Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Magical Pussy Acquisition, Dacryphilia, Vaginal Fingering, Coming in Pants, literally just guys being dudes, Hair-pulling, Come Eating, Vaginal Sex, Biting, Masochist Cliff Marleau, Crying During Sex, Ilya Rozanov Has a Vagina, Cliff Marleau Has a Vagina in ch2

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Shane Hollander and the Magical Pussy Curse

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-19 Completed: 2026-07-24 Words: 5,917 Chapters: 2/2

Help A Bro Out

Summary

Ilya wakes up after a particularly brutal game a little different. What is his good bro Cliff to do but help him out?

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Well, well, well. This is not my intended ilyapussy sequel, but I read this post by Cuppy and couldn't get the thought out of my head so this ended up jumping the queue of the literal *five* other magic pussy fics I have planned now. So. This one's for you Nick.

This is NOT a sequel to you've got my body, flesh and bone, and is set earlier in the HR timeline, but that will remain fic 1 in this series as it sets up the world. You don't need to read that to enjoy this, but it's hot as hell so I recommend it anyway. This will stay fic 2 as it’ll be mentioned in the actual sequel to you’ve got my body, which should hopefully be out in a couple weeks now that I've got this done and feel like I have a better direction. The series name is too funny for me to change despite Shane only being mentioned in this one.

Sleep Token subtitle for this fic is A Taste of the Divine, from The Summoning.

Okay enough rambling, let's get to bros being bros.

Edmonton, Alberta - February 2011

Ilya wakes and knows immediately something is off. His alarm isn’t what woke him, and there’s barely any light filtering in through the crack he’d left in the curtains on purpose. The little clock on the table between him and Cliff Marleau reads just after six in the morning. He’d been dreaming of smoldering brown eyes and pillowy, pouty lips around the head of his cock, and he’s annoyed to be ripped from the dream. 

That’s probably what he needs to feel normal again—to slip into the bathroom and turn the fan on and jerk off thinking about how it’s been three weeks since his flight to Montreal was canceled and he’s spent nearly every waking moment wishing he was inside of Shane Hollander. Not that he’s playing ball with any of Ilya’s horny text messages anyway, but there’s a new Reebok campaign out showcasing his sweaty thighs and calves while he runs and trains and climbs stairs in his silly sneakers that Ilya can definitely use. He shoves his hand down into the sweatpants he fell asleep in and—oh. Well that explains it. 

His fingers meet the soaked lips of his new pussy. There’s a short thatch of curly hair, denser than the hair which had surrounded the base of his cock just last night. Ilya tosses his head back and breathes out an exhilarated laugh. He thought this wouldn’t happen to him—there’s a rumor going around that the curse disproportionately affects the North American players (something about the water table or heavy metals or aerosolized drugs or something) and the further east you went the less likely you were to ever have it—but he’d secretly wanted it since he’d heard about it the first time. His grin stretches so wide it aches. 

Cliff, who’s a much lighter sleeper than he should be for the type of beefcake he is, stirs in the next bed. “Roz, you alright?”

He sounds like he’s only about fifteen percent awake. Ilya should tell him to roll over and sleep, but he’s too excited. He’s already rubbing through the folds of his cunt with two spread fingers, trying to muster the wisdom to wait to get to the bathroom to finger-fuck himself instead of doing it right here in front of God and Cliff Marleau. 

“My cock is gone.”

Like some sort of activation phrase, Marleau sits bolt upright. “No fucking way, man.”

“Mm, yes.”

“Shit, I guess you did take a pretty hard hit during the second, that might’ve been enough to do it. Are you wet?”

Invitation enough, Ilya slides the two fingers he’d been rubbing the lips of his cunt with into the heat at his core and scissors them, immediately filling the silent hotel room with obscene, wet sounds. 

“O-oh fuck.” Cliff swallows loudly across the room. “Can I see it?”

Ilya chuckles, low and throaty. “You want to see my pussy? Pervert.”

“Fuck you, of course I do! You know I’d let you look at mine.”

