Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Sexting, Phone Sex, Masturbation, using someone else (marly) to sext each other basically, Canon Divergence, ilya gets a shoulder injury instead of tuna melts, Feminization, (due to the fact that Marleau is under the impression that Jane is a woman), descriptions of m/f sex acts, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, outsider pov, marleau pov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 12 of anincompletelist's kinktober '26

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-12 Words: 3,771 Chapters: 1/1

by proxy

Summary

“I need another favor,” Ilya informs him.

Pushing off the wall, Cliff comes a little closer, stands at attention near the edge of the sofa. “Anything, man. Told you.”

Ilya’s eyes drop to the phone sitting on the cushion between them, the sling on his arm, then back up to Cliff’s face.

“I need you to sext my Jane for me.”

Notes

DAY TWELVE!

today's prompt is PHONE SEX (though technically this is sexting) from the kinktober prompt list.

surprisingly I have two nickels when it comes to marly being a third party that's present for hollanov sex but not directly involved in it, so if that's your thing, feel free to check out this work too if you haven't.

there is a selfie pic of marleau in here (franco lo presti) that is absurdly low quality and heavily edited i just wanted to drop in and say that i don’t care if it’s ass because NO AI WAS USED i used the picsart draw tool as the lord intended (side note that guys thumb is so fucking long??)

ALL CREDIT FOR CSS/HTML/CODING GOES TO miscellaneous_misty here on ao3, you can find their tutorial and all other materials used to create the skin in this work!

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TRY TO SCROLL ON THE PHONES IF IT'S A FULL PAGE OF TEXTS!! THEY SCROLL!!!!! (esp the one with the cliff pic, there are texts beneath it!)

re: the feminization tag

obviously necessary because this is in cliff’s pov and he is under the impression they’re speaking to a woman, so it’ll mostly be she/jane on the page. there is one instance of (what we know is shane) referring to his ‘pussy’ which is a word first used by ilya in the conversation. i don’t personally hc shane as being into feminization but i DO think he would pull out whatever tricks necessary to feel like he’s ‘winning’ in this scenario, and also he gets horny at being a little uncomfortable anyway.

KINKTOBER DISCLAIMER:

thank you for being here and clicking on this work! if you're here, i'm going to assume that you've already checked the tags and any other warnings listed in the notes. if you come across something you don't like in either of those places or within the fic, you do not have to interact with it.

as always, i will do my absolute best to make sure all tags are included and all warnings are clearly stated, which is as far as my obligation goes as the author. that said, i am also chronically ill and currently in a hell of a flare, so feel free to *kindly* bring it to my attention if i've missed something that could use a heads up. this is all just for fun, everything is fictional, and given that this is an explicit work, we are presumably all adults. be kind, be smart, and enjoy <3 happy kinktober!

“Marly,” Ilya calls from the living room for the third time today. 

Cliff loves the guy, seriously. But when he’d volunteered to stay with him for a few days to help with the whole shoulder-injury thing, he’d forgotten to consider what a prima donna the asshole can be. 

“Yeah, Roz?” he yells back, scratching at his stomach while he finds his way out of the lower guest bedroom. 

When he gets to the living room, Ilya’s sprawled out on the sofa the way Cliff left him after lunch an hour ago, one arm still in the sling while the other extends over the back of the cushions. Cliff comes to a stop beside the half wall and crosses his arms to lean against it, and Ilya rolls his head back to rest against his good shoulder with a charming, coy grin. 

“I need another favor,” he informs him. 

Pushing off the wall, Cliff comes a little closer, stands at attention near the edge of the sofa. “Anything, man. Told you.” 

Ilya’s eyes drop to the phone sitting on the cushion between them, then back up to Cliff’s face. 

“I need you to sext my Jane for me.” 

Cliff scoffs. “Okay, now hang on a minute—” 

“You said anything.” 

