane spread him open with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of his ass, and then Shane dragged his tongue up the crease in one long, filthy stripe.

"Oh fuck," Sasha groaned, his back arching off the bed.

Shane didn't let up. He ate Sasha out with dedicated, messy thoroughness — tongue stiff and pressing inside, licking at the rim until it was soft and fluttering, his chin getting slick and shining. He reached up and wrapped a hand around Sasha's cock, stroking him in time with the thrusts of his tongue, and Sasha was falling apart faster than Shane had expected, his hips bucking up into Shane's grip, his voice reduced to whines and gasps.

"Not bad," Sasha breathed, but it was shaky, the brat cracking. "Not — fuck — not bad for a bottom pretending to be a top "

"Shut up," Shane growled against him, and he pressed two fingers in, slick from his own mouth, twisting them deep.

Sasha cried out, his hands clawing at the sheets. "More. Three. Give me three, come on, don't be gentle "

Shane worked a third finger in, scissoring them, stretching Sasha open with rough, eager strokes. He found the angle that made Sasha keen and rubbed his prostate relentlessly, watching Sasha's cock leak onto his own stomach in fat, clear drops.

"Look at you," Shane said, the cruelty in his voice surprising him, the power of it heady. "Five minutes ago you were so fucking smug. Now you're humping my hand like a slut."

"Fuck you," Sasha gasped, but Shane didn't believe him. He was pushing back harder. His thighs were shaking where he had them pulled back against his chest, holding himself open, his head thrown back. He looked wrecked — there was nothing smug about him anymore. His chest was flushed pink, his nipples tight and dark, his cock leaking steadily against his own stomach with every shaky breath. His hole was slick and open, glistening where Shane's tongue and fingers had been, fluttering around nothing like it was trying to pull Shane in. His jaw was slack, his lips swollen and bitten red, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked desperate. He looked ready. He looked like he needed to be fucked. And Shane needed to fuck him.

"Just — fuck, Shane, put it in. I want your cock. I want to feel that big, useless thing finally do some work for once" Sasha whined from beneath him.

Shane pulled his fingers out and lined himself up. The head of his cock pressed against Sasha's hole, and the heat of it made him groan, his hips twitching forward. He pushed in— slow, because Sasha was tight, because he was terrified of hurting him, because he wanted to feel every inch of this.

Sasha's mouth fell open, his eyes squeezing shut. "Oh. Oh, you're thick. Fuck, Ilya, you married a fucking monster "

"Colour?" Shane asked, his hands trembling where they gripped Sasha's hips.

"Green," Sasha moaned, his eyes fluttering open, dark and blown. "God, green. Move. Fuck me like he taught you."

Shane snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the root, and they both cried out. He had to freeze for a second, just to breathe through it. He'd spent years being opened, being stretched, being filled by Ilya until his own cock felt like nothing more than a heavy, ignored weight between his legs. Now every nerve ending was awake. The tight, slick heat of Sasha clenched around him was overwhelming, the sensation lit him on fire and he was desperate to chase it. The sight of it that nearly broke him — his cock, his big, useless cock, inside someone, doing what it was built for. The pleasure radiated up his spine differently: sharper, more concentrated, centred in his cock rather than deep in his ass. It was different from being fucked— tighter, hotter, the grip of Sasha's body around him making his vision blur. He started moving, finding a rhythm, and it was good, but the plug shifted inside him with every thrust, brushing his prostate, teasing him with almost-but-not-enough.

Sasha seemed to sense it. He arched his back, taking Shane deeper, and his voice came out in long, fucked-out moans, each word stretched like taffy. "Ilya... come here. Come look at your husband." He clenched down hard, making Shane sob, his hips stuttering. "He fucks just like you, Ilyusha. Same angle. Same desperate little whine when he's all the way in." He dragged his nails down Shane's back, hard enough to sting. "But he's still got that plug in him. He's fucking me with his useless cock and he's still full. Still needy. Still waiting for something bigger, aren't you, Shane?"

Shane whined, high and broken, because Sasha was right. He was fucking Sasha, but he was still missing being fucked, still opened and waiting and incomplete. He turned his head, tears pricking his eyes, and looked at Ilya with desperate, wet eyes.

"Ilya," he begged, his voice wrecked. "Please. Please come fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you. Please—"

Ilya moved. He crossed the room in three strides, his cock hard and dark and perfect, his eyes possessive and starving. He climbed onto the bed behind Shane, one hand gripping Shane's hip, the other finding the base of the plug.

"Keep fucking him," Ilya commanded, his voice like gravel. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. "Don't you dare stop moving."

He pulled the plug out in one smooth, relentless motion, and Shane screamed, his arms buckling, his chest collapsing down against Sasha's. But before he could mourn the emptiness, Ilya was there —slick and thick and perfect — pressing inside him in one deep, brutal thrust.