He pretends to think about it. “Okay, turn the light on.”

The lamp clicks on with a sharp snap. Before Ilya can blink his eyes back into focus, a weight settles at the edge of his bed. When he tosses the covers to one side with the hand not still shoved down his pants, the wet sounds of him fingering himself grow louder, and louder still when Cliff grips the bottom of Ilya’s sweats and yanks. Cool air hits burning skin and Ilya hisses in displeasure until he sees Cliff. He’s shirtless, pantless, and already tenting his boxers as he waits on all fours near Ilya’s feet. The warm glow from the lamp makes his eyes look all pupil—black pits Ilya would not escape if he fell into. He looks starving, like a predator about to strike. Like Ilya fears he looks at Hollander sometimes. 

Ilya slides his fingers out and brings them to his lips, closing his legs. He’s always wanted to know what his cunt tastes like. Cliff sucks in a quick breath and Ilya locks eyes with him again. This… wasn’t meant to be some kind of show, none of this was, but the tent in Cliff’s boxers is more host-a-wedding-beneath-it than solo-camping, so he might as well play it up. 

“Dude, stop being weird. Just show me.”

“I’m being weird?“ Ilya scoffs, but drops his hand and spreads his legs open anyway. 

There’s something simple about being naked in front of Cliff. They’ve showered and peacocked and snapped enough towels at each other in the locker room to have gotten full views of everything in the past, and it’s easy to think of this like that. As long as he doesn’t look at Cliff’s eyes, see the intensity burning in them. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Cliff says after a moment so long Ilya props up on his elbows to make sure he’s still awake. His eyes, when Ilya catches them, look somehow even more blown out. “You haven’t had it before?”

“No, first time. Doesn’t happen too often in Russia.”

“Jesus, Roz, it’s like, perfect. The best pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Ilya spreads his legs a little wider, preening. Cliff swallows loudly again when Ilya brings his fingers back down to spread his lips. 

“You flatter me, Marley.”

Another stretch of silence. Ilya stares at Cliff, laser-focused on Ilya’s crotch and breathing heavily. His tongue coats his lips almost methodically. 

“Can I?”

Now it’s Ilya’s turn to pause. “Can you… what?”

“Eat it.”

Being bisexual in a contact sport as intense as hockey has its pros and cons. The toxic masculinity of the players coupled with the inherent homoeroticism of team sports can usually be both—teammates are unwilling to perform any act they see as “gay,” but the definition of “straight” is much, much broader than it would likely be otherwise. The pussy curse falls into this gray area, where as long as no one says a word or thinks too hard about it, it’s considered a bro move to “help out”a teammate who wakes up with a virgin-tight, plush cunt. Cliff embodies this truth to an extreme, to the point where he’s gained a reputation. Ilya’s seen more than once in his short time as a Raider how a player will sheepishly walk up to Cliff and mutter something in his ear. When they come back from wherever they disappear to, he’s got a new pep in his step and the other player can barely walk straight. 

Ilya’s sure if he had more than two or three brain cells active at any given moment he could think about why he’s so intensely eager to stick his tongue in his teammates (even if it’s only under a particular set of circumstances) and come away with a realization that would alter his life forever, but who is he to rain on Cliff’s parade? Especially if it means he can feel what it’s like to get eaten out without even having to ask. 

Cliff starts rambling, clearly desperate. “I mean, it goes away after you sleep if you come enough, right? We do this now, you sleep on the plane, you’ll probably be back to normal by the time we land in Boston. Top shape for this game against Chicago... Fuck.  I’ll beg if I have to, man, but I’d rather not.”

Ilya’s mouth drops open for just a second. This is the greatest day of his life, probably. 

“Oh, now I have to hear you beg. Just a little.”

Cliff looks up at the ceiling, away from Ilya’s cunt for the first time since he saw it, like he regrets saying anything at all. For a second Ilya thinks he won’t do it, won’t debase himself in front of the man who will soon be his captain. He opens his mouth to tell Cliff he doesn’t have to and—

“You have to let me. I wasn’t kidding, you have literally the best pussy I’ve ever seen. So fucking pretty and soaked. It will actually kill me if you don’t let me eat it, Roz. Please. F-fuck, please.”