“Not fuckin’ this, dude! No way in hell I’m getting trapped in the middle of this weird sex shit with the girl you’ve been on and off with since rookie year. When she’s mad at you, you take that shit out on us. I ain’t the sharpest tool, but I’m not that fuckin’ dumb.” 

Ilya flings his head back dramatically and rolls his eyes, as if Cliff has said something insane. “It would not be a secret. She would know you were the one typing.” 

“And what the hell am I typing, exactly?” Cliff asks, coming to sit on the arm of the sofa with a scowl. 

“Whatever I tell you to type.” 

“And what are you gonna be doing during all a’this?” 

Ilya grins. “Jerking off.” 

Dragging a hand through his hair, Cliff closes his eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, Roz.” 

“What? Nothing you have not seen before.” 

“Yeah, when there’s a girl in the room.” 

“This one is on the phone,” Ilya says, and pats it pragmatically with his good hand. “Not that much different.” 

When Cliff doesn’t immediately give in, he grabs it and waves it in the air, then uses it to gesture toward his sling and, unceremoniously, the half-chub beginning to tent his sweatpants. 

“Come on, Marly. You are always saying you want to know more about her,” he reasons. “Please? It has been so long. I am so horny. I cannot keep going like this. It is inhumane.” 

“Uh huh. I bet,” Cliff drawls. He arches a brow. “There a reason you can’t just get somebody from the Boston roster to come and suck your dick instead?” 

At this, Ilya sniffs and glances at a string he’s pulling at on his pants. “They are getting boring.” 

“Damn,” Cliff smirks. “Jane runs a tight fuckin’ ship, huh?” 

Wearing a similar expression, Ilya hums out, “She will not like if you say that to her.” 

Cliff debates the pros and cons of it in his head. There’s not really much in it for him—he thinks Roz might actually try and kill him if he got off to anything remotely Jane-related, but on the other hand… he does like the idea of being trusted with insider info about something that’s been a mega secret around the locker room for the last, fuck. Seven years? Eight? Almost a fucking decade. 

He blows out a breath and reaches for Roz’s phone, dropping to sit on the couch properly. “Fine. But I’m not doing a thing until she knows what’s up.” 

Ilya nods quickly. “Fine. Yes. Good.” 

“Any ground rules?” 

He pauses to think about this one and Cliff picks up the phone, hot in his hand. Roz must’ve been going through it before he’d called him in here. 

“You will not see her face. Or her voice. No pictures from her, no phone calls. If she tries, do not pick up.” 

“Got it.” 

“And one more rule,” Ilya posits, “do not scroll up in our texts.” 

Cliff snorts. Pretty sure the death penalty would still apply to accidentally seeing one of Jane’s nudes. “No problem there, my man.” 

He opens the phone using Roz’s passcode and clicks into Jane’s thread, staring at the blinking placeholder in the text box. 

“How should I start?” 

Ilya, who is already working his good hand under the band of his sweats, says, “She is regular woman, Marly. Just talk.” 

Cliff takes a moment to think about this practically. He automatically has a lot of respect for this woman, for all the shit she’s undoubtedly put up with from Roz for years. In any other circumstance he’d be, like, shaking her hand and kissing her knuckles and shit, but he can’t do that through a phone, and he’s pretty sure this genre of conversation doesn’t start like that either. 

Then again, this is also different than Cliff’s own sexting. He doesn’t wanna come off too strong and sound like an asshole; even if he has a pretty strong feeling that that may be exactly Jane’s type. 

He types out an introduction and clicks send before he can think better of it, and the little whooshing sound comes from the phone when it delivers. 

“What did you say?” Ilya asks. 

“Uh. ‘Hey, Jane. It’s Cliff Marleau.’” Roz mumbles something in Russian, and Cliff says, “Oi! I’m easing her into it, alright?” 

“Do not do that. She does not like wasting time. She likes things very—hm, blunt.”  

Cliff huffs. “Fuck. Fine.” 

 

“She answered?” 

