Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Additional Tags:

Bonded pair looking for a third, Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M, Bottom Shane Hollander, Polyamory Negotiations, Phone Sex, Anal Play, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Jock for jock for jock, Himbo paradise, Double Oral Penetration, Shane Hollander Is Living His Best Life, Daisy Chaining, Double Anal Penetration, Happy Ending, Barebacking, Come Marking, Shane Hollander Enjoys Being A Shared Toy, Polyamory

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of What Happens In Tampa…

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-30 Completed: 2026-10-17 Words: 43,998 Chapters: 5/5

Retour à Paris

Summary

Let's get the boys back together.

Notes

TFW the grande finale gets so long, the smut so unrestrained, it has to be parcelled out into chapters…

Thanks to everyone who’s enjoying this jock³ ride enough to enthuse with me 🙌👊 and especially to these joyous filthmomgers: Goat, Feral, GlitteringRock, Hegemony and
flamingle <3

Tags will be added as we go along.

Chapter 1: Three Weeks To Go

Three weeks. Three weeks until he sees Ilya again.

There's a discreet entry in Shane's calendar - a whole day blocked for 'business meeting with IR' - burning a hole in his concentration, twenty-four seven. To an onlooker, Rozanov is flying into Montreal to meet with Hollander and a couple of potential stakeholders for this Canadian charity they're trying to start. It's a meaningful gesture; they must both be serious about the venture if they'd use their precious time off in this way.

Shane is counting down the days.

The part he hasn't put in his calendar is that Ilya's booked two nights in a hotel, before and after the meeting.

He doesn't know if Marleau's booked a flight as well.

Or a hotel.

Or if he'll even know beforehand.

But… he hopes.

Fuck, he misses Ilya. But there's really no time to miss Ilya. Shane’s been going extra hard on his team this week, getting them ready for their next listing – a home game against Buffalo, they should walk it; it’ll be embarrassing if they don’t – and letting competitive perfectionism drown out the ticking clock in the back of his brain. He's pretty sure no one else on the ice is thinking anything outside their new strategy.

Fuck, though. Even steeped to his eyeballs in promising new tactics, part of him never stops missing Ilya.

He waits until that evening, at a mutually scheduled time – late, but not yet in bed, dressed only in sweatpants, staring out at the darkened city as he paces – before pressing Call.

Ilya picks up on the first ring. "Hey."

"Hey."

It's so, so good to hear his voice. Shane's already smiling. "How was practice today?"

"Good," Ilya says warmly. "I think we will beat Detroit very easily this time."

For sure; Shane nods. "I bet. Your game's in what, two weeks?"

"Twelve days."

"I'll be watching."

"I hope so."

"Uh, and how was Marleau?"

That gets him a knowing laugh. "Good. Very fucking fast today. Skating circles round Johnson."

Shane smiles wider and stops pacing. "Trying not to look you in the eye?"

"No, he does look."

Oh he does, does he? Fuck, Shane can't quite imagine that: the skating sliding zap of eye contact on the same team, fuck, he'd love to have that with Ilya. The All Stars buzz but every fucking game, with no one questioning it, because Rozanov and Marleau go way back, have always shared in each other's triumphs—no one's gonna blink an eye if they're grinning at each other after flexing their talent on the ice. Damn.

"He probably can't help looking," Shane says, wistful now. He lowers himself into a comfy chair by the window, gazing unseeing into the glittering night. "If I was on your team…"

"…it would be very obvious to everyone that we are boyfriends," Ilya says gently.

Shane gives himself a little shake. Save the wistful shit for a problem he can actually solve. "That's true," he says. "Maybe we'd better save being on a line together for when we're… for another chapter."

"After Ottawa."

"Exactly," Shane says, closing his eyes for a moment, suppressing the delighted tingle that still goes through him every time he thinks of Ilya moving closer at the end of the year. They’ve got it all worked out. It's going to be incredible. "Meanwhile, Marleau gets an eyeful and no one thinks twice about it."

"Mmm. There is not so much to look at in full gear though, so don't know about that on the ice. But he definitely looks at me after, in the showers."

An incredulous grin spreads across Shane's face, and the tingling recurs – lower. He shifts his knees apart, making room. "What?!"

Ilya laughs. "Ah no, no, not really," he says, then makes a careless noise, all playful rumbling suggestion. "Well, maybe he was, but I was not looking. You know you are only one I check out in shower."

"That's nice," Shane says dutifully, before circling back to where his mind really wants to go. "No but really, are you messing with me? Did you and Marleau shower together today?"

The thought of that is fucking hot.

"Do you wish we did?"

Shane's grin broadens even more. "Uhhhh, maybe?"

"Shane."

Heat rushes up Shane's body at Ilya's knowing voice. "Look, it's just a locker room fantasy, okay?"

"With you it's never just anything."

Shane opens his mouth to protest at that, then finds he can't. Ilya's got a point, there. "Whatever."

"So what happens in this, uh, 'locker room fantasy'?" He can hear Ilya locking in, voice dropping into the register where every word he says seems to stroke down Shane's spine. He wonders if he's getting hard too.

Shane wets his lips, tries to make his own voice casual. "I was just…" His hand settles in his lap, not grasping, just a pleasant pressure. "…picturing the two of you, y'know, all wet and naked… pretending not to look at each other…"

"Alone? Or rest of team is there?"

"No, uh, everyone else has gone," Shane says, then scrunches up his nose, looking to the side as he tries to think of a valid reason that would happen. "Maybe you guys stayed late at practice, doing some extra drills."

Amusement thickens in Ilya's accent. "Okay. I do not care, but okay."

"Anyway," Shane says, "you're all alone, and one thing leads to another, and now you're kissing…" The images of that come so easily—the vision of watching the two of them make out in Marleau's bed, bulging bare shoulders and hungry mouths, is seared behind Shane's eyes, action ready to play at a moment's notice.

"Kissing again?" Ilya murmurs, a little mocking. "So sweet."

"Fuck off," Shane says easily. "It was hot and you know it."

He expects to be teased more but Ilya just grunts. "Yeah, it was." Ilya clears his throat. "Then what happens?"

"Uh, it depends which shower room you're in."

"…What?"

"It does! Because if it's the Raider's shower room, I really don't think those pipes would support a full-grown man's weight, let alone two, whereas if it was more like our shower room, we've got those grab-rails that—"

"Your fantasy cares about plumbing?!"

"—could take both your weight while you fuck him," Shane finishes.

Ilya goes quiet.

"And I've got this really vivid image of him," Shane continues, encouraged; stroking his fingertips up and down the bulge forming in his own pants, "like, white-knuckling the grab-rail while you push inside. Just locked there for a moment before you start moving. And you're both all wet, and water's pouring down, and it's really steamy."

"Sounds it," Ilya croaks. Even more encouraging.

Shane takes a deep breath. "And I… I mean… I dunno…"

"…What?"

He swallows. "Do you think it could happen?"

Ilya exhales an amused noise. "Me, fuck Marly in work showers?"

"No! No, obviously not that. But the—the other part." Shane's been thinking about this more often than he possibly should. Ilya pressing Marleau down, taking him. "Do you think he'd ever be open to…" But Marleau's such a jock, he's a walking talking frat-boy caricature, it's one of the reasons Shane finds him so fucking sexy. "I mean, probably not, right? Never in a million years."

"What?" The bewilderment in Ilya's voice is clear.

Okay, he just needs to come out and say it. 

Shane steels himself. "I've been imagining you fucking him, okay? I can't get it out of my head, it would be so fucking hot, but like, that's why I'm asking, I'm just wondering if you thought that might ever, uh, happen."

He's definitely blushing now, and his cock is fully tenting his sweatpants.

"Ohhh," Ilya says, a purr that makes Shane grip the phone like he's gonna drop it. "Oh, sweetheart, yes. In fact, he suggested it himself."

Shane's hand closes around the clothed line of his cock. "What? When?!"

"When he almost come in my mouth with my fingers in his ass." Ilya's voice is deadpan, suggesting he knows exactly how much damage that image will do to Shane.

"Fuck, really?" That's intense. That's so intense. He remembers Ilya saying something about hand stuff; he does not remember this. And now Ilya's said fingers, that's more than one, that's more advanced than just one finger, especially considering the size of Ilya's hands; that's no accident. That's… fuck, the thought of watching Marleau come apart under Ilya's skilful fingers is—

"Oh yeah. But he said, uh, wait, let me remember what words he use. He made me laugh."

Shane forgets to breathe for a minute, hand clamped around his dick through his sweatpants, arousal radiating through him like a heatwave.

"Uh, yeah, okay – he said he figured I'd want to 'pop that cherry with Hollzy watching'."

"Holy shit." Shane feels dizzy. Could this actually happen?

"I know. Would you like that?"

"You have to ask?!"

"Shane," Ilya murmurs, all playful reproach again, "we are practicing saying what we want out loud, remember?"

Frustrated arousal spikes inside Shane. "Okay then yes, I wanna watch you nail him," he retorts, and slides his hand inside his sweatpants at last, starts to stroke. The sensation of it flares and he throws his head back, wishing it was Ilya's hand, but he can definitely settle for his own hand and Ilya's undivided attention. "It was really hot watching him do you, but I—" He laughs raggedly. "—okay, watching you do him might be so fucking hot I pass out."

"Don't do that," Ilya says, deadpan again but Shane can hear his breathing getting heavier as well.

"I won't. Wouldn't wanna miss a second of it. Do you think he'd really be up for it?"

"I think, yes. At least once. He seem like one of those guys who has, you know, bucket list."

"God, I hope so." The words sound faint as his hand moves faster. "Are you hard? I'm so hard."

"Always," Ilya says. "Are you touching yourself for me?"

"Yeah," Shane whispers. "Are you?"

"Oh, yes. And Shane, do you know what he is most definitely up for?"

"Umm, tell me."

"Fucking you," Ilya says, with a little extra rough effort in his voice; Shane pictures him, breathing deep, big square-knuckled fist moving confidently over his dick, and strokes himself faster in dumb response.

"Yeah, fuck."

"And I am going to enjoy watching that."

"Mmm…"

"Watching how good you will be for him… I bet you will make me proud."

Shane shivers suddenly, his nipples hardening at the dark little kick at Ilya's tone. "Yeah, I wish—I'll be so good for him," he promises, enjoying the sense of giving himself over to Ilya's approval, Ilya's control. "I'll let him fuck me however he wants. However you want."

"Mm, good. And maybe while he does it, I will fuck your mouth this time. Do it how you like it. Pull your hair."

"Yes," Shane hisses softly, feeling the warm glow of pleasure starting to rise already, hazy and thick.

"So he will be holding you still and screwing you from behind, so deep, as hard as you like, and I will be fucking your face, what do you think?"

"Y-yeah, fuck—"

"And who do you think will make you come?"

"You," Shane says instantly, and hears Ilya's satisfied noise at that.

"Yeah," Ilya grinds out, his voice more effortful again. "You are right, because I know what you need. He is tourist, I live here."

"God," Shane muttered, cock leaking into his fist as another dark shiver flashes through him. The possessiveness in Ilya's voice feels so right.

"I will show him around, show you off for him – all the best sights, all my favourite places – let him explore for himself…"

Shane's breathing stutters as the edges of his vision fill with black clouds, his mind going floaty-blank with pleasure as he pictures being displayed for Marleau like that, as Ilya's plaything, biddable and available for anything, eager to please.

"I will let him touch you, kiss you, fuck you…"

"Yeah—" Shit, he's about to come, it's building with every syllable of Ilya's growled words.

"…but no matter how many times he comes in you, on you—"

"Jesus," Shane mutters again, his whole body throbbing, tightening, sparking; in you, on you. Picturing it, fuck.

"—you still belong to me, body, soul, yes?" Ilya's voice seems to be the only certain thing in a rushing shifting world of pleasure.

"Yes," Shane gasps, aiming at his own chest as he comes, relishing the numerous hot splashes on his overheated skin, for Ilya, all for Ilya.

He hears Ilya's rumbling groan, a hint of Shane's name, the hitches of his breath that suggest that Ilya, too, has succumbed. And then silence.

"Fuck," Ilya says after a moment, breathless now. "Did you finish?"

"Yes."

"Pics or it didn't happen," Ilya murmurs, and Shane shivers again and lifts his phone.

He's started doing this recently, making a mess of himself on purpose, because he knows seeing him like this drives Ilya wild. He sends a Snapchat of his bare, dripping torso, and then a close-up of his dick in his fist, flushed red, also dripping.

The silence is broken by a flurry of extremely emphatic Russian when Ilya receives the pictures.

Shane grins, feeling lighter-than-air. "Yeah?"

"You know exactly what you do to me."

"Yeah," Shane agrees. The wet, cooling sensation starts to bother him, and he grimaces as he gets to his feet. "Okay. I'm gonna clean up now."

"I wish I was there to help."

"Soon."

"Counting the days," Ilya says, and then hums. "By the way, I did speak to Marly today after practice. We did not shower together but we did, uh, talk."

Shane experiences a pulse of curiosity that Ilya has waited until now to say this. "Oh yeah?"

"Not about anything important," Ilya says, in a casual tone that Shane recognizes as a major deflection. "But he ask about flights."

Shane cleans himself off with a warm washcloth, meets his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. He looks good, relaxed. "What did you tell him?"

"Told him I'll be staying two nights. We have our, uh, business meeting on the Saturday. But aside from that – no plans."

"No plans," Shane agrees. He can't resist asking: "And? What did he say?"

"He thinks he maybe could join us Saturday night."

Shane can't keep a flash of disappointment from his face, probably voice too. "Only Saturday? Why can't he come Friday?" He frowns at himself in the mirror. "You're free Friday, so it's not a team thing."

"He's got some… other thing. I don't know."

"But can't he move it?" Shane asks, before hearing himself. Fuck, he sounds desperate.

He can hear Ilya's helpless smile in his voice. "I don't think that is something we can ask, lyubimy."

"Yeah, no. Of course." He tries to reframe it. "And – I mean, that's awesome. If he's coming at all."

"I hope so."

"Was that all you talked about?"

Ilya's hesitation burns Shane's ears, for all it's very brief. "No. He also ask if I want to go for a drink after."

Shane listens intently. "And?"

"And? And I say no, of course," Ilya says, his voice threaded with uncharacteristic urgency. "That's not…" He trails off and Shane racks his brain for possible ends to that sentence. That's not what he wants? Not appropriate? Not fun? None of this sounds like Ilya.

Shane gives up and ventures, carefully, "Not what?"

Ilya makes a frustrated noise. "Not what we are doing. Is it?"

"I don't know? You went for a drink together before, that was fine."

"And then we fucked," Ilya says bluntly. "I said I was not going to do that again without you. That was… one time thing, no?"

"Uh," Shane says, not quite sure what he's being asked. The part of him that prefers to deal in facts wants to point out that it's already been two times, and they have another time literally scheduled, so no, calling it a one-time thing is incorrect. However. The part of him that tries to sift through every note in Ilya's voice is taking a stab at what Ilya really means, here, which is… he's trying to protect Shane?