It comes out all in one breath, and Ilya’s mouth goes dry. Marley doesn’t talk like that ever. Not seriously. Yet here he is, literally on his hands and knees at Ilya’s feet, begging. Ilya doesn’t respond, just hooks his foot around Cliff’s bicep and pulls him in. 

Cliff needs no further instruction. He slides further up the bed and hikes Ilya’s leg up over his shoulder, digging his fingers into the meat of Ilya’s thighs to spread his legs further apart. 

Ilya wonders if this is what it’s like getting mauled by a bear. He knows, somewhere, that Cliff is larger than he is, that he’d be a full time grinder crushing bodies into the boards if his scoring stat wasn’t so high, but he’s never really had a chance to feel that until this moment, with these massive hands crushing his thighs down into the bed. There’s a surprising tenderness in the first touch of his tongue to the heat between Ilya’s legs, the flat, wide slide all the way up to his clit. Holy shit, his clit. Is this what it feels like when he does this to Sveta? To his hookups in Boston? His hips jolt involuntarily, and he realizes the point of being pinned down when he just shoves his clit harder onto Cliff’s tongue. Cliff moans, and the vibration travels into the very core of Ilya’s being. His stubble scratches Ilya’s sensitive skin, but he couldn’t care less. He’s gotten his dick sucked more times than he can count, and even had a few girls rim him, but this is like nothing he’s ever experienced. If this was someone blowing him, he’d be trying to translate the most complicated Russian words he could think of into English in his head to keep from blowing his load immediately. Frankly, he’s thrilled he doesn’t have to. As his orgasm builds like a roaring tidal wave, Ilya does nothing more than give in. Never mind that it’s still barely after six in the morning on a weekday, he throws his head back and moans as his toes curl and his thighs quake through the aftershocks of his pussy’s first orgasm.

“Holy fuck, Roz,” Cliff pants from between his legs. “That was perfect. It felt good?”

The lower half of Cliff’s face is soaked, and if Ilya hadn’t been with him all day yesterday he’d have sworn Cliff was high as a kite. His teammate still has a predator’s gaze.

“Yes, fuck. Need to do it again.”

“Can I use my fingers? Goes faster that way.”

“Yes, fuck! Why even ask?”

Cliff shrugs, shifts his position so he’s crouched between Ilya’s legs, no longer pinning him down. There’s a dark precum stain in his gray boxers. “Some guys only want the tongue. Same thing as not wanting it in your ass, I guess. But,” he grins, leaning back down and tracing a massive digit down the center of Ilya’s cunt, “you can come multiple times in a row if I hit your G-spot too. Kick me if you want me to stop, yeah?”

Before Ilya can try to respond, Cliff’s finger is inside him, crooked at a sharp angle that makes Ilya’s head a little fuzzy. He feels a little like he has to pee, but mostly he feels like when Cliff puts his tongue back on his clit he’s going to come so hard he’ll need to get carried to the bus.

That’s not not what happens. Through eyes he can barely keep open, Ilya watches Cliff lick his lips and fasten his mouth to Ilya’s clit and suck with everything he has. Ilya’s head hits the pillow so hard it tweaks his neck and he swears loudly in Russian. He feels Cliff grin against his skin as he easily slides a second, then a third finger inside him. Christ, he’s made fun of Hollander for leaking like a faucet, but here he is, absolutely soaking Cliff’s hand.

It doesn’t take long for him to come again. Then a third time. 

“Heh, hat trick,” Cliff murmurs. 

“Shut the fuck up, Marley.”

“Yeah, yeah. You got one more for me, Roz?”

Ilya nods. If he’s honest, he could probably keep coming until he passes out, but neither of them has an infinite supply of stamina, and Chicago promises to be a difficult opponent. They both need to cool it.

“You could fuck me,” Ilya offers. “I don’t mind.”