Shane's arms gave out completely. He fell forward over Sasha, his cock still buried to the root in Sasha's ass, Ilya's cock buried to the root in his, and the world narrowed to heat and stretch and overwhelming fullness. He was sobbing into Sasha's neck, tears on his face, and Sasha's arms came up around his back, holding him, grounding him even as Sasha moaned beneath him.

"That's it," Ilya growled against Shane's spine, his teeth sinking in. "That's my good boy. Taking both of us. Filling him while I fill you."

He snapped his hips forward, and the force of it drove Shane deeper into Sasha, and Sasha cried out, his head falling back, his legs wrapping tighter around Shane's waist.

"Move," Ilya ordered. "Fuck him. Make him feel every inch of that cock."

Shane moved. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. Ilya's hands gripped his hips, guiding him, using him as a conduit to fuck Sasha through him. Every time Ilya thrust forward, Shane was driven deeper into Sasha, and every time Shane pulled back, Ilya followed, keeping him full, keeping him claimed.

Shane was whining constantly now, broken and high-pitched. The sensation was overwhelming — the tight heat of Sasha around his cock, the thick stretch of Ilya inside him, the way every movement rubbed his prostate and dragged his cock against Sasha's walls in perfect, devastating tandem.

"Look at him," Ilya snarled, his hand wrapping around Shane's throat, tilting his head up. "Look at Sasha. Look what you're doing to him."

Shane lifted his head. Sasha's face was wrecked — cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, eyes glassy and wet. He was moaning in long, shattered bursts, his hands clawing at Shane's back, his hips rolling up to meet every thrust.

"Fuck," Sasha breathed, his voice raw. "Fuck. You fuck just like him, Shane "

He tried to reach between them, to wrap a hand around his own cock, but Ilya saw. Ilya lunged forward and grabbed Sasha's wrists, pinning them to the bed above Sasha's head with one hand.

"No," Ilya said, his voice absolute. "My Shane can come untouched. So can you. Come on his cock, Sasha. Show him how good he is."

Sasha sobbed, his body going rigid, his ass clenching down hard around Shane in rhythmic, pulsing waves. "Ilya — fuck — I can't, not without—"

"Come," Ilya ordered.

Sasha came with a scream, his cock jerking against his stomach, spilling thick and white in untouched pulses, his body convulsing beneath them. The feeling of Sasha coming around him — while Ilya was inside him— was too much. Shane's cock jerked, and he spilled deep in Sasha with a cry torn from his chest, his whole-body shuddering through the orgasm.

But Ilya didn't stop.

Shane tried to pull out — his cock was oversensitive, throbbing, too much, and he needed space, needed to breathe, needed to stop. But Ilya's hand clamped down on his hip, fingers digging in brutally, and his other hand shoved between Shane's shoulder blades, driving him forward.

Shane collapsed onto Sasha, chest to chest, and Sasha's legs were pushed back, folded nearly in half by the weight of him. And Sasha's cock — still hard, still leaking, impossibly sensitive — was trapped between their stomachs, crushed against Shane's abs with every movement.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Ilya growled, snapping his hips forward, nailing Shane's prostate with devastating precision. The force of it ground Shane harder against Sasha, dragging their stomachs together, torturing Sasha's trapped cock with friction.

"Ilya, I can't — I can't, it's too much, please " Shane sobbed, tears streaming down his face, his body trembling.

"Earlier was cute," Ilya said against his ear, his hips snapping forward again, again, relentless. "You were both so bratty. So smug. So fucking proud of yourselves whispering to each. But now?" He thrust deep, grinding against Shane's prostate, and Shane wailed, the sound muffled against Sasha's neck. "Now I'll give you both what you fucking need."

He kept fucking them with brutal, devastating precision. Shane was sobbing openly now, his face pressed against Sasha's shoulder, his cock still buried in Sasha's clenching heat, every thrust from Ilya driving him deeper and grinding their stomachs together. Sasha was wailing beneath him, his wrists still pinned by Ilya's hand above his head, his cock trapped and tortured between them, every drag of friction making him thrash.

"Please," Sasha begged, his voice cracked, tears on his own face now. "Ilya, please, my cock, I can't — it's too sensitive, please "

"Take it," Ilya commanded, his free hand gripping Shane's hip, using him like a toy to fuck Sasha through. "Both of you. Take it until I say you're fucking done."

Shane tried to lift his hips, to relieve the pressure on Sasha, but Ilya shoved him back down with a growl. "I said stay. Fold him in half. Make him feel it."

Shane collapsed again, Sasha's knees pressed back toward his shoulders, Sasha's cock grinding between their sweat-slick stomachs with every brutal thrust from behind. The sensation was obliterating — the drag of his oversensitive cock inside Sasha, the brutal press of Ilya against his prostate, the way Sasha was sobbing and clenching and writhing beneath him, trapped and tortured and perfect.

"Come again," Ilya ordered, his voice like thunder. "Both of you. Now. I don't care how sensitive you are. Give it to me."