And if that's the case, Shane wants to say no, no, don't be insane, it's fine—but actually, maybe it isn't fine.

His stomach twists. Fuck, where does that leave them? Shane wants to be cool about this. Everything they've done so far has been fun and easy and hot as hell. He doesn't want to get worked up over drinks.

But… it's certainly true that when it comes to Shane, Ilya's protective instincts are often stronger than Shane's himself.

"I don't know," Shane says, honestly.

Abruptly, he can't stand his own reflection. He walks back through to the darkened kitchen area, where it's shadowy now, no exposing glare.

He pinches his nose, sucks in a slow breath and then releases it. Words pour out of him. "I mean, no, it's not a one-time thing, clearly." He looks up again, gestures helplessly at the armchair where he'd just got off over this very idea, not ten minutes ago. "Like – everything we just said, I know I was turned on but I mean it, I swear – I can't wait to get us all together for real. But if we're talking about you guys hooking up beforehand, I don't know… I guess I would be jealous, of course I would, but… Ilya – I'm jealous of your whole team. All the time." 

Ilya’s eyebrows furrow and then lift. 

Shane huffs a soft, rueful laugh. "Seriously, I'm jealous of the fans who recognize you in the street, and your waitress, and the concierge at your hotel, and the girls who think they've got a chance with you at the bar, and—and at least if you're with Marleau, he knows now, he knows about me, and you guys want to include me. That kinda changes things."

Ilya is silent for a moment, but it's not the hesitant silence of before. It sounds like a processing silence.

"Sorry," Shane says, suddenly embarrassed. "That was a lot of words."

"No, is good," Ilya says. "I think you mean—"

"I just mean it's fine if you hang out with Marleau, and honestly? It's fine if you go to bed with him. I can't be there and he is." His voice on that last part comes out a little louder than he expects.

There's another silence, and then Ilya hums. "Okay," he says, his voice soothing in its firmness. "Here is plan. I am not going to go to bed with him unless you are involved. No—" he says quickly, as Shane makes a protesting noise, "no, is decided. You just say you are jealous of my waitress. I do not want you to be jealous of Marly. So, I think it is better I do not share his bed."

The strange flood of relief that washes through Shane at that statement is humbling.

"Okay," Shane says, exhaling. "Uh, actually, yeah. That's probably a good idea."

"But if you're okay with it, then maybe he and I hang out sometimes – but only if you are truly okay, yes?" Ilya warns, and Shane finds himself grinning and nodding, though Ilya can't see him, "Then we could hang out. As friends. And sure, we may talk about how much we are looking forward to sucking your dick when we see you," he adds, voice warm and playful now, "but you can be sure that we will not, in fact, be doing anything without you involved. Sound okay?"

Shane is still nodding. His eyes are burning. "Sounds okay," he whispers.

"And you know what," Ilya says, sounding a little choked himself, "actually, I am glad he is not coming for the Friday night. Because I will want you all to myself. Because there are some very mushy things I need to say to you, and Marly would never let me live them down."

Shane laughs, squeezing his eyes closed. His eyelashes feel a little wet. "I love you."

"I love you," Ilya says immediately, "Speak tomorrow?"

"Speak tomorrow," Shane promises. "Good night, Ilya."

"Good night, Shane."

The next Saturday night, Shane receives a flurry of text notifications just after ten o'clock. He puts aside his book and squints through his glasses at his phone. Four texts in a row, one with a picture attached.

22:06 Marly gets it.

22:06 He is god guy.

22:06 Good! good guy.

22:08 We have beers and wings. 

—Accompanied by a photo of Ilya's hand wrapped around one tall glass of beer, and Marly's hand wrapped around another. The glasses are full, tilted so the rims touch. In the background, a piled plate of food is too indistinct to make out, and the room seems full of people and coloured lights.

Shane stares at the picture, Ilya's unmistakable hand, the blunt edge of his thumbnail, the creases around his knuckles. He knows it so well, the warmth and shape of it, the feel. And then—Marleau's. He knows it's Marleau's without needing to be told; he recognizes the density of dark hair on his arm, his thick wrist cuffed with his heavy metal watch. It's a nice hand, big for sure, objectively strong-looking. He can imagine sucking those long, sturdy fingers. Can imagine that thumb and forefinger closing on his chin, gripping tight, opening his mouth, maybe. Or—elsewhere.

He's watched Marleau slide these same fingers into Ilya's body, in the wake of his generous mouth; watched Ilya twist and buck against his hand, lithe and receptive, groaning. Yeah, Marleau knows how to use his fingers alright.

22:09 We are on team night out

22:09 Whole team btw

22:16 We are getting shots

22:17 You are there?

Shane sniggers under his breath and shakes his head.

Hey, he types. You having a good night?

The phone immediately rings—Facetime. Shane blinks, startled, then accepts the call with his eyebrows raised.

The chaotic burble of a noisy bar immediately fills the room.

Ilya beams at him, blurry in more ways than one. Strobe lighting flashes off his hair, his cheekbones, the sharp curve of his mouth. He seems to be leaning against a greasy painted wall, and there’s no one else visible, but he's definitely in public. "Hey!"

Shane wishes he could see around the other side of the camera. This is insane, Ilya can't call him from a team night out, what's he thinking? Anyone could see! Fuck, is Ilya so wrecked he's getting reckless? This is one of Shane's most private worst fears, that on some epic rager Ilya will out them and not even know he's done it.

And then Marleau's sliding an arm around Ilya's shoulders and ducking his own face into the camera, close to Ilya's. 

"Heyyyyy, Holly," Marleau shouts, voice cheerfully distorted above the noise of the bar. "We got shots!"

Holly. Holly?! That's way too close for comfort. That's… now Ilya's waving at him.

"Goooood look," Ilya calls, beaming and pointing at him; Shane realizes he's still wearing his glasses. "I like this very, very… a lot."

"Hella sexy," Marleau confirms, and gives the camera an easy, practiced smoulder.

Shane swallows, starting to wonder if he's actually fallen asleep and is having some wacky vivid dream. And if so, is that dream about to turn into something filthy?

"I wanted to see you," Ilya says earnestly, holding the phone closer to his face and then further away again, putting them both back in the frame. "'S better, seeing you."

"We are wasted," Marleau supplies, ever helpful. Then he grins and hollers something unintelligible to someone else, off to the side. He slaps Ilya a few resounding times on the shoulder – then gives that same shoulder a slow squeeze – then releases him and blows Shane a showy kiss. "Bye Holly!"

He's gone.

Ilya's rolling his eyes, but grinning as well. He looks ruffled, like a whirlwind's just exited stage right. Maybe it has.

Shane grins helplessly back at him. This is so weird, but kinda nice. He wasn't expecting to see Ilya tonight at all.

"Why did you call me?" Shane asks, then has to repeat it when Ilya shakes his head and then holds the phone closer to his ear. "Why. Did. You. Call. Me?"

"Ohhhh. Jus' wanted to say good night before you go to sleep," Ilya says, peering into the phone again, and then gestures back and forth between himself and the absent Marleau. "And we figured, you know. Safety in numbers, if we both call. Less suspi—susp—" He breaks off, waggles his jaw, then finishes triumphantly: "suspicious."

His smug look at conquering the word makes Shane laugh despite himself. "Okay. Cool."

Ilya's eyes twinkle as he retreats to a slightly quieter corner. "Was his idea." He taps his nose, then points at Shane and winks. "I think he likes you."

He looks so pleased with himself, so relaxed and happy, that something unnoticed in Shane's chest releases. Usually he doesn't hear at all from Ilya when he's out partying with his team, though he's been known to wake up the following morning to a bunch of messages, ranging from incoherent to jubilant to maudlin. Occasionally, Shane finds himself worrying about Ilya getting into trouble, drinking too much or doing something stupid, chirping the wrong guy. It gives him a strange warm feeling to think about Marleau having Ilya's back when they're out—like always, maybe, but also like more than always. Attentive to him, in a place where Shane can't be; something of a guard dog as well as a wingman.

Now there's one thing he can't help but ask.

"So… are you two gonna have an afterparty at yours together?"

He sees the question confuse Ilya for a moment, then make sense all at once. His eyes clear and darken simultaneously. "Niet!" he exclaims. "I said I will not, and I will not."

"Well… actually, you said you wouldn't unless I was involved," Shane counters, because he has turned that phrasing over in his mind a few times since then. "So I guess I wondered if this phone call… was you… involving me? Asking permission," he elaborates, when Ilya looks more bewildered. Maybe the bar is still too loud for Shane to be heard at all.

Eventually Ilya's eyes widen. "Niet," he says again, even more emphatically. He shakes his head for good measure. "Is not what this is. This is good night call!"

"Oh. Okay," Shane says, with a little shrug, biting down on a sudden grin. "Well, thank you."

"I mean, I bet he would say yes," Ilya confides, glancing in the direction in which Marleau had wandered away. "Is definitely checking me out. And if you were here, we would eat you alive."

"Oh," Shane repeats. Now there's an image he'll be revisiting later.

"But like I said, tonight is just for partying – I am not doing anything until I see you, okay? Not unless you… I don't know… send him to me gift-wrapped."

Shane snorts, inadvertently envisioning a naked Marleau tied up with a few strategic bows and ribbons. "Okay," he says. "Noted and understood. Thank you. I… guess I should let you go party, then."

For a moment Ilya looks disappointed, and then the beat changes in the background and – like a dog hearing a whistle – his eyes brighten and his shoulders straighten.

"Okay, moy lyubimy," he beams, "good night," somehow levering a whole world of meaning into two gently slurred syllables.

"Good night," Shane says, and finds he's still returning Ilya's smile as he shuffles down in his bed, pulling off his glasses and laying them on the bedside table.

He shouldn't, he's sure, feel reassured that a drunk Bostonian giant has latched on to his boyfriend and is probably right this minute pouring tequila down his throat, plus or minus carelessly propositioning him throughout.

But… he does.

Chapter 2: One week to go

Shane watches every Boston Raiders' game, obviously. He used to call it a professional necessity, but that's been a threadbare excuse for years; these days he can admit it's another way to feel closer to Ilya. And as always, tonight, he's thrilling to watch. Lightning-fast, devious, outrageous—Shane can't tear his eyes away any time he's onscreen.

But this game, he's got someone else to watch too. 

Detroit is taking a hammering. Which would be satisfying at any time, but the sight of Ilya and Marleau cutting up the ice together with even more ferocity than usual makes Shane's fingers twitch. They're so good. Cocky and aggressive, eyes alight with naked ambition. As the game progresses Shane can't miss the glittering heat between them—one minute outdoing each other, the next aligning, they're visibly tuned into each other, responsive, synchronized.

And that turns his thoughts to other… synchronicity.

His fingers twitch again at the memory. What he wouldn't give to have those cocky, aggressive grins turning simultaneously on him. 

The commenters soon pick up on the chemistry, bidding to outdo each other in vigorous hyperbole; Captain Rozanov and his wingman Marleau are destroying lives tonight; wouldya look at that teamwork? Historically these two have always been a line to reckon with, but what we're seeing right now is something special; it's a coordinated attack and they're taking no prisoners!

The Raiders' victory is decisive, glorious, and well-earned. And while of course Shane normally feels proud of Ilya's wins, this time it's hitting differently. Usually he'd leave the Raiders to their raucous celly and catch up with Ilya when the dust has settled. 

This time, he wants to be more… involved. 

Shane finds himself texting Marleau, before the game's even over, imagining him getting back to his locker, seeing the notification even before the corks start popping.

Hey. Great game! Kiss Rozanov congrats for me.

Four minutes after the game ends, a string of laughing emojis comes back.

Shane leaves it.

A good hour later, Marleau finally sends another reply: you bet I will

Then, immediately: jk obv

Then: …unless?

There's a crucial few seconds of nothing.

And then Shane's phone rings. 

Shane grins. Took him long enough. "Hey."

"Yo," Marleau says, sounding casual, so casual. Fuck, hearing his gravelly voice right in his ear is seriously surreal. "How's it hangin'? You watch the game then?"

"Yeah. You guys were on fire." 

"Thanks!"

Shane matches his casual tone. "Bet you and Rozanov are gonna get wasted now."

"You got it, we're gonna tear up, uhh—hey boys, where we headed next?" There's haphazard shouting in the background and Marleau crows with laughter. "These fucking idiots! Waterside plaza?! Dude, that sounds lame as fuck! Sorry, Holl—Holly!" and now he's laughing, almost hysterical at his own near-miss and clumsy correction. "Shit. Sorry. Uhh… it's kinda wild here already."

"No worries, you go," Shane said, keeping it light. "Don't forget to give your captain a sloppy one from me." 

He almost hears the brakes squeal in Marleau's mind. "Whoa—uh, Holly—okay, so, when you say that, do you, uh, do you mean…?"

"I mean you guys were so fucking hot out there, you earned a treat," Shane says, relishing Marleau's stunned silence. "So yeah, you should go to town on him tonight. Just tell him I sent you – gift-wrapped." 

The text from Ilya comes less than an hour later: fucking hell, I love you too

Shane smirks. Pics or it didn't happen.

A long pause. Then a snap—they're both fully dressed, hair gelled to perfection, clearly on some sleazy bros' night out with club lighting, shots raised. Marleau's tongue is pushed into his cheek, and he's grinning, eyes wicked, lips red; Ilya looks blazed, unmistakable. Shane knows that look well. That man has had an orgasm, and recently. 

Which must mean they did it at a club, right away. Marleau went and found Ilya, surrounded by their team, gave him Shane's message and then wasted zero time acting on it. They did it at a club – Marleau sucked Ilya off, by the looks of it, and it's not clear if Ilya reciprocated – and now they are still there, partying. 

Shane is immediately so hard it's uncomfortable. He taps out, to Ilya, with numb fingertips: OMFG. you did not

Ilya's reply is instantaneous: did

In the bathroom?

Coat check. Bribed the guy to leave us in private. 

Shane gazes at the phone, momentarily speechless. Wow.

Ilya types a while longer. He thought we were doing lines. So now we have to party, make our story look real 

Dazed, Shane pictures it: the pair of them shoving each other against a cushioned wall of expensive coats and temporarily rented privacy, Ilya's knuckles in his own mouth, trying to stay quiet as Marleau sucks him off; or the reverse, with Ilya on his knees, Marleau feeding him his cock, big fingers tangling in Ilya's curls. Except—that didn't happen, can't have. Ilya's curls look perfect. Ilya's lips look perfect. So yeah, Shane's pretty sure it was Marleau on his knees.

Call me after? Shane texts, half convinced Ilya will already be dancing, flying high on a mingled cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline. 

But Ilya replies, quick as anything: I want to call you now.

Sure.

Not thirty seconds later, Shane's phone starts buzzing. He thumbs it on, already starting to smile. "Hey." 

"Hey." It sounds like he's outside. Smoking terrace, maybe? His breathing is deep like he's dragging on a cigarette. He probably needs one. 

"Congrats on your win." 

"It was nothing," Ilya drawls, his own grin audible. "I bet you will catch up, oh, any week now."