Cliff looks up at him, swallows hard. There’s something going on in his head, but his expression is completely unreadable. He looks down again, curls his fingers hard enough to make Ilya’s hips jump.

“One more like this. Then… yeah.”

Cliff goes in with everything he has. Ilya briefly wonders if Cliff’s trying to wear him out so he doesn’t have to put out, but with the amount of moaning and grinding his hips into the bed at Ilya’s feet Cliff’s done, he pushes the thought aside. If he comes like this and while fucking, that’s five. Cliff would never let him forget that. 

It takes longer to work up to the edge, but Ilya’s breath starts to go ragged. He tangles his fingers into Cliff’s hair, pushing him harder on his clit. Cliff’s hair is damp with sweat but has no product, and is shockingly soft. It reminds him of his dream from earlier, of other hair he’s grabbed to shove between his legs.

Cliff uncurls his fourth finger, stretching him wide to accommodate and cramming even more of his enormous hand against Ilya’s G-spot. When he sinks his fucking teeth into Ilya’s clit, he comes with a strangled cry, and violently grips Cliff’s hair, yanking hard. Cliff grunts and his body convulses.

“Fuck, Hollander!”

By the time Ilya returns to his body, Cliff is sitting up on his knees on the bed. Ilya props himself up, realizes there’s no chance he’ll be getting fucked now. The damp patch on Cliff’s boxers is now much larger and absolutely soaked through.

“Did you just say Hollander? Like—like Shane Hollander?”

“No. Did you just come all over my fucking bed because I pulled your hair?”

Cliff’s lip curls, just enough for Ilya to know he shouldn’t have said anything. But maybe Cliff should have kept his mouth shut, too. There’s a long, long stretch of eye contact. Ilya raises his brows expectantly.

“No.”

“Okay. Go shower. We can be early to bus for once.”

Cliff stands on shaking legs and locks himself in the bathroom. The shower starts up and Ilya falls flat on his back, careful to avoid the multiple large wet areas on the bed. He reaches down one last time and swipes two fingers through the mess of his cunt. His entire body jolts when he touches his clit, telling him swiftly he should pull his pants up and finish packing his duffel. He crams the soaked digits into his mouth and rolls to the edge of the bed.

When Cliff comes out of the bathroom, towel tight around his waist and hair neatly combed back in place, Ilya is fully dressed and sitting on Cliff’s bed. No way he’s getting on his again.

“Marley.”

“Yeah?”

“Was very good. Thank you.” Cliff drops his towel, tugs up clean boxers and some jeans. “You are embarrassed.”

Cliff cuts him a glance, pulling a tank top from his open suitcase. “I’m not—I’m mad I couldn’t get to five.”

“I will not say anything.”

“Yeah, I know. Me either. Did you actually say Hollander? Your thighs were so tight around my head I could barely tell.”

“It was Russian.”

Cliff doesn’t look like he believes him, but lets it go. As meager sunlight starts to spill through the curtains, the pair head downstairs to perform unholy acts upon the breakfast buffet. Ilya could eat a bear.

“Besides,” Ilya says as they step into the elevator, “next time I have pussy you can try to beat your record.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! I love and cherish all comments I receive. Two of the upcoming fics in this universe are based on comments I got on the last story, so please don't hesitate to share all your thoughts and who knows, perhaps your idea will come to life in like two years when my brain lets me finish this series.

Or come chat with me on tumblr if you'd prefer!

(I'm leaving this as one chapter for now but there may be a cliffpussy chapter eventually where Ilya uses this new information for evil if people are interested!) yeah “may be” was a fucking lie lol see yall soon for cliffpussy

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

January 2017. Roz is in the worst funk Cliff has ever seen, and he has just the thing to help him out.

Chapter Notes

New tags for ch2! This chapter also does directly mention you’ve got my body, flesh and bone since it’s now after that in the timeline. Take a moment to enjoy some shanepussy before this chapter if you haven’t given that one a try yet.