“She’s worried about you,” Cliff confirms. “Askin’ if you’re okay.” 

With a lovesick sigh, Ilya’s eyes flutter, a grin on his face as he rubs himself in his lap. “My Jane is so sweet, Marly.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Now I gotta go and ruin it.” 

“She will like this,” Ilya assures, “she just does not know it yet.” 

Shaking his head at him, Cliff looks back to the phone and starts typing again. 

 

The phone in his hand starts to ring, Jane’s name popping up big on the screen. Cliff narrowly avoids fumbling it, pressing hard on the decline button. Another text comes through almost immediately. 

 

 

“She’s calling again.” 

“So decline again,” Roz says. 

 

 

“What is she saying?” 

“I’m waitin’ on a response.” 

Ilya nods, steeling himself. “Yes. We must be patient with her. She does not like sharing me.” 

“I’m not sharing shit with you, man,” Cliff scoffs. “This is all you two.” 

 

Leave it to Roz’s girl to start shit with a bang, Cliff figures. The surprise must show on his face, because Ilya is nudging an elbow in the air toward him, trying to get his attention. 

“What? What did she say?” 

“This is so not a good idea, Roz. Maybe—” 

“Marly. Say it.” 

“Fine. She said, ‘I’ve always thought you were hot.’” 

Ilya’s eyes roll. “Brat.” 

“The fuck d’you want me to say to that?” Cliff asks. 

“How do you usually respond when people say this?” 

“Uh. Thank you?” 

He juts his chin in the affirmative. “Say that, then.” 

 

 

“Fuck,” Cliff blows out. “She says she’s been doing it since I, uh.” 

“Since what, Marly?” 

“Since I sent the photo of me.” 

 

“She said you should tell me about her while you touch yourself.” 

Ilya’s head rolls back against the couch again with a grin. “Of course she did. Mm, where should I start…” 

In Cliff’s peripherals, Ilya’s hand has stopped idly rubbing at himself and is now moving in a lazy up and down, no real rhythm, but Cliff can tell he’s fully hard now. The shit Roz gets him to do, he thinks exasperatedly, but the phone stays in his hand. 

“My favorite thing, I think, is that she is so good.” 

“Like, as a person, or—?” Cliff asks. 

Ilya peels one crinkling eye open to smile at him, his expression softer now. “Yes, as a person. But also so good for me. Like she is made for me, sometimes, I think,” he admits with a sigh. “She does not think this. She likes what we do because it is like—wrong, in a way. Bad. She thinks that she is, sometimes. That we are. That the sex is like… punishment for this. But really, Marly, she is so good—she is the best.” 

He tries to fight it, but Roz’s fondness is contagious. “Sounds like you know how to pick ‘em, Roz.” 

 

 

“What are you typing,” Ilya peeks over, nosy. 

“The stuff you just said…?” 

“No. Don’t send that.” 

Cliff chuckles. “She wants to know what you’re talking about, man.” 

Ilya smirks, opening his mouth. 

 

 

“No,” Ilya denies. He spreads his legs a little wider, feet propped on the coffee table in front of him, and the movement of his fist gets a little more indulgent. “Tell her it is her turn to talk about me now. Then we will see about specifics.” 

 

“Uh. Any chance you’ve mentioned the Paris stuff to your girl, Roz?” Cliff hedges. 

Ilya doesn’t falter necessarily, but his eyes flick over to phone. “What did you say to her?” 

“Nothing. Seriously, nothing. She’s just—picks up on shit. I don’t know.” 

“Yes, Jane is very smart,” Ilya brags. His mouth twitches. “You can tell her, if she asks.” 

Cliff raises a brow. “You sure about that?” 

 

 

“None of them,” Ilya breathes, stroking himself faster. “Not fucking one.” 