"Fuck you," Shane laughs, even as a part of his brain racks up their total goals this season; yeah, now Ilya's ahead by two. Gotta fix that next week or he'll be unbearable. But next week Montreal's facing Buffalo; shouldn't be hard to rectify. "Enjoy your private celebration?"

"Not so private," Ilya says, then overtakes himself before Shane can reply, "but fuck yes, thank you. I owe you." 

"Can't wait to collect."

"Me. Neither." 

Shane grins wider at the return of his emphatic voice, the compression of raw desire in Ilya's tone. "Though, you're still standing," he observes. "Maybe I should give Marleau a few pointers."

"This I would like to see. Hollander's dick-sucking masterclass." 

"Shh!" Shane says, though Ilya's words make him squirm in secret delight. "Aren't you still in public?" 

"They're all inside. Is very cold and horrible out here."

"Then why are you out there?"

"I want to talk to you," Ilya says, like it's simple. 

A different type of warmth swells through Shane. He finds himself asking: "So, are you gonna go back to his hotel room tonight?"

Ilya makes a wounded noise. "No! Still no. Like I said – I am waiting for you to be here too."

"You don't have to do that." 

"Yeah, I think I do." 

Shane's brow crumples. 'Okay, but… What does Marleau think about that?" 

Ilya laughs. "Well, on one hand he is very frustrated because he wants me to go back to hotel and suck his dick. But he already knows we are not… uh…"

"Not?" 

"…not going behind your back," Ilya finishes, and Shane can almost hear him shrug. 

"But how is it going behind my back if I've told you to do it?" He's being pedantic but it's true, isn't it? 

"Shane," Ilya moans, sounding suddenly, genuinely anguished. "C'mon! This is not, you know – thought experiment! Do you really want me spending whole night with him? Sleep in his arms? Because that, I think, is what will happen if I go to his room tonight." He sighs. "He… offer, last time. He made it sound like he didn't care either way but…" 

"But he is good at sounding like that," Shane finishes for him. 

"Yeah. He is."

Shane swallows. His pulse is racing at the back of his throat; Ilya's absolutely right. The thought of Ilya sleeping in someone else's arms makes him feel like he's received an electric shock. "And would you want to? Stay the night with him, I mean." 

"Not if there is any risk it hurt you." 

"I don't know that it would," Shane hazards.

"But you can't promise it wouldn't."

"I guess – no, I can't promise that."

"So. That settles it."

Wow. "…Thanks, Ilya."

Ilya laughs, a little disparaging. "Is easy to be, how do you say, generous on this – when I already get my soul sucked out my dick tonight."

Shane claps a hand over his disbelieving grin, shaking his head. "But you seriously didn't return the favour? You just sent him away, like, still hard?"

"Mmm. Not exactly."

Wait, what? "…Oh?"

"I gave him choice," Ilya says, in an offhand way that makes Shane lock in hard. "After he sucked me off, when he suggest we leave together. I say I can't go back to hotel with him, but we can sneak off again, later, find a bathroom, I will finish him off there, no problem. Or…"

Shane realizes he is holding his breath again. 

"… if he prefer, I can ask you to give him goodnight call when he gets back to his hotel."

Shane exhales slowly. "And?"

"And that is what he chose. In fact, I think he left already."

"Fuck."

"You good with that?"

Shane stares down at the massive bulge in his sweatpants. "Uh, yes. Are you?" 

Ilya's voice turns wicked. "Was my idea."

Shane's texted Marleau before. He's texted Marleau repeatedly this same evening, easy as anything. Why is it so hard to text him now? 

Well, maybe because earlier he'd felt like he was puppet-mastering the two of them together; making a big, beneficent gesture, bestowing an unasked-for treat on his beloved boyfriend and his super hot best friend. 

Now Shane feels more like one of the puppets. 

But… not in a bad way.

The thought of Ilya engineering this, pulling deftly on both their strings until they're facing each other instead of him, is filling him with a reckless sort of electricity. Not least because Ilya said Marleau also wants this, chose this. Chose a remote, private call with Shane over a real-life orgasm with Ilya; chose some form of uncertain, delayed gratification over an instant, guaranteed fix. 

Insane choice, really. And… now Shane really wants to make it good. 

Hey, he types, his eyes lingering over their earlier exchange. He'd sounded perfectly confident then. He just needs to find that energy again. You heading home any time soon?

The reply comes two seconds later. Waiting for Uber

Call me when you get back, if you want. 

Damn straight bro.

Shane laughs under his breath at that, shakes his head, then resumes pacing around his apartment. He's been unable to stand still since the call with Ilya; he's edgy, nerves bubbling up, thoughts flustering easily. 

Without Ilya's soothing, commanding presence at the helm, he has no idea how this will go. He's never done this. He's literally never done this with anyone but Ilya.

Maybe he should try and get Ilya on the line as well. 

But… Ilya's still out. And, Ilya's already come once. And, this is kind of a gift from Ilya. His two favourite people, both horny, both… curious. 

Shane pours a ginger ale, drinks half, then carries the glass toward his unlit bedroom, still sipping. Its cold, effervescent familiarity perks him up at this late hour, sweet and sharp. 

He hovers just inside the doorway. Is it too presumptuous to pick up the call like this, in his bedroom? Should he actually be somewhere less intimate, more casual? 

But—this is a sex call. There's no other reason for it to happen. 

So he might as well be in the comfort of his own bed. 

Fuck, what if Marleau doesn't bother? What if he's already wasted; gets back to his hotel room, passes out, forgets all about it? How late would Shane stay up, wondering, waiting? 

He thinks about texting Ilya again. But Ilya's probably still out dancing. 

He thinks about texting Marleau again, offering him an out. 

His phone rings – a video call, the initials CM flashing up.

"Hey," Shane says, with a sudden floating feeling. It's happening. 

"Hey." Marleau's… in an elevator? Somewhere brightly lit and mirrored, anyway, and then he's walking, the picture going pixelated and jerky, lighting changing too rapidly for the phone to keep up. "You still up?" 

"Uh, yeah," Shane says, refusing to look down. He is very much, despite his anxious pacing, still up. 

"I thought I better catch you before you went to bed," Marleau says, and then the picture crystallizes again: he's reached a door and is swiping a keycard, letting himself in. "Do not want you falling asleep on me, man."

"Ha ha. Just because I'm not at the club with you guys."

"Nobody says 'at the club', Hollander," Marleau mutters, as the door clicks shut behind him, and he sounds so much like Ilya for a second that Shane's chest clenches. 

"Fuck you," Shane says, making it as lazy as he dares, and Marleau lifts the phone and flashes him a quick grin. 

"Promise?"

Whoa. That dark eye contact is intense. Shane blinks and looks behind Marleau's head; he's in some tastefully-lit hotel room now. Anonymous, private. He wonders how far away Ilya's room is. Imagines, for the hundredth time this week, Ilya and Marleau stumbling through some pristine penthouse and collapsing together onto a perfectly made bed, like any number of hotel rooms Ilya and Shane have christened together.

"Anyway, uh, I meant to say – thanks for the hall pass earlier." 

Shane feels his cheeks tinge warm. "You guys earned it. Some of those plays…"

"Well that's hella motivational," Marleau says, grinning again. "Careful – boost our winning streak and you'll regret it!"

"Bring it on," Shane shoots back, laughing, and then his laugh falters. 

Marleau's screen has steadied again; he's propped the phone up on a coffee table, presumably, and is sitting down on a couch in front of it, neatly framed from slightly-below as he takes off his shirt in one fluid motion. Shane is so distracted by the massive expanse of skin for a moment that he can't react. 

Fuck. Fuck, is it on? 

"So did I earn anything else?" Marleau asks, looking directly at the camera as he rakes a hand through his hair, and his voice is heavy enough that Shane is reminded this man has been waiting for hours, by now. Has probably been at least half-hard since blowing Ilya, maybe even since Shane texted him in the first place. He'll be wanting to get on with it. 

"Like what?" Shane asks, finding his voice at last.

"Like… are you gonna turn on the light?" 

Oh! With a start Shane realizes he's gravitated toward his own bed but wound up standing in darkness, and his screen self is a vague blue-grey shadow.

"Shit, sorry – sure," he says, ducking to flick on his bedside light, sitting to prop the phone in its usual place for FaceTiming with Ilya – putting the headboard comfortably in shot – and then the decision is made for him: it's totally on. He's doing this on his bed. With Marleau, not Ilya. Right fucking now. 

Shane strips off his shirt and lies down, then bites his lip and slouches so the camera's slightly above his eye-line, because that's an angle Ilya always enjoys. "Better?" 

"Yeah," Marleau says, nodding. Shane can see his hand enclosing the front of his jeans, slowly massaging. "You gonna get it out for me?" 

God, he sounds like every straight fuckboy that Shane's ever secretly, shamefully crushed on; the sort of guy who calls all the women he's fucking baby so he doesn't have to remember any names. It gives Shane a sluggish jolt of dark heat, imagining Marleau doesn't even know who he is, maybe isn't into guys at all, but wants a quick fuck and Shane just happens to be there, easy, available. Desperate. He's thought about this sort of scenario with Ilya, but it never rings true, because for all that Ilya can be super mean when Shane wants it like that, he's also intimately aware of how much Ilya cherishes him. Every brush of Ilya's lips belies his hard words. Whereas Marleau— 

"You're not gonna make me beg or some shit," Marleau murmurs, smirking, which adds to the fantasy. 

"No… like I said, you already earned it," Shane says, stripping off his sweatpants and briefs and then taking a moment to fold his clothes. 

Marleau looks confused but says nothing, waiting for Shane's focus to return to the screen. Now he's naked but Marleau's still got his jeans on, sitting on the couch with his knees sprawled out, hand in his lap, rhythmically kneading. The space between his thighs looks impossibly inviting. Shane wants to be down there so bad, on his knees, getting a good close-up. 

"Your turn," Shane says, closing his hand around his own cock, just holding it against his stomach for a moment. He checks the screen; the tiny portrait of himself looks reassuringly like a porn-star from this angle, all gleaming abs and flushed, hard dick. 

Marleau's thumb slips under the button of his jeans, where it's distorted by the visible bulge beneath. And pauses. The smirk is back. "Yeah?"

You're not gonna make me beg or some shit. Was that a request? Shane wets his lips, not even for show now. His mouth feels suddenly parched. 

"Go on," Shane says, testing the tone. "Please. Let me see."

Marleau's eyes darken. Yeah, okay, he likes that. "Let you see what?" 

"Your dick, please. Show me," he says, and then, because Marleau visibly waits for it, "please."

The thumb nudges the button out of its enclosure, then pauses at the top of the straining zipper. Shane's cock pulses in his hand and he grips it harder. Fuck, this is hot. He doesn't know what he expected but being teased in Marleau's low, rough voice wasn't it. 

"Please," he whispers again, almost to himself, willing Marleau to get on with it. 

"Tell me what you wanna do with it," Marleau says, running his finger and thumb slowly down the concealed length of the bulge, outlining it deliberately. For Shane. 

Shane licks his lips again. "Um, right now I kinda wanna suck you through the denim," he says, imagining that warm rasp against his tongue. His palm is getting sticky where he's cupping the head of his cock against his stomach. "See if I can get you even harder. Like if I get it really wet, and suck hard enough, maybe I can taste you through the fabric. I'd keep trying, anyway. Get you grinding against my mouth. Until you can't stand it a second longer, you have to get it out, and now you're so worked up you won't wait—you just grab my head and shove your dick in my mouth and uh, fuck my face," he finishes, face flooding with heat as he realizes he's just said everything – everything he might say to Ilya – to Marleau. 

"Jesus Christ," Marleau mutters, after a pause. "Roz wasn't kidding."

Shane closes his eyes for a second, tingling all over with the familiar vertigo feeling of realizing they've been talking about him. "What?"

"Uh, he said you can do more through the phone in two minutes than like, most cam-girls. 'Cos you really mean what you say and that's fucking hot, dude."

"Oh," Shane says, squirming deliciously at the thought of Ilya saying that, to Marleau, in particular. He opens his eyes again and risks a coy smile. He's no fucking cam-girl but he knows what works on Ilya. "So are you going to get it out for me?"

The zipper inches down. Shane's not faking how avidly he's watching it, at all. He sees a glimpse of flushed skin as Marleau's hand moves, and finds he's craning his head as if he can see around another angle, despite the camera view being obviously static. 

"Oh, come on," he says, soft and earnest, and then Marleau's reaching over and grabbing the camera, bringing it closer. Fuck, the angle changes, and now it's like Shane's looking up at him from the floor between his legs. Marleau's showing it off at last, stroking it slowly, bare, base to tip, and it should be comical, shouldn't it, getting a close up of a guy's dick like this, but Shane just wants to rub his face against it. His mouth waters and he swallows, hard. 

"Better?" 

"Yeah. Fuck, I want it in my mouth." 

"That's what I want too, baby," Marleau murmurs, and the word hits some dirty sweet spot inside him, brings his arousal up hard.

He could stand to hear Marleau call him baby again. 

He strokes himself, matching Marleau's rhythm. His stomach clenches pleasurably as Marleau puts the phone back so Shane can see all of him again—shirtless and hairy with his cock sticking out of his open jeans, lazily jerking off, watching Shane. God, Shane wants to climb in his lap so bad. Probably too much. Maybe tonight will be useful in that way, get some of this relentless horn-dog energy out of his system. Probably not, though. It might actually make it worse. 

Sounds like win-win to Shane. 

"Yeah, that's it, show me how you like it," Marleau says, watching with half-lidded eyes. "Can't believe I didn't get to touch your dick last time." 

"Made up for that with Ilya," Shane says, and Marleau gives a sexy little chuckle, nodding even as he squeezes his fist over the top of his dick, hard. 

"Hell yeah, I did," he breathes. "Did he tell you?"

"You guys showed me," Shane reminds him.

Marleau grins and shakes his head. "I mean yeah, we did – don't you worry, baby, I'm not forgetting that in a hurry – but I meant before, the other stuff."

"The sixty-nining?"

"Yeah. That was so hot. And y'know… you would've fit right in. Would you like that? You could suck my dick while I suck Roz's and he sucks yours. Like a blowjob circle jerk."

"Fuck," Shane says faintly. This is completely different to how Ilya talks dirty to him. Ilya makes it an art form, a narrative. Marleau, it seems, just says whatever comes into his head. 

"And there's loads of ways we could make it even more interesting," Marleau adds, his voice smoothing out as he goes back to jerking his dick in long, unhurried strokes. "Winner lasts longest. Best long-shot. Uh, or – first one to get off gets fucked by the other two."

"Oh my god," Shane mutters. "That would be like a double win for me." 

"Yeah?" His low drawl is captivating. "What else would be a double win for you?"

Shane opens his mouth to say both of you at once, overpowering me, fucking me together—and then hesitates. Marleau's got him so turned on right now, he could say anything. Marleau's lazy, sloppy style of enquiry makes Shane feel like literally anything goes – Marleau seems unshockable, yet appreciative. Persuasive, yet casual. Like he's seen it all before, and also is seriously dedicated to seeing it all again. 