For proper immersion in the time period, I recommend listening to ANTI by Rihanna in its entirety while reading.

Detroit, Michigan - January 2017

“Switch rooms with me,” Cliff says when St-Simon opens the door. The shower is running, Victor’s roommate unable to hear them. 

St-Simon’s face immediately scrunches up in confusion. “You actually want to be here?”

“Not really, but I think I have something that’ll cheer him up.”

St-Simon shrugs and zips up the bag he hasn’t gotten a chance to unpack, taking the key held in Cliff’s hand to a room down the hall. 

“Your funeral,” he says, and books it as fast as he can to the safety of a night with Johansson before Cliff can change his mind. 

Cliff tosses his duffel on the bed, unpacks a few things until the shower shuts off. Roz is blaring the same fucking Rihanna album he’s been playing for weeks now, asking his reflection if they told him he was a savage. He drops the bag on the floor and waits on the end of the bed until the bathroom door opens. 

Cap has moods—that’s the sentiment passed around in the locker room. Everyone knows, everyone understands. Sometimes Ilya is prickly and sometimes he’s goofy and sometimes he’s sarcastic and sometimes he’s kind. One of the rookies called him a Sour Patch Kid a few years ago and Cliff and Connors still nudge each other about it after a particularly harsh practice followed by dinner for the whole team paid for by their captain. 

But the past two months have been different.

Ilya steps out of the bathroom fully clothed. He and Victor aren’t as close, they don’t get naked in front of each other outside of the locker room, even if it’s just a few seconds to change clothes. He looks at the door, confused, before looking back to Cliff. 

“What’s up with you man?” Cliff asks. No point waiting or beating around the bush. 

Ilya immediately looks defensive. “Nothing is ‘up.’ Why are you here?”

“Because you’ve been on the warpath for two months, and it’s only gotten worse since Montreal.”

Cliff doesn’t like to think about that night. Roz demanding to go out, then disappearing and running the team so hard in practice once they got back to Boston that coach told him off. 

“I have n—“

“You’re making bullshit calls, you’re missing passes and shots that you would never miss otherwise, you’re being too aggressive and getting the rest of us fucked up by goons, you’re screaming at the rookies during practice, at the rest of us during games, and coach is so fucking fed up with it that as your Alternate it has to be me to step in and say something so he doesn’t put his foot up your ass and I don’t like having to do this."

Ilya opens his mouth to say something. He’s pissed. It’s working.

“Do you have any idea how brutal that hit I took for you yesterday in Ottawa was? If you hadn’t managed to pull your head out of your ass and score I’d wish you’d taken it. 

“You’re mad about something, and it’s not hockey. You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. No one gives a fuck anyway. But you’ve gotta work off some steam.” Here goes nothing. “And I have just the thing.”

“And what could that possibly be.”

“Winning at something. I made you come four times when you had it, can you do better?”

They haven’t talked about it once in six years. Despite helping each other take better nudes and a threesome after their cup win, neither has ever brought up the morning Ilya came four times on Cliff’s tongue and Cliff came all over himself just by humping the bed and getting his hair pulled on. 

Not that Cliff hasn’t thought about it. He wasn’t lying when he said Roz had the best pussy he’s ever seen, and that truth has stood the test of time. Dozens of girls, half a dozen other teammates, and still when he needs to make it quick he’s back in that hotel room in Edmonton. 

Cliff also thinks about that night because of what else it did to him. When Ilya pulled his hair so hard his scalp stung for a day and a half afterwards it unlocked a part of his brain he didn’t know he had. It didn’t change a lot—he’s still not gay, obviously—but now when he’s with girls he’s only really satisfied when they pull his hair or leave stinging red lines down his back with their nails. One girl on vacation in Belize bit his nipple while riding him and he came so brutally he thought he’d gone blind. When he slips back into memories of that night, the electric shock of Ilya’s fingers in his hair is always the most vivid part of it all. 