Cliff types out the response, brain scrambling to piece together some sort of vision of what Jane must be like. There was never a type they went for when they picked up women together. Blondes, brunettes, whatever—even the times when Cliff went through phases, Ilya always managed to find something to appreciate about everyone. He’d hone in on that and tinker it out, tease it until it was obsessed with him, use it to fuel a hell of a night before the flame finally sizzled out come morning. 

He means it that it’s been less these days, though. Not in any way that anybody else would pick up on from the outside, Cliff thinks, but as close as Cliff is to him, it’s hard not to notice some things, sharing hotel rooms and locker rooms and, for the last several days, Ilya’s house. 

“Ask if—if she is using fingers or a toy,” Roz rasps. 

“Fuck, man,” Cliff mutters, even as his fingers are already obeying. 

 

 

Cliff waits while the typing bubble pulses, underscored by the sound of Ilya pulling his hand out of his pants long enough to spit lewdly into his palm before he shoves it under again. 

 

 

Cliff’s throat clicks when he swallows. He glances up to see if Ilya’s waiting for a response, but he seems to be lost in the sensation of his hand, slicker now with the added spit as he shifts his hips up into the pressure, his eyes closed. 

 

 

When Cliff looks up from the phone again, Ilya’s face is a little flushed, his mouth split around steep, sharp breaths. He licks over his lips, the sound of him fucking his own fist audible and echoey in the cavern of his living room as he moans. 

“Marly,” he pants, “ask her if—” 

 

 

There’s a pause. 

 

 

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, low and long. “Tell her—tell her she’s a good girl, Marly. My good fucking girl.” 

“Shit, Roz,” Cliff breathes, shifting on the cushion. 

 

 

On the sofa, Roz’s face has hardened to a focused point, jaw clenched and brows furrowed, nostrils flared as he strips himself quick and hard in his pants. He groans when Cliff reads out the latest messages, his resolve weakening more and more until he nods sharply at Cliff and says gruffly—

“Now, Marly. Tell her she can come now.” 

With stumbling fingers of his own, Cliff types it out and sends it, the phone hot in his perspirating palm. His own cock is hard in his pants but he doesn’t dare move, caught in the weirdest fucking limbo he’s ever been in before as Roz comes apart in his fist on the couch in front of him and Jane, presumably, has an orgasm somewhere in a Montreal public bathroom with her underwear stuffed inside of her mouth and her fingers in her—well. Cliff should work at banishing the thought now, he figures. Before it festers. 

Ilya’s breath stutters as he works himself through it, white strings of his come staining his bare lower stomach, clinging to the hair underneath his navel. Cliff clears his throat and turns his head to give him some privacy, looking to see if Jane has said anything else. 

 

 

Cliff’s brows pull together, his brain coming back online enough to be momentarily confused by that response. 

‘I know’ like Roz has told her he’s secretly a big softie? Or ‘I know’ to the fact that he’s bigger in person? Like—? 

“Give,” Ilya says after he’s wiped his hand off on the outside of his sweats, chest still heaving as he wiggles his fingers for his phone. Cliff peels his own off of it to hand it back. 

“Gross, man.” 

Ilya ignores him in favor of hastily typing something out in the message box, and with one last whoosh, he locks the phone and sets it face down on the sofa by his thigh. 

“You are—the best, Cliff. Marly. Clifford.” 

“Thought you said your girl held that title, Rozzy.” 

That fond smile returns, and despite it being an absurd fucking day, Cliff is actually really happy for him. “Second best,” Ilya amends. “Thank you.” 

“Uh huh,” Cliff mutters, taking the chance to stand up when Ilya leans forward to grab tissues off the coffee table. Heading back down the hallway, he calls, “She wants you to call her later, by the way. You owe me, man!” 

“Anything,” Ilya promises. The pinging sound of an incoming text follows him to the bedroom. 

Once inside, Cliff shuts the door behind himself as quietly as possible, then shoves a hand into his own pants to get some relief. With a hand around his cock, he thinks, Roz is one lucky bastard. 

Cliff comes in minutes, the moan muffled into his fist. He will take it to the fucking grave.