Shane suddenly gets exactly how Ilya wound up face down ass up for this man. 

"I think, uh, most stuff with all three of us would be pretty fun," he tries, instead of dwelling on how much he also would like to assume that position pretty damn soon. 

"Yeah, for sure, definitely," Marleau says, and then his voice turns wicked. "Thought you might wanna be the meat in our sandwich, is all."

Shane feels faint. "Did Ilya tell you that too?"

"No." A grin spreads across Marleau's face at whatever is written all over Shane's. "Lucky guess."

"Fuck," Shane says, feeling his cheeks blaze. "Well uh, yeah. Lucky guess."

"God, you're pretty," Marleau says, almost involuntary. Then adds, "Huh. Never knew a guy could be pretty before."

"Uh huh?" Shane says, instead of blurting out, Call me pretty again—say you wanna come all over my pretty face.

"But there's no other word for it, man," Marleau says, almost impatient now, waving at Shane with his free hand. "Look at you! Roz has seriously lucked out here."

"Yeah, but you've seen him, right?" Shane can't help but point this out.

Marleau laughs again. "Facts. So actually it's me that's lucked out…"

"Or we all did…"

"Do you like facials?" Marleau asks suddenly, with a contemplative look that makes Shane want to throw his head back and growl. Did he read Shane's mind? Or is Shane just that obvious? 

"Uh, sometimes," Shane says, then realizes that's not a sexy answer, tries again. "Or I like it on my tits." Saying that out loud, without being prompted, feels filthy. 

Marleau's lids half-close again, his gaze raking down Shane's chest like a physical touch. "Oh yeah?"

Encouraged, Shane keeps talking. "Or like, sometimes kneeling over Ilya's lap, he's fucking me and stroking me at the same time, and I come all over my own tits, with him still going inside me."

"Fuuuuck," Marleau says appreciatively, while Shane sways under successive waves of heat: at reliving the memory, at sharing it; at Marleau's hot, heavy leer in response. "And I bet you're still bouncing on it while you hose him down, yeah?" Marleau's voice is a low drawl, the hand on his cock moving faster, his other hand grasping his thigh, fingers denting the denim. "I've seen a few vids like that. I could stand to watch it go down."

Shane's voice goes unsteady in response. "Watch or join in?"

"You choose, baby. Where do you want me?"

"Uh…" It feels like the link between his mind and voice is fragmenting, burned away by the steadily building pleasure of his own hand and the changeable erotic charge of Marleau's attention. Shane can't tell if Marleau's reading him like a book, or just throwing ideas at the wall to see what sticks. Either way, right now he just wants Marleau to keep talking. "You tell me." 

"Tell you," Marleau repeats, like something's falling into place for him. "Sure thing. You like being told what to do, huh?" 

"Yeah," Shane says breathlessly, his balls tightening, as the hot ache inside him builds and builds. 

"Or you only like Roz telling you?"

"Uh… no, I think I would enjoy, um, you telling me what to do. As well."

"How about right now?"

Fuck. "Uh, yeah…"

"Tell you what I want you to do for me?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. How about you go ahead and show me that hole of yours again?"

Fuck. 

Wordlessly, Shane shifts higher into frame, spreading his legs. This was not what he'd planned to do but everything else seems to be fading away, insignificant compared with how suddenly desperate he is to get Marleau's attention on his hole. The aching intensifies as he cups his balls and the base of his cock in one hand, gripping his thigh with the other. "C-can you see?"

"Not enough. Bring it closer." 

Face burning, Shane obeys, letting go of his thigh to lean over and grab the phone, then lowering it, angling it. This feels cheap as hell and his heart is racing and fresh pre-come is smearing his stomach from his throbbing, abandoned dick. 

He'd been right: having Marleau tell him what to do is extremely damn potent. 

"Better?" He can see himself on the phone screen, fuck, the tiny obscene detail of it, dark and half hidden until he opens his legs even more. 

"Yeah," Marleau says softly, his breath coming short now. "Fuck, you look so tight. Can't believe Roz's dick fits in your tight, perfect hole. It looks like it'd barely take my finger."

Shane is abruptly glad the camera can't see his face any more. 

"But I saw you guys with my own eyes, so I know it can," Marleau adds, warm and approving again. "God I wish I was there right now, opening you up. C'mon, show me what you like." 

"Fuck," Shane says out loud, lifting his hand to his mouth, getting his fingers wet, then dipping back between his legs. He needs something inside him now, needs it or this deep yearning ache is going to overwhelm him completely. He watches on the phone screen, explicitly magnified, as his shiny fingers unerringly find their target. 

Marleau gives a soft appreciative groan as Shane slides two fingers in as far as they'll go, stretching the silken tension of his hole in one steady push. "Fuck, that looks so good… Does that feel good, baby?"

"Mm," Shane hums, wishing he had a third hand so he could do this and hold the camera and stroke his cock, all at the same time. A third hand, or someone else's hand. Marleau's hand. Fuck, imagine Marleau's hand right now...

"I didn't hear you." The rough clipped edge on that almost makes Shane start shaking. 

"Shit, sorry. Yes," he gasps, "feels so good," clenching around his fingers, rocking them in and out as his cock fills with a hot, needy pulse. He could come from this if he's not careful, the knowing curve of his fingers zeroing in on the perfect spot, hips angling without his own internal permission. 

"Good. Now take them all the way out for me."

Damn it. For a moment Shane wants to pretend he didn't hear him, but that's not… that's not what they're doing. Shane doesn't know exactly what it is they are doing, but he wants to find out. He can't help but whine as he follows Marleau's instruction, though, withdrawing his fingers until he's closing on nothing, the dizzying edge of pleasure receding as he spreads his legs wider to show he's done as he was told. 

"God, you sound so horny," Marleau says, and Shane realizes he's still whining under every breath. "I wish I was there so I could fuck you so good right now. Just push your legs open and slide right in. You think you could take it?" 

Shane shivers, gazes up into the camera. "Yeah." 

"Aw, I'd love to see you try. Feel you open up around me. I was so careful with Roz but you're different, aren't you? You wanna feel me push in before you're ready."

How? How the fuck does he know that? "L-lucky guess, again?" Shane whispers, sweat breaking along his hairline. 

"Mm, just going on what you said the other night."

Shane feels like he goes scarlet, head spinning. He doesn't remember exactly what he said the other night, but he does remember that sudden ferocity of need, watching Ilya and Marleau, staring at the pair of them moving in glorious technicolor. 

He'd been watching Marleau go to town on Ilya's dick, sucking and moaning, and then, suddenly, Marleau was heading lower. Burrowing between Ilya's legs, massive hands clamping Ilya's thighs, rearranging him like he weighed nothing before eating Ilya's ass with every evidence of enjoyment. The sight of it made Shane sweat all over, squirming, imagining in feverish detail the scrape of stubble, the push of Marleau's tongue. He watched how Ilya rose against Marleau's face, shuddering and bucking, surging against him like waves on a storm-beaten beach. Marleau just clung on and kept going, didn't come up for air until it looked like Ilya was about to climax off the next deep push of his tongue—and then Ilya broke the rhythm, pushing him away and gasping some weak protest, and Marleau surged back up over him, his eyes full of glinting black fire. 

Shane saw how deliberate Marleau's hand was then, sliding between Ilya's legs as his mouth departed; how easily his fingers entered. Ilya arched and whimpered, swinging his head from side to side as Marleau returned to sucking his dick—and then Ilya's lust-glazed eyes met Shane's through the camera, and every nerve in Shane's body flared. He shuddered under a spike of desire so strong it melted his consciousness into pure, dark, aching void. 

All Shane needed, in that instant, was to get between them, get filled up by them. One of them, both of them, he needed them inside him, right fucking immediately; dicks or fingers or tongues, he didn't care, he just needed something, now, now, fucking now. And he couldn't have it. He was in fucking Montreal and they were in Boston and he had to make do with his hand and Ilya's voice and the admittedly incredible individualized porn they were making for him—somehow this had to be enough. 

Now that he thinks about it, he does vaguely remember growling something about how they could take turns on his ass or try to make them both fit at once—maybe that's what Marleau's remembering. He remembers needing them both to acknowledge that someone should be fucking him, and that they weren't, and that that was a problem. 

"I said a lot the other night," Shane says, now, in case Marleau wants to elaborate.

"Yeah, and every word outta your mouth made me want to book the next flight over."

That was gratifying. "Yeah?" 

"Hell yeah. I don't know how you guys manage it."

"It's hard."

"I bet it is," Marleau shoots back, returning them neatly to their level. 

And fuck, this is simple. Simpler than watching Ilya fall to pieces under Marleau's attention, Shane tracking every moment as if it were happening to his own body; simpler than feeling surreally closer to Ilya than ever, all that raw shared sensation somehow bridging their impossible distance. 

"I was so hard, watching you fuck him," he confesses. "I could practically feel it happening. And now I can't stop thinking about it. It keeps playing in my head, over and over." 

"And what do you do when that happens?" 

"I get so fucking hard again," Shane says, showing him, "and also, frustrated. Because what you were doing looked so good, and I—I do, okay? You're right, I wanna be in the middle." 

"Thought so."

"I want you guys all over me," Shane says, thoughts rolling inexorably downhill, gathering speed. "Everyone naked and I want my back against your chest and Ilya on top of me – or the other way around, I don't care – I just want to feel both of you touching me, pressing against me, exploring me and… taking what you want from me. I wanna please you both at once."

"Bring it on," Marleau says, which is not exactly the reply Shane was expecting. Ilya knows how to build on a fantasy like this, to say out-loud the parts that Shane can't quite bring himself to put into words, whereas it sounds more like Marleau's taking him at face value—a completely different sort of mind-blowing. Marleau's taking Shane's wild, roughly sketched scenario and scheduling it. "We'll make it so good for you, baby, just wait." 

"Don't… wanna wait," Shane says raggedly. 

"I know, baby." Marleau soothes, except it is not at all soothing. "You want it right away, don't you?"

"Yeah—"

"C'mon then," Marleau says, breathless now. "Show me. Show me what you like to do to your hole, when you're all on your own, thinking about me and Roz fucking you…" 

Shane can't second-guess himself any more than he can put words together in a coherent order. Fuck it, he's gotten this far, he's just gonna go with it. He feels like the air is turning thick and hazy as he reaches over to the drawer next to his bed, finding the lube by feel and next to it, his second-biggest dildo. It's black, a little smaller than Ilya but not by much, and an excited internal tingle starts up at just the feel of its bulk in his hand.

"Whoa," Marleau says, sounding impressed as Shane coats it hurriedly with lube, then positions it against his hole and waits, his breath coming in uneven huffs. 

"Yeah?" He feels like time's moving weirdly, like he might be dreaming again. He's not actually about to fuck himself with a dildo while Cliff Marleau jerks off about it, is he? This seems to have escalated quickly…

But Marleau's looking unshockable again, and desperately turned on. "Fuck yeah, go on. Show me how you take that thing. Make yourself squeal."

"I'm not gonna—squeal," Shane counters, but does nevertheless grunt with effort as the toy pushes in. It's a practised movement but he does it, on purpose, just slightly harder than he's ready for, because Marleau was not wrong. He likes that feeling. "Ah, fuck." 

The thrumming thick shock of it is heavenly after all that waiting. His cock jumps and leaks against his belly. 

"Jesus," Marleau says, his voice becoming a harsh undertone, "look at you—"

"Ah," Shane gasps again, starting to move the toy, prioritizing the angle over the phone and not caring enough to correct it. It just feels so good, stretching himself like this, undulating against the deep intimate pressure exactly where he needs it. He moans loudly, almost angrily. 

"—you're so fucking hot—but seriously dude, forget the phone and use both hands," Marleau interrupts himself, in a shade of his normal voice, and Shane thinks, dizzily, that he can do better than that. 

He shoves the phone back on the bedside table and sprawls out near enough that Marleau can see everything. All of it: Shane's hand between his legs, fucking himself vigorously with the toy; Shane's other hand on his cock, stroking hard enough it's a blur; Shane's arched back and sweaty chest, his dark, peaked nipples. He hopes every straining tendon is visible as he throws his head back, crying out, giving himself over to sensation. That's it, he's got it now, there, there, there. He starts to come within seconds, great splashing hot lines of it, covering his own chest in glistening streaks. 

"Fuck," Marleau growls, and Shane forces his eyes open in case he's about to witness a satisfying onscreen spectacle of his own. He can see the thick, dark length of it within Marleau's fist, jerking efficiently, no trace of patience left.

Shane keeps the dildo moving as he watches, but less aggressive now, more leisurely. He doesn't want to take it out yet, but if he stops his muscles will start to tense up, and besides, there are aftershocks to chase.

"God, you look so comfortable with that thing in your ass," Marleau says, voice tight with effort. "Fuck, baby, can you—can you take any more for me?"

Yeah, there's aftershocks here alright. "Uh," Shane says, his spent cock twitching. "Yeah? Maybe, um…" He reaches down, dreamlike. His fingers encounter the lubed bulk of the toy, gather some slickness themselves. "Probably a little." 

He feels around his stretched rim, his own touch sending fresh arrows of sensation through him. It's already on the edge of too much. He does not need to do this. He needs to pull out, and to shower. But Marleau's attention is like a drug, making him take a deep breath and then press. One fingertip slips in, nudging alongside the toy and fuck, that stretch is fierce.

"Fu-uck," Shane whimpers, flushing hot all over, even as he adds a second finger. "Ah, ahhhh, fuck, it's too much, it's—" wonderful. 

"Fuck," Marleau echoes, his own voice breaking as well, and then Shane sees it, the sudden white mess dripping from his fist, still striping over his cock as it jerks and spills. 

Shane watches spellbound for a few more dreamlike seconds, before he suddenly crashes back to reality and realizes his wrist is on fire, his ass is on fire, and he is spinning out. Shit, what is he doing? He's curled into himself, still moving rhythmically, every nerve focused on his tight stretched center. He winces and slides his fingers out, then slowly, carefully, the toy, hissing under his breath as he closes on nothing again. His whole body is warm and trembling. 

"Oh my God," Marleau's mumbling, collapsed back against the couch now, panting at the ceiling with his chest heaving. His abdomen is a mess, the tousled patches of dark hair dew-dropped with come. 

Shane wrestles with a sudden, insane desire to lick it off. Fuck, tonight has done nothing to take the edge off his urge to roll around with this man. 

"Yeah," Shane says, his own voice equally destroyed. "That was… pretty intense." 

"Beats a blowjob in a toilet stall, that's for sure," Marleau declares, and Shane laughs despite – or because of – how surreal this is becoming. 

"Wow, the bar's set real high." 

Marleau opens one eye and mock-glowers at him. "Hey. I turned down a hummer from Roz for a chance at this, even though you might've been asleep already. Respect my fuckin' sacrifice."

"Respect," Shane says obediently, and has to smother a grin as he reaches for the tissues. Fuck, he can't believe he did all that. He cleans himself off as best he can, still marveling.