So when he woke up this morning with the curse, with his cunt dripping and an ache in his ribs from the massive enforcer’s bruise, all he could think of was Roz’s fingers and a way to snap him out of his funk. And if he doesn’t want to play ball? Cliff’s got a girl in Corktown with a fat strap and a love for slapping only a text away. 

Fortunately, Roz bullies his way between Cliff’s legs, laying them down on the bed so his hands frame Cliff’s torso where he’s propped on his elbows, a knee crammed up against his pussy. He looks hungry. 

There’s one thing about that night that Cliff actually tries not to think about. Something he tried not to connect to Ilya’s mood starting after a game against Montreal, and getting worse after another game against Montreal. At first he genuinely thought Roz had some kind of crush on Rose Landry, and now he forces himself to believe it. Everyone likes to chirp at meathead dumbass Cliff Marleau, but while he may not catch on to things immediately, he’s not stupid. 

Fuck, Hollander!

“Your Montreal girl called things off, didn’t she? The wild one. You can treat me like you treat her. If it helps.”

Ilya’s fiery expression turns to ice, and Cliff’s blood goes cold. He grabs Cliff by the chin, pinching hard and digging his nails in. Cliff’s hips twitch involuntarily, betraying him. 

“No. You do not talk about her. You want me to be mean to you, to pull your hair or whatever, you use your words and tell me like a fucking adult and I’ll do it. Do not bring her into this and try to rile me up.”

“Okay. Sorry, man.”

Ilya drops Cliff’s chin, takes a deep breath in. “Take your clothes off.”

Cliff pulls his Raiders tee over his head while Ilya grabs at Cliff’s waist and tugs down his joggers and boxers, depositing them on the floor next to them.

“Ouch,” mutters Ilya, running gentle fingers over the large purple blotch on Cliff’s ribs. “Harder hit than it looked.”

They maintain a long stretch of eye contract while Ilya keeps dusting his fingertips across Cliff’s skin. It takes longer than it should for Cliff to realize that Roz wasn’t joking earlier. If he wants rough, he’s got to ask for rough. 

“Harder.” 

Ilya’s gaze drops to the bruise, a wide grin splitting his lips the moment his fingers claw into the center of the purple flesh and Cliff sucks in an angry breath through his teeth. 

“Fuck, that hurts.”

“I’ll stop if you want, but you are soaking wet,” Ilya says, knocking Cliff’s thighs open with his other hand. 

The pain blooms across Cliff’s side as Ilya grips and pinches his aching skin. There’s a distinct moment in each touch where the pain slips to the back burner and all he feels is a mellow ache like after a good, hard practice, where his teeth unclench and the grimace becomes a moan. Roz (of course, the asshole) has a preternatural ability to know the exact moment this begins so he can switch to a different area, spiking the pulsing pain once more. It’s only after what feels like about six centuries of this that he finally remembers Cliff’s cunt, dipping his thumb into the heat pooled between his legs and using the slick to massage his clit. 

Cliff comes too fast. Embarrassingly fast. His head practically spins with the commingled pain and pleasure of the throb of his cunt and the throb of the bruise, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He’s familiar with the rhythm of his body in this state—when he was younger he got it every November five years in a row—but this is the first time he’s come from pain, too. It’s mind-numbing. 

Roz watches like a tiger, silent and contemplating what piece of him to eat first. 

“You want fingers?”

“You can do anything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Your fingers or your mouth or you can fuck me, I don’t care.”

“But I could kiss you? Put it in your ass? Make you suck my dick until you choke and cry?”

Cliff hesitates. He trusts Ilya, and probably would let him do all that if he really, really wanted it in exchange for getting him off, but that all seems a stroke too far for helping your bro get rid of the curse. 

“So don’t say anything. And don’t say I can treat you like her.”

Christ, Hollander, Cliff thinks. And then he remembers Hollander in the Raiders locker room. Come to think of it, he was a champion cocksucker. Come to think of it, he didn’t seem to put up as much of a fight as Cliff himself would have when Victor wanted to fuck his ass. Come to think of it, Roz had walked around like nothing in the world could bother him for a week after that night. He wonders what happened between them after Ilya left to take Hollander back to his hotel. If they’d even gone back. 