Shane came with a scream, dry and pulsing and devastating, his body convulsing, his cock jerking inside Sasha with nothing left to give. The pain and pleasure blurred into white heat, and he was dimly aware of Sasha crying out beneath him, another wet spill between their stomachs, Sasha's body shaking apart as his tortured cock was forced to give again.

Ilya groaned, long and guttural, and buried himself deep one final time. Shane felt the heat of it, the pulse, Ilya coming inside him with a shudder that seemed to go on forever, filling him up, marking him, claiming him.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and sweat and cum, Shane still inside Sasha, Ilya still inside Shane, Sasha folded beneath them both with his legs still pushed back, all three of them gasping and trembling and ruined.

For a long moment, there was only breathing.

Then Ilya stirred. He pressed a gentle kiss to Shane's spine, and then — slowly, carefully — he pulled out of Shane. Shane whined at the loss, his hole clenching down on nothing, Ilya's cum already starting to leak out of him. Ilya's hand soothed down his back, warm and grounding.

Then Ilya reached between them, his hand wrapping around the base of Shane's cock where it was still buried in Sasha, and guided him out with the same gentleness. Shane sobbed at the sudden emptiness — both ends, hollowed out and raw — and Sasha made a wounded noise, his legs falling open, his hole fluttering.

"Shh," Ilya murmured, his voice completely changed — all the gravel and command gone, replaced by something soft as velvet. He settled back on his heels and looked at them. His husband and his oldest friend, both completely fucked-out, limp and wrecked and his. Shane's face was streaked with tears and sweat, his mouth swollen, his body still shuddering with aftershocks. Sasha was barely conscious, his lips parted, his cock soft and spent against his stomach, his hole glistening.

Ilya didn't let them stay messy for long.

"Don't move," he whispered.

He climbed off the bed and padded to the bathroom. Shane heard water running, cabinets opening. He couldn't open his eyes. Sasha was breathing against his throat, hot and slow, already half-asleep.

When Ilya returned, he carried a stack of warm, wet cloths in one hand and two bottles of water in the other. He set the water on the nightstand and knelt on the bed between them.

"Shane," Ilya whispered, tipping Shane's chin up with gentle fingers. "Let me."

Shane forced his eyes open. Ilya was there, his usually styled curls were messy and fell into his face but his eyes gentle and fond. He pressed the warm cloth between Shane's legs first, wiping him with careful, reverent strokes — his stomach, his thighs, his soft, spent cock, the mess between his legs. Shane hissed at the tenderness, his hips twitching, and Ilya hushed him, pressing a kiss to his knee.

"Good boy," Ilya murmured. "So good for me. So perfect. Just let me take care of you."

He moved to Sasha next, rolling him onto his back with gentle hands. Sasha protested with a weak whine, his legs falling open, too exhausted to be modest. Ilya cleaned him just as carefully — his stomach, his hips, his thighs, between his legs where Shane's cum had leaked out of him. Sasha's eyes were closed, his face slack, tears still drying on his cheeks. Ilya wiped those away too, his thumb tracing the marks he'd left earlier with infinite gentleness.

"Sashka," Ilya said quietly, in Russian, the words warm. "How are you, beautiful boy?"

He tossed the cloth aside and climbed onto the bed, gathering them both against him. Shane was on one side, Sasha on the other, their heads on his chest, their bodies curled into his warmth. Ilya reached over and grabbed the water bottles, unscrewing one and pressing it to Shane's lips.

"Drink," he commanded, but it was gentle now. "You're shaking. Drink for me, lyubimiy."

Shane sipped, the water was cool and shocking against his raw throat. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Ilya held the bottle steady until Shane turned his head away, then turned to Sasha, tipping the second bottle against his lips.

"Sashka. Water."

Sasha drank obediently, his eyes still closed, his hand coming up to wrap weakly around Ilya's wrist. When he'd had enough, he let his head fall back against Ilya's shoulder with a sigh.

For a long time, they lay like that. Ilya's arms around them both, his heartbeat steady under their ears. The room was quiet except for their breathing, slowly syncing, slowing down.

Then Sasha stirred, his voice fucked-out and lazy, barely a whisper against Ilya's shoulder. "I should shower and go."

Ilya laughed, soft and satisfied, his hand carding through Shane's sweat-damp hair, then Sasha's. "You're such a brat. We both know you're not walking anywhere for a minute."

Shane whined, too fucked-out to move, but he pressed closer to Ilya's warmth. "Could totally walk. Just don't want to right now.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead, then to Sasha's. "Sleep," he whispered. "I've got you both. I'm right here."

Shane closed his eyes, safe, content, and perfectly, completely wrecked, and let himself drift into darkness with Ilya's heartbeat in his ear and Sasha's fingers tangled in his own.

End Notes

yall IDK. I hope yall liked. If the french is bad dont tell me I tried and I think I need to give my certificate of bilingualism back