"I've gotta shower," Marleau says suddenly, and Shane readies himself for ending the connection. Probably for the best, before it gets awkward, though he's still feeling pretty raw. "Won't be long. Five minutes, max." 

Shane blinks. "What?" 

"I'll be back in five," Marleau says, like he's bemused at having to repeat himself. "Don't go anywhere."

He ends the call and Shane stares at the screen, disconcerted. Marleau's going to call back? That's… not necessary. But kinda nice, he guesses. Shane did just perform what now feels like one-hundred-and-one obscene acts for him. It's good to know Marleau doesn't now want to run full-speed in the opposite direction. 

Though what's the alternative to running away? Something equally destabilizing. 

Huh. 

When the numbers change, Shane realizes he's been staring at the darkened phone for a full minute. He taps out a quick message to Ilya, then hurries to the bathroom to rinse off. 

He's managed to put fresh sheets on his bed, and crawl gratefully between the covers, by the time Marleau actually calls back. No video, this time.

"Hey," Shane says, inexplicably relieved to just be on speakerphone. He's not sure he can take much more of those intense dark eyes right now. "Freshened up?"

"And racked out," Marleau says agreeably. "It's a pretty good bed." He yawns, and Shane hears the rustle of sheets. "Jesus, my head is still spinning. You really did a number on me, Hollzy." 

Shane smiles at the familiar nickname, then flicks off the light. "Same."

"You gonna call Roz now?" His voice sounds richer in the darkness.

Shane shakes his head against the pillow. "Nah. I texted him, but he’s still out." 

"Fair," Marleau says. And then, barely a moment later, "So… what did you say?"

"Just that it was fun, and I'd tell him about it in the morning." 

"Huh. Well, I texted him too." 

"Oh yeah? And what did you say?" 

"Mission accomplished."

Shane snorts. "He'll love that." It strikes him suddenly that Ilya is there. Maybe not yet – maybe he's still out partying – but he'll be going back to Marleau's hotel after. He feels suddenly magnanimous. "Y'know, it seems crazy for Ilya to go back to his own room, tonight…"

Marleau makes a strangled noise. "Are you kidding? I am fucked, Hollzy. I'm emptied out! All that's left in the tank is fumes! If he came over here I could barely lift a finger, let alone get actual wood." 

Shane suspects this is an over-exaggeration, but it makes him grin nonetheless. "He might just wanna cuddle," he teases.

Marleau's silent for a moment longer than Shane expects. "Nah," he says eventually. "Roz has made it pretty clear that shit's not on the menu."

"Really?" 

"For sure," Marleau says, and then quickly, "which is like, whatever. Obviously. No big deal."

It strikes Shane that Marleau's seen him in some pretty vulnerable positions this evening, and hasn't once abused the privilege—well, not more than Shane actively wanted to be abused, anyway. So he doesn't call bullshit on this, even though there's a ragged depth to Marleau's voice which makes it sound like a slightly bigger deal than he's admitting. 

"Oh, okay," Shane says instead. "I guess Ilya's got, uh, some pretty strong protective instincts. When it comes to me." 

"No, for sure, I get it," Marleau says, so breezily that Shane is positive that he doesn't. 

And fucking hell, Marleau really must be telegraphing for Shane to be picking up this vibe. Or perhaps Shane is overly locked in. He tries again: "Ilya doesn't want me feeling left out."

"For sure." It's the verbal equivalent of a shrug. 

"But that's why," Shane says, overtaken by a burning need to insist. "That's the only reason. It's got nothing to do with… not wanting to. I bet he does want to," he finishes, more sure than ever. 

"Maybe," Marleau says, gentle but firm, as if his attention has totally moved on from this unimportant topic. "Guess we'll find out in Montreal."

"Guess we will," Shane says. Then actually hears himself, his voice turning wondering in the darkness. "It's not that long away now. One more week."

"One more week," Marleau agrees. Any trace of weirdness has gone from his voice again. "Yo, so good luck with your game, if I don't catch you first. You're up against Buffalo, right?"

"Right," Shane says, and finds himself hoping that this won't be the last he hears from Marleau before that game. "We're gonna destroy them." 

"Bet."

"Just watch."

"Oh, I will be glued to the screen."

All at once, Shane doesn't want to end the call. And as he thinks quickly on how to stall, a daring, irresistible curiosity rises. "Uh, would it be weird if—I mean, wait." He tries again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"What do you see in Ilya?"

Marleau chuckles, a delicious warm sound in the darkness, but then his words land like a carelessly tossed grenade. "That son of a bitch? No idea! Biggest jackass in Boston."

Fuck. A familiar tense resignation floods through Shane; it had been a stupid weak impulse to ask. No one else sees Ilya like he does, probably never will. How fucking idiotic to think a casual hook-up will—

Marleau heaves a blustery sigh. "Nah, I'm kidding, obviously," he says, and Shane goes very still. "He's just an awesome guy, isn't he? So funny. So real. The sorta captain you can get behind and rely on, but also, like, not a day goes by he doesn't crack me up."

Shane holds his breath, for fear of making a single noise and interrupting this rare, precious flow. 

Marleau gives a rueful chuckle. "And now I find out that, alongside that fat ass and legendary dick game, he's got a beautiful cock-sucking mouth to go with it? What the fuck, dude! It's a lot. I mean, you're gonna know what I'm talking about, right? He's already a real one, and now he's a demon in the sack too? And leaves you wanting more... He's fucking kryptonite, y'know?" 

"Yeah," Shane whispers, floating above himself, blissed out beyond belief at hearing these words from another living human being. He gets it. Of all fucking people, Cliff Marleau gets it. 

"I mean, you both are," Marleau adds, hasty now, stumbling slightly. "Fuck, never mind. I don't mean anything by it. But, yeah – Roz is the whole package. End of story. Did that answer your question?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," Shane says, underselling it, beaming in the darkness. Someone else sees – really sees – Ilya. It feels so good. "Um, is there anything you wanna ask me? "

There's another silence, but this time Shane doesn't second-guess himself. 

"I dunno, man," Marleau says eventually. "Just, I guess, how have you guys managed to keep it secret so long? It must suck so bad."

Shane groans. "Yeah, it's brutal," he says. "Sometimes I think I'm going insane. But there's no other option right now."

"But you've been at this, what, better part of a decade?"

So Ilya must have shared their story; the bare bones, at least. Maybe more. It gives Shane a curious exhilaration to imagine Ilya having that conversation—finally confiding in his best friend. Before all this Shane would've assumed that Marleau would be the absolute worst person to tell. Now… it's a little different. 

"Yeah, pretty much," he says. "Since the summer before our rookie season."

Marleau exhales a disbelieving laugh. "That's insane. How'd you never get caught?" 

"Major paranoia?" he says lightly, so as not to end the conversation on a massive downer. He finds himself speaking through a huge yawn. "And uh – sorry – not seeing each other very often, I guess. And when we do see each other, we're careful." 

"Crazy. I'd slip up for sure."

"Nah, you'll get used to it," Shane says sleepily, and then freezes. "I mean, uh…" A neat, non-incriminating end to the sentence eludes him. If this keeps happening? Whatever this is? Fuck.

Incredibly, Marleau lets it go. "You sound blitzed," he says. "Wanna call it here?" 

"Prob'bly best," Shane agrees, feeling like he's sinking deeper into the bed, falling gently but steadily; like he'd struggle even to coordinate his finger reaching all the way to tap his phone. "See you next week." 

"Not if I see ya first," Marleau says, and the call drops; silence.

Shane succumbs to the falling sensation, melting toward sleep. One week. One week! Ilya coming here; Marleau coming here. Though to a hotel, not to Shane's bedroom, he thinks. Probably. Though Marleau's seen his bedroom twice now; what's the harm in him coming here? It's more private. Much more incriminating if they do get spotted somehow, though. Basically impossible to explain why either of them would come to Shane Hollander's house, let alone both of them together. A hotel feels simpler, easier. Maybe hotel this time, and then next time… huh. 

On the teetering edge of consciousness, it seems obvious to Shane that there will be a next time. There could be lots of next times. The thought doesn't even scare him. Which, in turn, is kinda scary. Because what if Marleau calls it off, once they've finally, properly hooked up? Once he's crossed them off his bucket list. What if that's it? 

Fuck, that could easily happen. 

Shane makes a mental note to prepare himself for every potential outcome on this. If that call-back just now showed him anything, it's that Shane is not too good at predicting this man. He tells himself he's got to be ready for the very real possibility that, after Montreal, Marleau will realize he's done with them—regardless of whether, or not, Shane and Ilya are done with him in return. 

His final thought, as he drifts off to sleep, is that that would suck. But… that's the world of casual sex, right? A world Shane is not too familiar with, thankfully. 

Because sneaking up on him, like a distant rumble of thunder right through his solar plexus, it’s occurring to him: they actually need to be really fucking careful here. Because casual or not, recurrent or not, this is starting to feel like it has the potential to hurt. And if it doesn't wind up hurting... what else might it do?

Chapter 3: Go time

Chapter Summary

Shane’s getting better at asking for what he wants; Ilya and Marly are getting better at giving it to him.

Chapter Notes

I’ve gone ahead and split the final sex scene because it is 12k long and I figure you guys may need a hydration break. But rest assured, the whole thing is written, just whittling away the final team edits now. 🙏

Shane wakes up to a buzzing noise. An intermittent, muted buzzing noise that nevertheless tugs at his dreamy unconsciousness until it falls away. 

Texting, that's a texting noise. Who is texting him?

He scrubs his hand across his eyes, squinting as he holds the phone above his head, and laughs. 

Ilya is texting. 

Ilya is texting right now, and has been for some time.

Shane scrolls back up.

08:03 So?

08:03 How was it?

08:04 Shane.

08:06 Shane.

08:10 Wake up! 

08:11 I've got to leave for airport in 20 min. Need to know what happened FIRST. 

08:15 Shane

08:15 Don't make me call you 

08:16 S

08:16 H

08:16 A

08:16 N

08:16 E

The three dots are still bobbing. Shane waits, transfixed, to see what's coming next. 

08:17 Okay I'm going to shower WITHOUT KNOWING i hope you are happy. did he keep you up very late?

Shane sits up in bed and presses call. 

"Hey!" Ilya's startled triumph is a joy for his eardrums. 

"Hey."

"You're not asleep." 

"No thanks to you."

"No thanks to Marly, you mean," Ilya retorts. "C'mon, you have two minutes to make me jealous."

"I don't want to make you jealous," Shane protests. 

"…or I'm taking phone in shower with me," Ilya says.

"That sounds unwise."

"What is unwise is going to airport with massive hard-on due to someone getting secretive all of a sudden." 

His voice is joking but there is a tiny glimmer of something else there, the genuine discomfort of not knowing. 

"Okay fine, edited highlights reel," Shane says and Ilya practically purrs down the phone at him. "Uh, he was on the couch, I was in bed. He never got fully undressed, actually. I got naked. He kind of… teased me with it, before getting his dick out. Had me—" His own morning erection is perking up at this, but he ruthlessly ignores it. This is about Ilya. Don't get distracted. "—like, beg for it?" 

"Marly," Ilya crows, sounding impressed.

"Yeah. It was awesome."

"I bet your mouth was watering." 

"Yeah," Shane admits, and drops a hand into his lap, just toying through the covers. Feeling his hard length push up against his hand. "And he ordered me around a little. Not like you," he adds quickly, "not, um, expertly. Like… like he was just spitballing ideas. But some of it was really hot." 

"He's an ideas guy." Yeah, that's Ilya's aroused voice. 

Shane shifts in bed, his own voice dropping. "Yeah. And we talked, kinda."

"About sex stuff?"

"Yeah, totally," Shane says, even as his mind flashes back to Marleau's gruff voice saying, 'He's fucking kryptonite, y'know?' He clears his throat. "Like, we were beating off and talking about what we want to happen in Montreal. What he wants." He laughs shakily. "Uh, same thing, as it happens." 

"Let me guess," Ilya says, the words turning feather-light with breathy effort, "he wants to rail you in front of your boyfriend?"

"With, actually."

"Hm?" Ilya's openly panting now, and Shane can visualize him easily, bulging shoulder moving as he strokes himself, all rhythmic rapid exertion. 

Shane grins. "He wants to rail me with you," he says, and that's not gonna be news to Ilya, surely, but Ilya groans like it is. 

"Fuck, Shane."

Okay, so there's a button to push here. "Can you imagine?" Shane murmurs, starting to move his own hand, but much more measured, meeting Ilya's rhythm about three-to-one. 

Ilya's voice is interrupted by his own gasps. "All week, this is all I can imagine."

Shane's gaze hits the clock on his bedside table. 08:21. "Are you close?"

"Y-yeah."

"Thinking about fucking me with Marly, sharing me…"

"Yeah, fuck."

"Every position."

"Yeah—"

Shane wets his lips. "So I was thinking."

"—Mm?" Even now, when by Shane's calculation Ilya's on the brink of coming, he's alert to Shane's suggestive tone, like he knows this is going to be good. Well, Shane thinks it will be. 

Shane tries to keep his voice casual, confident, captivating. "You know, if that's what we're thinking of doing, like, going all in – a really wild night – like, no holes barred…"

Ilya laughs and groans at the same time, breath shivering.

"…would it be worth, like, asking him, um. I mean we don't have to. This is just an idea."

"Shane." He sounds like a man on the edge of a ravine. 

"I was just wondering if it would be hot to see if he wants to… uh, not to wear a condom," Shane says, and then rushes on, squeezing his own cock hard, "so you guys could, like, both feel everything. Do everything."

"Fuck. Fuck," Ilya hisses. 

"And like, feel each other's dicks at all times, even… during…"

Ilya makes a low noise that isn't even a curse, and then just stops breathing for a moment. There's a momentary total silence, and then Ilya's groaning, "—uh, fuck," soft and heartfelt, awash with familiar satisfaction.

Yeah, that's it. 

And… hm. Normally Shane feels nothing but achievement when he's helped Ilya come, but this time a tendril of uncertainty starts winding around his throat almost immediately afterward. 

Shane replays his own words and swallows. Now Ilya's gotten off, now he's not actively jerking himself to Shane's ideas any more, this line of thought seems abruptly more crazy than hot. Even if he can't stop picturing it—holding both their hard, naked dicks in his hands, slicking them with lube, stroking them together, getting them ready. 

"Or maybe not," Shane puts in, hastily; he can hear Ilya recovering now, his laboured breathing gradually coming under control. "It's probably a bad idea, isn't it? Sends the wrong signals."

Ilya's breathing changes again, hitching and then—he's laughing hysterically. "Fucking hell, Shane," he gasps, between bouts of laughter. "You make me chase two years to fuck you, then three more years before we do that. And you offer it up to Marly on second night?"

Shane makes a noise of disagreement, cheeks blazing. "Technically, fourth night."

"Three weeks! Five years!"

"No, no, you're right, I don't know what I was thinking," Shane mumbles; he can hear Ilya is still laughing but has he touched a nerve? 

"You are thinking it will be hot." 