In the real world, Ilya peels off his tank top and sweatpants, crawls between Cliff’s legs. There’s a smaller bruise, mostly healed from a game last week against Buffalo, on the back of Cliff’s thigh, visible only when Ilya pushes Cliff’s knees up. He grinds the knuckle of his thumb in deep, and leans down to taste.

When they’d fucked that girl together in Boston, Ilya had made her come so hard with just his tongue that her eyes rolled back in her head. Cliff finally understands. The anchor of Roz’s knuckle against his bruise cuts through the rising pleasure a little, but he can already tell he’s going to come too soon again. It’s a fatal blow when two fingers slip in and fuck deep into his cunt. 

“One more with fingers, then I fuck you. It’s too bad your hair isn’t longer, so I could fuck you from behind and pull it. Oh well.”

The image alone sends a bolt straight down Cliff’s spine. Roz slips in a third finger, using his thumb to massage everything but Cliff’s clit. The pleasure builds up slower, but it’s barely ebbed since they started so it’s not long before Cliff starts to gasp. 

He’d be embarrassed about how quick he’s coming if he didn’t know this was always how it went when he had a cunt. When he was younger, Cliff’s record was ten orgasms before he went to bed after waking up with it, five or more of them (the whole day after that is a blur) straight in a row until his hand cramped up so bad he was worried he’d need his roommate to drive him to urgent care, or worse, the team doctor. He knows Ilya won’t say anything, that he’s happy to make it happen as many times as Cliff’s body is willing to put out. 

“Can I bite?”

“Fuck, yes,” groans Cliff. 

And he does. Right at the moment he crests his third orgasm, Roz sinks his teeth into the flesh of Cliff’s thigh, less than two inches from his cunt. 

“Oh, fuuuuu—“

The air is punched from him. His vision goes white at the edges. His toes curl. Someone could be telling him he just won the lottery and he’d have no way to hear it over the ringing in his ears. 

“Fuck me, man, holy shit.”

Roz grins against his skin, tracing his tongue through each divot left by his teeth. He kisses the untouched, spit-soaked center of the bite before sitting up. 

“Condoms?” Roz asks down the end of a very long tunnel. 

“Front pocket of my bag.”

It’s a poisonous thought—did Hollander let you bite him like that? A thought Cliff shouldn’t voice. He feels the pained throb of the bite mark, something that will be visible for days, that he’ll get chirped at about until the inevitable bruise turns yellow, and thinks with a bizarre sense of pride that no, Hollander wouldn’t let Roz do that to him. 

Ilya is back between his legs, tearing open the condom wrapper. There’s a look on his face—like he wants to ask Cliff what he’s thinking about—but he doesn’t say anything, and Cliff is grateful. He’s not sure he’d be able to lie, and the last thing he wants to do is piss Roz off so much he stops rolling the condom over his fat cock. That he goes and bangs on Victor and Nils’ door and demands they take Cliff back and then tells coach to boot him to second line, or even to trade him to some shit hole like Toronto or Ottawa or god forbid Anaheim. 

He manages to hold his tongue as Roz lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock up the length of Cliff’s cunt. He sucks in a breath when Roz presses the tip to his clit and grinds his hips in a circle. 

Cliff’s not gay, but everyone has played “If You Had To Pick A Dude” and—well. Cliff’s choice is both obvious and objectively correct. Roz stretches him out so thoroughly that by the time their hips are pressed together, he’s already trembling from his fourth orgasm. 

“I hope you don’t come this fast with girls.”

“Fuck you, dude. You came before I did with that girl in Boston.”

Ilya chuckles, grinds in harder, deeper. “You were drunk. Takes longer.”

“Fuck you, dude! You were at least as drunk as me!”

Roz picks up his pace instead of responding, and all Cliff can do is tip his head back and moan. Fuck, this is better than he thought it’d be. One of Roz’s hands is between them, crushing his clit with brutal force, and his other hand…

“Do you like this?”