Dimly, Shane notices the tense change. Maybe it's Ilya just not bothering with tenses. But maybe it's on purpose. He worries his lip between his teeth. His cock is no less hard. "Yeah." 

"So," Ilya says, brisk now. Too brisk. Cheerful, almost.

Shane's eyes go wide. "What?"

"So, I will ask," Ilya says, as if he's talking about checking the weather, and Shane hears the muffled noises of him jumping up and clattering about. "Now I have to shower." 

Shane's eyes dart back to the clock. 08:24. "Wait, what do you mean you'll ask—?"

He hears a clunk of the phone getting set down somewhere, then a call alert to switch to video. 

"No, is fine," Ilya calls, from further away, his voice echoing now. "We will have lots of time, waiting around at airport." 

Shane accepts the switch to video in time to hear the water come on. As the picture loads he can see Ilya's on the other side of the bathroom from the phone now – it must be on the sink – already in the shower, quickly washing. It's giving Shane a gorgeous view of him behind a glass shower wall. Spotlights in the ceiling highlight his wet, muscled shoulders and trim waist as he turns beneath the spray, tipping his head back to rinse his hair. Steam is already rising around him, giving the scene a beautiful, otherworldly glimmer. 

The sight of him takes Shane's breath away, but there'd be no point in saying anything even if he could muster words – he can't be heard over the running water. And he can't even jerk off to it, he's just staring, transfixed. Ilya looks like a movie star, a modern Adonis; too fucking perfect to be real. 

After precisely 45 seconds, Ilya's finished. He dries off roughly, wraps a towel round his waist, retrieves the phone. His face is flushed and damp, curls darkened against his forehead. He grins at Shane through the phone. "Enjoying the view?" 

Shane grins back at him. "I want that view as my screensaver."

"Yes please," Ilya says, heading back out the bathroom. It gives Shane an insane feeling to recognize the neutral decor of the hotel room swinging into view behind him; it's the same as Marleau's hotel room. Obviously. Because they are in the same hotel. There's the couch. There's the coffee table in front of it. Oh shit, there's the bed – so it's all one living space, but Marleau chose the couch for calling Shane, is there anything in that? Or is Shane just overthinking this now?

Ilya's already packed; he props the phone on some other table while he quickly gets dressed. Airport clothes, comfy but sleek. Shane watches, not even touching himself any more, just basking in the gentle domesticity of sharing Ilya's space while he gets ready to go. He watches Ilya check himself in a mirror, watches his hands smooth over his damp curls, schooling them into some kind of oblique order. Ilya applies cologne before slipping the bottle into his training bag, then hoists it on his shoulder and circles back to the phone. As he approaches, Shane imagines tucking his face into Ilya's neck and breathing him in, flooding his senses with the alcohol-tinged bite of freshly applied cologne melting into the warm, familiar scent of Ilya's recently washed skin. A different type of mouthwatering. 

Fuck, and Ilya's about to see Marleau. Not just see him – talk to him, hang out with him. Share knowing glances with him. Fuck, possibly ask him Shane's question. 

08:28. 

"I have to go," Ilya says, holding the phone so his face is framed. He's not shaved and there's a faint blond shadow coating his jaw. Shane wants to bite him. 

"I know."

"So, you want me to talk to Marly?"

Shane's been awake for exactly eleven minutes, and feels like he's experienced twenty different emotions in that time. "I don't know what I want." 

"Is okay," Ilya says, with a little nod. "I will feel him out. No problem." 

"Okay." 

"Only thing is…" Ilya's eyes widen for emphasis, shapely lips twitching, "if I ask him this, you are right, it does send signal. Like, I get it's hot, it's a sex thing, but you must know as well – is not a casual thing to ask." 

"I know." 

"So if that bothers you…" 

It's 08:29. There isn't time for Shane to hedge about this. He nods. "I know. But I have been thinking about it—" A lot. "—and already I was thinking it's… not casual, really, any more. Is it?" He steadies his voice. "I think we left casual in the rearview mirror with that test-drive." With Ilya writhing on Marleau's dick while Shane came all over himself, four fingers deep, yeah. "Um, and I didn't get a chance to mention it yet, but last night he called me back. After."

"What?! Ohh, sly dog," Ilya laughs, eyes sparkling. "Textbook. He guarantee you go to sleep thinking of him." He lowers his voice to an overdone, husky Bostonian accent. "Sweet dreams, Hollzy." 

Shane snorts at the impression, but shakes his head. "I really don't think it was a move. But it was nice."

"Mmm. Maybe," Ilya allows. "Okay, good to know he is treating you very nicely. So… this goodnight call is why you do U-turn from one-night-stand to letting him hit it raw?" 

Yeah, put like that it sounds insane. 

"No!" Shane protests, and Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Maybe. I don't know. It just felt like… more than just hooking up." 

"And do you want more than just hooking up?" 

"I don't know! Do you?" 

Ilya hesitates. "I don't want to fuck up what we have," he says. "But I… already like him. What matters to me is if you like him." 

"So far I do." 

"Okay! Okay, so. Wow." Ilya's eyes crinkle at the edges, and Shane wants to kiss him so badly he can taste it. "Fuck, I gotta go." 

"I know." 

"Team call me lots of names when I make us miss plane." 

"I get it." 

"One last thing though," Ilya says, and his voice goes teasing, sarcastic. "Is important I warn you. You do not know power of your own hole, so let me make it very clear. If you let Marly fuck you bare, there is very real chance he will get obsessed with you."

Like he is with you? Shane doesn't say that, even as his mind fills with pictures. He's remembering Ilya during the Boston test-drive, leaning into his first onscreen kiss with Marleau so eagerly that he dropped the phone. He's remembering the last thing he saw on that call, after they finished: Ilya, gazing at Shane through the camera, fuck-drunk and starry-eyed; and sprawled next to him, Marleau, who couldn't stop looking at Ilya's face. Shane hears Marleau's voice in his ear again, from last night, late, low: Roz is the whole package. End of story. 

"Oh yeah?" Shane keeps it deadpan. "Scary. But on the other hand, it'd be hot as fuck, so I think I'll take that chance." 

Ilya laughs. "Never change, Shane Hollander," he says, and winks before he cuts the call. 

Shane stares down at the mound of his neglected erection beneath the covers. His heart is racing in his throat again; there’s a a sense that he's set something big and unstoppable in motion. And he could text Ilya back, of course, tell him to wait, stop, play it safer in every conceivable way. 

But he doesn't. 

He reaches under the covers, his patience burning off all at once. Disjointed sounds and images overwhelm him as he closes his fingers around his dick, his own personal edited highlights real: do you like facials; Ilya slamming his ass back against Marleau's hips, taking him to the hilt; Hollander's dick-sucking masterclass; Marleau outlining the thick line of his cock in his blue jeans; he wants to rail you in front of your boyfriend; the weight of Marleau's dick on his tongue being the only point of contact between them; why don't you go ahead and show me that hole of yours; and then he's right back in that first night, reliving it, taking them both, his ass full, his mouth full, his body straining to keep up as they pound him—

What makes him come, suddenly, is imagining being blindfolded and cuffed to a bed, and hearing them talk about him; about how pretty he looks, how helpless, how hard; knowing he's been spread out for them to share at their leisure; hearing them discuss which hole to use, since it's their choice, not his. He's wondering if he'll even be able to recognize who is doing what, without being able to see, or if he'll have to work out whose cock is pushing into him from first principles: from the noises he knows Ilya makes when he bottoms out, from the slightly broader grip of Marleau's hands, from their differing bulk on top of him as they take what they want from him, as hard as they like, as often as they like; coming on him and inside him, the whole night long; or just warming their dicks in him, kissing each other until they're ready to fuck him all over again.

Yeah, that does it.

Shane comes into his tight fist without making a mess, because he's not going to send Ilya any pictures this time. Not while Ilya's literally heading to the airport right this moment, surrounded by his team, including Marleau, no; Shane's not sending any pictures of this. This one was just for him.

His gaze falls on his bedside clock again. It's Saturday, and totally time to get up; he's got a million things to do today, work things, fitness things. More than enough to take his mind off this situation, surely. They're playing Buffalo on Thursday, and then Ilya's arriving Friday, and then… well, then the fun will begin. 

Shane has just about started to think about something else by mid-afternoon, when Ilya's text arrives.

He said yes

Shane stares at the message. What?

Ilya's already typing. He tested recently, and he will test again, but he said he hardly fuck anyone else since us.

Shane rereads it several times to make sure. Wow, okay

Ilya: And he always use protection before you. But you, he doesn't mind knocking up because he knows I will take care of everything 

Shane: fucking hell

Ilya sends back several laughing emojis. It was long flight. we sat next to each other.

Shane takes a moment to process that, the hours of no doubt flirty camaraderie this particular flight must have involved. He types: and…?

Ilya: And nothing! just talk. and look. 

Shane: were you hard the whole flight?

Ilya: yes

Shane: was he?

Ilya: I didn't ask

Shane: guess

Ilya: yes.

Shane: but you weren't tempted to sneak off together? 

Ilya: tempted, maybe. but we did not. Anyway, mile high club is not so appealing when both guys are over 6 foot. 

Okay. Okay. 

It's on. 

Friday. 

Ilya arrives on Friday evening and it's good, it's wonderful, having him back in Shane's arms where he belongs. They barely talk, racing upstairs and falling straight into bed together, Shane trying to get naked and wrap his legs around Ilya's waist at the earliest opportunity, while Ilya seems determined to kiss him all over first.

Eventually Ilya pins him down on the bed, wrists gripped. "Wait. You must let me revisit all my favorite places first."

Shane grins up at him as he tests the hold, finds it rigid. Ilya's cock is a hard brand against his stomach, placed frustratingly out of reach of Shane's own cock, and the heavy slant of Ilya's hips is denying Shane any leverage to guide it down between his thighs instead. 

"You could do that after," Shane points out. "Or during?"

"I am not that flexible," Ilya teases, plotting a too-slow trail of kisses along Shane's neck. 

Shane shivers and wriggles under him, running his foot up the back of Ilya's thigh. "I just can't wait to have you inside me. It's been twenty four days." 

Ilya makes a rumbling noise against his ear. "This is good point," he says, but his mouth keeps moving, nipping Shane's earlobe, sucking along the angle of his jaw. "But you may be out of practice. I don't want to rush you."

"You're not rushing me!"

"Still…" Ilya draws back to smirk at him, his voice velvety soft. "What do they say…? Tonight you will be worshiped, for tomorrow you will be ruined."

A bolt of heat goes through Shane so hard he shudders. "Who says that?!" he demands. "No one says that…"

Ilya's smirk deepens. "I say that."

Shane gazes up at him, momentarily lost for words. "Okay," he says at last, and then, when Ilya ducks and kisses his neck again, stretches out deliriously beneath him. Worshiped then ruined. "Okay…" 

By the time Ilya's reached his opposite collarbone, though, the novelty of being worshiped has worn off. Shane just wants to be fucked, please.

"Mmm," he hums, and tries again to spread his legs, lock Ilya's hips in place. He can feel Ilya's cock pressing into his belly, unmoving. "Oh, please…" 

"Mmm," Ilya replies, with a gentle brush of his teeth along Shane's collarbone. The sensitive hollow of his underarm is visited next, making Shane squirm, and then Ilya's tongue traces his bicep and Shane lets out a wavering little moan. 

Fuck, this is going on forever. 

And it's lovely, but he needs more – so much more. 

"Please," he tries again, rolling his hips suggestively, but Ilya simply adjusts his weight and pins him back into submission. 

That makes him need Ilya's dick more than ever. 

Inspired, Shane tries something else. "I've gotten so bored of my dildo," he says, low enough that Ilya will only just hear him. "It just doesn't compare to how hot you feel…"

Sure enough, Ilya stills on top of him, and Shane feels a little pulse go through his cock. Promising.

"…When did you use it last?" 

"An hour ago," Shane says, and feels that pulse again. "In the shower. I got one of those suction cup things for the base. 'Cos you know how much I like it hands-free."

"Shane," Ilya groans, releasing one wrist so his hand can snake down, exactly as Shane had hoped. Reaching between their bodies, diving between Shane's legs, discovering the truth of it: he's already slick there, soft. "You cannot wait."

"I really can't."

"You don't even need my finger, my mouth—I can just have you as soon as I like."

Shane tries to nudge his hole against Ilya's fingertips. "Yeah." 

"Fuck," Ilya mutters, resting his forehead briefly against Shane's neck. "I was going to go so slow, so romantic. But you are too slutty for this, aren't you?"

Eagerly, Shane nods.

"You just want me for my body," Ilya says, mock sorrowfully, and then, when Shane opens his mouth to protest, swats him on the side and speaks over him. "No! No, I understand how it is. You crave only my dick. Turn over." 

"I… I don't only crave your dick," Shane says, even as he flips onto his stomach, "but I do crave it a lot, and oh—oh," he gasps, as Ilya takes him at his word, fitting his cock against Shane's barely-touched hole and pressing firmly. And Shane hadn't been kidding about the dildo, he did use it earlier, slowly and steadily fucking himself until he was almost, almost coming – before pulling away and biting his fist, letting the rush of it ebb again – a purely preparatory exercise. But he's avoided touching himself since, beyond a perfunctory slick of lube when he heard Ilya's key in the lock, and now Ilya's cock feels huge and so hard, the slick-tipped heat of it steadily forcing inside. 

"Goddamn, you're—tell me if you want me to stop," Ilya hisses, but Shane's in heaven, his hole capitulating willingly to stretch open around him, the exquisite discomfort making his own cock strain against his stomach. He just loves it so much, that feeling of Ilya taking his place inside him, reclaiming Shane's core in one solid, steady push. 

"Nonono don't stop," Shane mumbles, thrashing weakly beneath him as Ilya slides home. "Never, ever…"

Ilya's hips come to rest against Shane's ass and he gives another deep shove, making Shane exhale sharply. 

"You need this so bad," Ilya says, wrapping an arm around Shane's chest and hauling him back against him, the inside of his strong forearm compressing Shane's throat. "One day I will make you wait, my love—but not today."

They wake up spooned together, Shane's mouth mashed against the back of Ilya's neck; plastered against the back of him from chest to thigh, his arm thrown loosely across Ilya's broad chest. Shane's morning erection is nestled right up against Ilya's perfect, naked ass. 

Even as Ilya starts to stir, he doesn't move away. 

It's not the first time Shane's awoken in this position – they usually sleep wrapped up closely in each other's arms, and they often wake horny, so Shane's experienced every possible configuration of this, dozens of times – but on normal mornings they both move wordlessly toward one of their more traditional alignments as soon as they surface from sleep. 

Shane contemplates this, nudging his cock more securely into the warm firm crease between Ilya's cheeks, breath held for any sudden or negative reaction. He realizes he doesn't know what Ilya would normally do, doesn't know if anything has changed—since. Isn't sure if anything has changed inside himself, knowing Ilya might actually like it if Shane pressed harder, thrust against him, rolled on top. 

He reaches down, fingers dancing along the relaxed ridges of Ilya's stomach before they encounter his cock, already chubby, rising fast. Shane smiles and coaxes him to an impressive hardness before Ilya even fully rouses, and waits to see what might happen.

He doesn't want… well, he doesn't know what he wants, besides the obvious, which is for Ilya to roll over and fuck him through the mattress. But aside from that… he's not sure. 

Ilya makes a contented noise, and then shifts languidly, causing a truly magical pressure against Shane's cock, lingering in an elongated moment of promise—and then Ilya leans up and reaches for the lube. Moments later his slick fingers find Shane's where they're wrapped around Ilya's cock, and he helps Shane stroke him, coat him, rocking restlessly into Shane's slippery grasp, before eventually rolling onto his back and beckoning Shane up onto his lap. 

Shane clambers on top of him, straddling him with an odd relief that is tinged with—something. It's not as obvious as disappointment, because he doesn't harbor some secret desire to fuck Ilya – doesn't particularly want to fuck anyone if the option of being fucked is also available – but it's still undeniably exciting to think about… evolving possibilities. 

He stares down at Ilya's familiar, beautiful face, hard-edged with aroused intent. 

"Did you like that?" Shane asks, pitching his voice low, gathering Ilya's cock against his own and starting to stroke them together with both hands. 

"What?" 

"Feeling me pressing against you." 

"Always," Ilya says, which isn't quite what Shane meant. 

He grins and tries again, squeezing them together on the upstroke and the downstroke. "Did it, uh, make you think of him?"

Ilya blinks up at him owlishly, his jaw dropping. For a moment it looks like he's forgotten the entirety of the English language. "Who? What?" 

"Marleau, obviously."

"You say it like you are talking about a wine."

He's not getting off that easily. "Marly," Shane says, trying the word out on his tongue. It feels sort of over-familiar, which is hilarious when he thinks about it. He smiles, moving his hands more slowly. "Did it remind you of him, feeling me pressed up against you like that?"

Ilya shakes his head a little. "Niet. Everything about you reminds me of you, and how lucky I am." 

"Flatterer." 

"Is truth," Ilya protests.

"Okay. So what were you thinking, when you first woke up?"

Ilya's eyes narrow as if in thought, or possibly in response to Shane's fingers making a firm loop around the heads of their cocks and rubbing tightly up and down. "Ohh," Ilya exhales, nudging his hips up rhythmically, causing Shane to lurch side-to-side on top of him. "Fuck. Feels good." 

"Answer the question."

"Yes, okay? I liked it." 

Shane feels his grin broaden. "That wasn't the question."

Ilya glares at him, slightly unfocused as Shane's hands keep moving. Shane's own pleasure is a heap of smoldering coals in the base of his belly, flaring with each squeeze of his fingers but manageable, predictable. He can keep a lid on that while he's wringing the truth out of Ilya. 

"Did you think about Marly," Shane repeats, working to keep his voice measured, "when you were just waking up, and you were backing your ass up against my dick?"

Ilya's eyes flare with amused delight, but still he shakes his head. "Niet. Only you."

Shane laughs with exasperation. "And what were you thinking about me?"

"I was thinking," Ilya says, and the laughter melts away, replaced by something sultry, thoughtful, "the only way Shane would fuck me is if I tie him down and ride him, maybe with plug in his ass for safekeeping." 

"Fuck," Shane says, the rest of his words burning away like water sizzling off a hot pan. "Uh. Wow." 

"Or maybe in your sleep," Ilya muses. His hands reach up and enclose Shane's, moving them on their dicks again, building the pace. "This I could imagine, while your guard is down, your dick is hard, all you want is to feel good…"

"Wow," Shane repeats, the coals igniting all at once, a roaring inferno blanketing his insides. The lid has totally fallen off his control, and his slick hands separate, one stroking them harder, the other reaching back to smear some lube across his asshole. "But do you—do you want me to fuck you?"

"Not today," Ilya says carelessly, as if his eyes aren't tracking Shane's every move. "Today I want to be inside you where I belong. But if one day you wake up and think, I wish to try this, then," he shrugs, "I wish you would tell me." 

"I will," Shane says hoarsely, kneeling up over him. "Believe me, I will."

"Mmh?"

"And if you ever wanna do one of those other things, you know—" Tie him down and ride him, with a plug in his ass"—then you definitely could. Without asking permission."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah."

"Are you gonna sit on my dick now?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy," Ilya says, and lies back folding his wrists behind his head, all cocksure insouciance as Shane straddles him, lining himself up. "Go on," he murmurs, watching with knowing dark eyes. "Take what you need from me."

The smug look falls off Ilya's face within seconds, as Shane sits down on his cock so hard he sees stars, and begins to ride. 

The future Irina Foundation stakeholders' meeting is scheduled for mid-afternoon, in a placid, gray-clad, civilized building full of placid, gray-clad, civilized employees. Ilya and Shane arrive separately, of course, in suits, of course; being professional, polite to each other, friendly but not too friendly. Not sitting too close or looking at each other too long. 

It's a good, productive meeting; there are graphs and project scope charts and official agreement that their goals fulfill a charitable purpose beneficial to the community; it feels like they're setting up something real, building something solid, reaching the right people. 

Afterward there are firm handshakes and friendly nodding, fond smiles. Ilya, in particular, seems to have made a great impression. 

"And what'll you boys do now?" the project manager asks, waiting for the guy to return their coats. 

For all it's been a warm, encouraging meeting, this question puts Shane instantly on the spot. "Uh, I don't know – no plans, really," he says and sniffs. He needs to not say, We're waiting for his friend to arrive for group sex. He needs to not even think it. But now, he is thinking it. Fuck, how loud are his thoughts?

He can feel Ilya looking at him. "We will go for a beer."

"Right, right," Shane says, trying to take the cue but feeling clumsy about it. "Or maybe a ginger ale."

Ilya gives a short laugh. "This guy. Life and soul of party."

Fuck off, Shane starts to say, but that's not the professional tone he wants to strike, so he winds up just huffing like he's exasperated, and clapping his hand on Ilya's shoulder. Even this tiny contact makes his whole body feel more solid, more warm, and then Ilya slants a look at him that feels explosively obvious, like he's hired a sky-writer to emblazon property of Ilya Rozanov above Shane's head. 

"Anyway, is good to meet you," Ilya continues to the woman, smoothly, with one last handshake before he folds his coat over his arm. "Thanks again. C'mon, Hollander, I will buy you ginger ale – my treat." 

Shane tries to look like a normal, polite yet disinterested colleague as he follows Ilya out. Not looking at him, though Ilya's shoulders are distractingly huge in his tailored jacket, and even without looking Shane is acutely aware of how his suit pants hug the curve of his ass as he walks. Every stride feels longer than usual; he's having to adjust his own pace to keep up. 

"What's the rush?" he mutters, as they emerge into rapidly-cooling daylight, the first blush of sunset streaking the sky above their heads. 

Ilya looks at him, and Shane's stomach flips. 

"He's landed." 

Just this once, Shane lets Ilya drive.

The hotel is shiny, modern, discreet. In the overnight parking zone, Shane feels reassuringly anonymous, just one of a hundred cars lined up. But when Ilya suggests they both go meet Marleau in the hotel bar, he cringes. 

"No. Absolutely not." 

Ilya chuckles. "Believe me, is better option. Is like, cover story."

"No, but it doesn't make sense. You guys meeting up, fine, you're on the same team, you're friends, no one would question that. And us meeting up, now we're creating the context of the charity, that's starting to be occasionally okay too. But all three of us getting a drink? Makes no sense. Like – why would I ever come meet your teammate at a hotel bar?"

"For sex, obviously," Ilya says, and even in the privacy of his own locked car, securely obscured by black-out windows, Shane hunches his shoulders and glances quickly around. Ilya blows out an amused breath. "Come on. You are making big deal of nothing. Much bigger story if we are papped sneaking in and going straight upstairs."

Shane's voice jumps up the register. "You think we're gonna get papped?" His chest tightens.

"No! Well. Maybe. You never know."

"We can't do this," Shane says, suddenly convinced. His stomach squirms into one big knot. "It's too risky. Text him, tell him to get a cab to my place instead. This is crazy. This—"

Ilya's hand cups his jaw, and Shane's words break off; he closes his eyes and nuzzles his face against it, leaning in to the steady warmth of Ilya's palm. Instantly better.

"Is fine," Ilya says, stroking his thumb against Shane's ear. "Marly is already in hotel bar. I will join him, one beer. Check all good with him. You can come too, or wait here – I'll text you when we're going up."

"I think I'd better wait here," Shane mumbles. "Less… conspicuous." 

Ilya is silent for a moment. Then he says softly, "You know, is not too late to cancel."

Shane's eyes fly open, startled. "No!" 

Ilya is watching him very closely. "No?" 

"No way," Shane says, emphatic now. "No, I just—no. Don't you dare cancel. I'm just full of adrenaline. I'll be fine once we're in the room."

Ilya watches a few seconds longer, then gives a little nod. "Okay. Here," he adds, pulling a ball cap out the glove compartment and tapping Shane on the head with it. "Disguise."

"Thanks," Shane says, pulling it on and tugging it low. That also feels better. He chews his lip. "Okay, you go, I'll come in when you text. Just… if anyone's sitting near you, make sure you talk loudly about going out tonight, okay? Like, talk about meeting the guys, or maybe say you're in town for a bachelor party – throw off suspicion, y'know?" 

"Okay," Ilya says, clearly humoring him. "But I swear, no one sees me and Marly together and thinks we're hooking up. Is literally the last thing they would think." 

"Depends what looks you give him," Shane says, under his breath. 

Ilya's eyebrows shoot up. "What?" 

Shane matches his expression. "What?"

"I do not do this."

"Sure, okay." 

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Is just one drink, Shane. I think I can manage one drink without giving Marly looks." 

The texts come, one after another, in quick succession. 

Ilya: I take it back. code red. he is wearing the shirt. 

Marleau: you're hiding in the car now? low blow!

Ilya: this was terrible idea. whose idea was this? 

Marleau: come on, get in here, no one is looking. except your boy here who is looking FINE

Ilya: I swear if he take one big breath whole thing will pop open. 

Marleau: what's your order, let me get you a drink 

Ilya: If you don't come in next five minutes I cannot be held responsible for actions. this fucking shirt! 

Shane texts them both at once:  Elevator?

Shane doesn't take his cap off until the elevator doors close, enclosing the three of them in a swanky box of mirrors. 

They're all here, at last. Seeing the pair of them waiting for him by the sliding doors had felt insane. 

Ilya hadn't been lying about the shirt; Marleau strikes a devastatingly casual figure in form-fitting blue jeans and a straining button-down, greeting Shane with a fist-bump and a sharkish grin; next to him, looking admittedly damn fine in his suit, Ilya is a picture of curt, Slavic perfection. 

Shane's palms are actually sweating as he takes his hat off, looks up to check for cameras. 

"So—" Marleau starts, grinning, but Shane points at a suspicious black lens on the ceiling, shakes his head. 

"Not yet."

"No?" Marleau glances at Ilya. "Awesome. Love that spy shit." 

"Hollander is very… careful," Ilya says, neglecting to mention the hundred times already this year they've thrown caution to the wind and kissed somewhere they shouldn't. But that's different. They are literally on camera right now. If Shane gets up close and personal, like he wants, with that poor, straining button holding together the edges of Marleau's painted-on shirt, that footage is going viral even before they hit the top floor. 

"Just sensible," Shane croaks, averting his gaze, but that's worse, because the mirrors show them all in profile, all thick throats and strong jaws and broad, slanting shoulders. It's inescapable, they're all big men, and it feels crowded in here, hot. 

Shane's getting really, really hot. 

"What floor are we going to, anyway?" 

Ilya glances at the ceiling. "Penthouse." 

"What?" Shane hisses. 

Ilya shrugs. "What?" 

Shane keeps his voice down. "It's just…" Shane gives Ilya a meaningful look. "Isn't that also a little… conspicuous?"

At long last the mirrored doors swish open, releasing them into an elegant, slate-and-navy anteroom.

Ilya's keycard swipes open the only door in sight. 

"What?" Ilya asks, leading them inside, his voice returning to normal volume. "Is for cover story, no?" He nods back at Marleau. "Now thanks to our chat back there in bar, everyone thinks me and Marly are going to bachelor party – maybe we plan to hook up with lots of girls and bring them back for hot tub afterparty, no? What's wrong with that?" 

Shane scowls. "I hate hot tubs."

Ilya grins. "Hot tub is not for you."

"You might come around to them if we try and persuade you," Marleau suggests, and Shane shivers, abruptly and viscerally reminded of what they're here for. 

He overtakes Ilya and walks into the living area of the hotel suite, which has been done pretty nicely, actually, as these things go. They're up really high and the view's incredible. Some music's playing, nothing Shane recognizes, but it's got a beat, and it's not too sexy; he thinks it's music they'd put on for people going out for the night, not people going straight to bed. Hang-out music, not orgy music. There's a magnum of champagne in a cooler and six glasses, which makes Shane feel better as well; the hotel definitely thinks Rozanov's crew is here to party, that's what guys like them are known for. Not for having painstakingly scheduled, illicit gay sex.

He turns to say this to the others, and catches the tail end of an exchanged look between them. Marleau's dark eyes are still directing a question at Ilya, and as Shane looks over, Ilya nods. 

"Okay," Marleau says, and Shane's attention snaps to him. His deep voice has a catch to it, not quite as easy-going as usual, but he looks a vision of masculine nonchalance. "So back in the bar," he says, waving a hand between himself and Ilya, "we were saying, y'know, what's the first thing you're gonna do when you get up here? Like, what have you been thinking about, looking forward to. And I've gotta say, Hollzy, the first thing I wanna do is… this."

He walks over to Shane, slow enough that Shane could back off if he wanted – Shane stays rooted to the floor – and leans in with a slight smile, and kisses him. 

And it's—fuck! It's everything. Shane feels like the world explodes beneath his feet as he stumbles forward, as Marleau's tongue slides into Shane's mouth, his hands closing on Shane's waist, backing him against a nearby table and pushing a leg between his thighs. Marleau kisses like it's the only thing on his mind; he's massive and eager and his hands are going everywhere, mapping Shane's shoulders and waist and ass, before dipping him back against the table like they're on a dancefloor or something.

Shane barely refrains from swooning. 

"Wow," he says, holding onto the edge of the table when Marleau releases him at last, head spinning. Fuck, he smells really good. 

"I wanted to do that last time," Marleau rasps, a wry grin tugging at his slightly reddened lips, "but I thought Roz might object."

"Thought wrong," Ilya says, and he's moving idly closer now as well, sauntering almost. Circling them. 

Marleau raises his eyebrows at Ilya, then moves his hand back onto Shane's waist. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, I could watch you make out with Shane like that all day."

"Not all day," Shane says, without thinking. He's tracking Ilya's steps like an antelope might clock an approaching lion, his skin buzzing with anticipation. 