There’s no pressure against Cliff’s throat, just the barest touch of the tips of Ilya’s fingers. His pupils are blown wide as he stares down at his own hand. Cliff shakes his head no—fuck, is he crazy?—and Roz moves immediately, carding his fingers into Cliff’s hair, tugging just a little. 

“No, you want this. Roll over.”

There’s a moment while Cliff shifts to his elbows and knees when he thinks with a shock of shame that Hollander probably does let Roz choke him. He calls it even, and that’s the last thing he has the chance to think about before he’s being fucked like it’s the last thing Roz will ever do. The hand running up his spine sends a shiver through his whole body, but it’s nothing compared to that hand gripping his hair and pulling his head up from where it wants to crush into the pillows below him. 

“Oh, fuck, you’re tight,” Ilya murmurs behind him. “But your hair is not long enough for good pulling.”

Did you talk to Hollander this much? Did he like to hear you talk about his body?

Even though Cliff’s hair doesn’t meet Roz’s standards, he still keeps a strong grip on it until Cliff hits that fabled fifth orgasm, arms quaking and moaning like a filthy whore. It makes him a little self-conscious, but it’s nice to let go. If Roz likes to talk, he probably wants to listen, he figures. 

“On your back,” orders Ilya, and Cliff lets his arms collapse underneath him, rolling to his back with a groan. 

It’s a minute or two before Cliff realizes Roz probably should’ve come by now. Shit, he’s already come again from how hard he’s being pounded into. 

It’s not like he was hoping to entirely get rid of the emotional torrent Ilya’s been going through, but it affects him more than he thought it would to understand that this isn’t what Ilya needs. That no matter how much he wants to help, he’s not going to do more than distract from the real problem here. He might not even really be distracting, might not be helping, he might be actively reminding Roz that’d he’d rather be fucking some other hockey player who’s busy fucking Rose Landry. Cliff takes a breath, raises his hand up to Ilya’s eyes, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, and takes his biggest risk yet. 

“Call me his name. Pretend.”

Ilya freezes solid for a second, and then a tension Cliff’s seen him holding for months, maybe years, slides from his body and he’s fucking him harder and harder, drawing Cliff’s thumb into his mouth and biting the tip. Cliff tries to remember what Hollander sounded like coming his brains out in the Raiders locker room, trying to pitch his moans just enough to mimic, but not get comical with his impression. It seems to work, as Roz’s movements quickly grow erratic until he comes with a loud groan and a string of Russian Cliff can’t even try to parse, head bent low over Cliff’s chest.

“Shane...”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it’s there, right at the end. Cliff feels the wetness on his palm, and before he’s actually registered the tears he’s pulled Ilya into his arms, bear-hugging him as more and more tension pours out of his captain’s body. He’s only seen Ilya cry once before in all the time they’ve known each other, and that was nothing like this. A few tears slipping out the corners of his eyes as he explained through the haze of an entire bottle of vodka that his mother would have turned 40 that day.

Now, Roz chokes out a single, broken wail. He only tries to pull away once, to sweep the pieces of his broken heart back into his chest, but Cliff, even boneless and brainless from exertion, is stronger than he is. 

They lay like that for a long while until Roz’s breathing levels back out. Cliff’s started to doze off when the pressure against his chest finally lightens. He can’t tell if he should be proud of not kissing Ilya or not. Thinks maybe he should have. Thinks maybe he shouldn’t be thinking like that.

Roz collapses in his own bed after shutting off all the lights. 

“All Stars coming up,” Cliff says into the darkness.

Ilya is silent. He’s not even on his phone.

“No shame in asking for what you want. Might work out,” Cliff says. He’ll ignore the irony in that for now.

“Thanks Marley. I mean it.”

“Night, Roz.”

Ilya’s already snoring softly. Cliff looks up at the ceiling, sends up a prayer that he’s done anything at all.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Sorry I’m physically incapable of not letting Shane haunt the narrative.

Comments always appreciated 🥰 see you soon for another MPA fic!

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