"So pedantic," Ilya scolds, grinning as he leans close to Shane at last, and then kisses him briefly. The shape and pressure of Ilya's lips is so different from Marleau's, and Shane's breath catches at the familiar tender brush of his tongue—before Ilya draws back and leans over to kiss Marleau instead, and that is just hot. Watching their energy spike, no tenderness between them, just rapidly building friction.

Ilya's fist closes in Marleau's hair and Marleau grunts, shoving against him, the perfect collision of a rock and a hard place. Fuck, Shane wants to be trapped between them. They both look so huge, and the space separating them is vanishingly small. There really is nowhere Shane would rather be. Squeezed between their chests, fitting himself against Ilya's thigh as Marleau grinds in close behind him, fuck, he bets that would feel amazing. 

And for once, he doesn't have to just imagine it.

"Hey," Ilya murmurs, drawing back from Marleau as Shane paws at his arm. 

"Hey," Shane says, as Ilya makes space for him, stepping back and allowing Shane to insinuate himself between them. 

"Ah, yes. Is very good place for you, I think," Ilya says, pressing several slow kisses to Shane's lips before breaking off to finish his thought. "In the middle."

"Center of everything," Marleau rumbles, and starts nibbling the back of Shane's neck, and Shane tilts his head so Ilya can kiss him deeply without Marleau's attention being disturbed. 

Fuck, this is paradise. He can't remember what he was worried about. Shivers flow through him, his knees going weak. He sways, reaching blindly out for the nearby table—but his sudden unsteadiness is offset by hot powerful pressure on both sides. Two muscular bodies keeping him trapped – supported – in between them. 

It feels so fucking good, breathing them in, the familiar ozone-ice scent of Ilya's expensive cologne mixing with whatever it is Marleau's wearing. Something sharper and dirtier, intoxicating, almost metallic. So different, teasing his nose like this. 

All at once, Shane needs a deeper hit. He breaks the kiss with Ilya and shifts his weight, until Ilya gets the idea and steers him to turn around in his arms, pressing close behind and pushing Shane forward. And, yes, fuck, this. Here's Marleau, gazing down at him like an enchanted god of war, smelling like he's just rolled out from under a car in oil-streaked designer overalls. His top button has popped open, which Shane suspects Ilya had something to do with. His chest is moving as he breathes. A twinge goes through Shane's jaw as he thinks about opening his mouth against the hairy warm expanse of it, inhaling him. 

"Hollzy," Marleau says, testing. 

Shane wets his lips. "Shane." 

Challenge flickers in Marleau's expression. "Shane," he says, like a dare, and for some reason the sound of that ignites an urgent spark inside him. 

"Cliff," he says, but that feels really weird. "Or—Marly," he tries, and fuck, that slips out easily now, fits, feels right, to call him what Ilya calls him, to grasp at that closeness that Ilya effortlessly claims.

Marly's mouth crooks sideways. "Call me," he murmurs, his focus dropping to Shane's lips, "whatever you damn well please." 

The heroic remainder of Marly's buttons catch against Shane's shirt as he leans down and captures Shane's mouth again.

Shane squirms with pleasure, another of those full-body shivers going through him as his attention divides between the hot, wet slide of Marly's tongue and Ilya pressing closer behind him.

He reaches back to hold on as Ilya surges against him, making Shane aware of every lean plane of his body, interlocking with him from behind as Ilya starts a slow filthy grind against Shane's ass. Marly grunts into his mouth, and Shane realizes he's rubbing against him in turn, the trapped line of his own cock grinding against the bulge in the front of Marly's jeans. 

And they're those jeans, the ones from the other night, Shane's suddenly sure of it. He lets go of Ilya to grope Marly's hips, stroke the warm denim where it skims over his ass, his focus dropping down. Marly's definitely hard. Shane wonders how long, this time. Since the elevator? Since meeting Ilya in the bar?

He's got to feel it. 

Shane wriggles, making just enough space between their hard bodies to slide to his knees, and then presses his face against the warm, bulging denim. 

"Whoa," Marly says, from high above him now. 

"I know," Ilya replies, equally distant. 

There's near-silence as Shane shapes Marly's cock through his jeans with his mouth, just the rasp of Shane's lips against denim and Marly's breath stuttering in and out. 

Then Ilya says abruptly, to Marly, "He said you teased him with it. To be honest I am surprised he let you get through door."

Shane smiles to himself as the buzzy feeling of being talked about washes over him, and tries to focus on getting Marly out—getting both of them out. Above him, he hears the soft noises of mouths meeting. They're kissing over him, even as he gets their zippers open, carefully frees their erections, curling his fingers around each in turn. Fuck, he's got a hard dick in each hand, he's surrounded by tree-trunk thighs, and above his head they're still kissing. This is paradise.

Out of some warped sense of hospitality, he lowers his mouth to Marly's cock first, and hears the kissing noises abruptly cease. Shane doesn't look up, instead focusing on making his mouth as wet and welcoming as possible around the pink, plump, foreign-yet-familiar head of Marly's cock. Fuck, he tastes exactly like Shane remembers, so similar to Ilya and yet not Ilya. And yet Ilya is right here, watching Shane go down on him, watching Shane explore Ilya's best friend's dick while Ilya's own dick flexes within Shane's fingers. 

"Whoa," Marly's voice echoes himself, whispered now, and Ilya hums in agreement. 

Shane bobs his head down until Marly's cock is bumping the back of his mouth, testing himself – yeah, he remembers this too, fuck, he's hard with how vividly he remembers this exact fullness sliding down his throat – then makes himself pull off and redirects his focus to Ilya's cock instead. 

No, not instead. As well. 

Ilya gives an appreciative grunt as Shane lavishes the same attention on him, keeping things fair, before withdrawing and returning to Marly; tasting the fresh slick of sweetness that has beaded across the tip while Shane's mouth was otherwise occupied. 

Shane groans, sucking and licking more fervently, going back and forth. Fuck, this is incredible. No matter how deep he takes one of them, the other is always waiting, eager, throbbing in his grip. There is always more cock to suck. He feels Ilya's hand drop to cup the back of his head, not pressuring, just tousling Shane's hair as he goes to town on them. A moment later, he feels Marly's fingertips brush his cheek. He shivers happily, grinning as he sucks them in turn, gorging himself on them, starting to get into a rhythm. 

"Fuck, do you see," Ilya murmurs suddenly, "he's so fucking happy down there." 

Marly gives a strangled laugh. "Yeah, meanwhile I'm so hard I might black out."

"This is normal part of getting blown by Shane," Ilya tells him, his voice both amused and authoritative. "He will make you lose your mind."

"Bet. But I don't wanna lose it too soon," Marly says, sounding pleasingly wrecked already. 

Ilya hums. "We've got all night..." 

"Yeah, but I get the feeling he has big plans for us."

Ilya's low laugh is incredibly sexy to Shane, even now. "That is also true. Ah, fuck." 

Shane gives him another generous suck and then pauses, then looks up. "I need you to stand closer together," he says. 

They both stare back in dumb, glazed silence for a moment before hastily shifting even closer, Ilya's thigh pressing against Marly's, so that Shane can hold both their cocks in one hand. 

"Thank you," Shane says, just for the added thrill of it, of being well-mannered in this situation, and they both give tiny, incredulous laughs that modulate abruptly into groans as Shane makes a spirited effort at fitting them both in his mouth at once. 

"Ffffuck," Ilya says, as Shane holds the heads of their cocks together and lowers his mouth over them. It probably does feel hot, having Shane squeezing with his fingers, even before his mouth comes back in play. 

It feels very hot to Shane, opening wider than usual to fit them in: it's a struggle and his jaw aches immediately, the salty-slick heads pressing against each other, the shafts stretching his lips either side. He tries to apply himself, and it gets very wet, very quickly—the taste is making his mouth water but he can't get a seal around them both, can't even swallow his own spit without effort. It's not like sucking one dick where he's mostly in control at this stage. Within minutes he feels very much not in control, drooling and moaning, feeling saliva run over his fingers where he's holding them together. 

"Jesus Christ," Marly mutters, as Shane swirls his tongue, trying to lap them both at once, "fuck. Fuck!" 

"Yeah," Ilya says. 

"He—makes me wanna come in his mouth," Marly growls, and Shane would preen, if he could, at how lost Marly sounds. 

"He'd like that." Ilya's voice is gritty with effort as well. 

"But I wanna save it," Marly insists. "I wanna—fuck—I mean, if it's okay with you," he interrupts himself, rushing, almost garbled, "I really wanna fuck him, y'know, properly." 

Shane moans around his mouthful. 

"He'd like that too," Ilya translates, and Shane's mouth floods with another burst of salt-musk intensity—from Marly, he thinks, but it's turning him on a lot that he isn't certain. 

"I've been jerking off about it ever since that call," Marly says, his voice raw, "watching him fuck himself with that toy." 

"Yeah? He said he showed you." Ilya's approving voice makes Shane feel faint. "He really went to town on himself?"

"He went so hard."

"He likes it rough," Ilya agrees, which is all the warning Shane gets before Ilya presses hard on the back of his bent head, forcing him down. And there's nowhere for their cocks to go, Shane can't swallow either of them like this, so he just moans wetly, throat empty, lips stretched to the point of pain, choking slick and messy around them for several dizzy seconds until the pressure releases again. 

Then Ilya tightens his fist in Shane's hair and tugs him back off their dicks, forcing him to look up dazedly at them. 

"What do you think?" Ilya asks, as Shane's vision goes cloudy with spiking arousal. Shane is panting and his face is wet, and his lips feel swollen already, and the roughness of Ilya's hand is sending him skyward. Ilya's words give him another jolt: "Shall I let Marly fuck your ass first, as a treat? Let him have first dibs?"

Shane manages a nod, but then licks his lips again, his gaze cutting wistfully back to Ilya's dick. He swallows convulsively; his mouth feels so empty. He hadn't finished with it yet, and being dragged back by his hair has done nothing for how turned on he's gotten. 

"Ah, but you want another taste first."

Shane nods again, opening his mouth, displaying his tongue. He knows it looks needy but fuck, he needs it. 

"Okay," Ilya says, like he's doing Shane a favour by letting him suck his dick some more, and it drives Shane wild that that's the truth. 

Ilya releases his hair and Shane ducks gratefully to fasten his mouth around Ilya's dick again, welcoming it back in, moaning as the familiar weight fills his mouth just right. He sucks and swallows, tilting his head, settling immediately into one of his customary hard-and-fast rhythms. 

Fuck, it is so much easier with one. 

He gets a good suction going, devoting the whole of his attention to making Ilya's cock feel incredible, and is rewarded by Ilya's voice softening immediately. 

"Oh fuck," Ilya breathes, rocking his hips like he can't help it, sliding deeper into Shane's mouth and pulsing there, "that's it, yeah, fuck, right there—whoa."

Shane opens his eyes to see Marly sinking to kneel next to him. He's watching closely, his gaze fixed on the point where Ilya's dick is disappearing between Shane's lips, and then his hand smooths up the back of Shane's neck, and Shane feels like his skin lights up in response. 

"You love it, don't you," Marly says, pressing lightly over the back of Shane's head; encouraging, not forcing. 

"Mm," Shane hums, taking Ilya deeper, and the weight of Marly's hand melts away. So he's really not pressuring him. Pity. That would be hot. Shane pulls off to tell Marly that he can, in fact, force Shane to take Ilya all the way down, and in fact Shane would encourage him to do that—but the idea gets sidetracked at the way Marly's focus locks in, seeing the thick shiny length of Ilya's cock emerging from Shane's mouth. 

There's a familiar hunger written across his face, and Shane is amazed how easy it is to interpret, up close. 

Wordlessly, Shane shifts to one side, licking and kissing slowly down the length of Ilya's dick, then starts sucking at the base, watching Marly from beneath his lashes. 

Be my guest. 

If possible, Marly's eyes darken even more. 

"Fuckin' A," Marly whispers, and then leans slowly in, kissing up the other side of Ilya's dick. 

Shane mirrors him, sliding his mouth in slow counterpoint, until their lips meet over the head of Ilya's cock; Ilya curses in Russian as they kiss. 

Shane grins against Marly's mouth, and is rewarded with a renewed pressure over the back of his neck, Marly keeping him in the kiss, deepening it, making it outrageously slow and lewd. Performing for Ilya. 

"Fuck," Ilya finishes, or possibly starts; Shane's briefly stopped listening. He glances up as they both start mouthing Ilya's dick again; Ilya is braced against the table now, clutching the edge with both hands, his knuckles bulging. His shirt's askew and his face is flushed and his eyes are glittering as he stares down; for a moment, Shane thinks he's about to come. 

He draws back to warn Marly, then watches spellbound as Marly takes his place, taking Ilya's cock a good five inches into his mouth and sucking hard enough to make his cheekbones hollow. His hands are busy too, tugging at Ilya's suit pants, pulling until his pants and boxers are pooled around his ankles. Actually, Shane has to admire him. He's focused, he's got both hands on Ilya's ass now, bobbing his head like a pro with his eyes closed. He's moving this forward, he's clearly got a vision, and – bonus – he's freed up Ilya's warm muscular thighs for Shane to grope. 

Shane grins and presses kisses to the crease of Ilya's thigh while Marly's mouth works his cock, and feels the fuzzy weight of Ilya's balls tightening against his palm. Ilya's fists start opening and closing, spasmodic. It's very obvious to Shane that Ilya wants to grab Marly's face, fuck his mouth, but he's holding off, sparing him, and it's costing him dearly. 

Ilya clearly can't prevent it when his hips suddenly jerk, and Marly rears back, spluttering, breathing hard. 

Marly's eyes are watering as he laughs softly. "Goddamn it, Roz, watch where you're aiming that thing." 

Shane sees his chance. "Let me," he says, swooping back in and swallowing Ilya's cock in one easy, smooth slide, and—yeah. He belongs here. Fuck, he loves that stretch, the way Ilya's hips jump in his hands and it's fine. It shoves his dick deeper, and Ilya's hands paw his head, and Ilya's breath comes like a steam train, and Shane just forces himself to take more. All of it, until his lips are crammed against Ilya's pubes, and his throat's on fire, and he can't breathe. He can only feel, and rock there, relishing in his ability to ride the heavy jerk of Ilya's hips, hearing Marly curse increasingly low and impressed beside him. 

Welcome to Hollander’s dick sucking masterclass…

Eventually even he has to come up for air. He swallows repeatedly as he does so, pulling slowly back—showing off, yeah, and feeling pretty fucking magnificent with every slow inch revealed. 

"He—has to be best at everything," Ilya says, almost a complaint between heaving breaths. "He cannot just be good. Has to win." 

"Oh and I bet you're just cut up about that," Marly shoots back. "Oh no, poor me, Hollzy's obsessed, he's going for that special skills deepthroat bonus again…"

"Fuck off," Ilya says, as delight wells up in Shane's chest at Marly's teasing tone. 

Shane decides to reward Marly in a way that he himself would appreciate – sharing the tip of Ilya's dick with him – and Marly seems almost as pleased about this as Shane would be. They kiss and suck around it, holding it between both their mouths, passing it back and forth until Ilya's thighs are shaking and he's making weak, plaintive little noises. 

Then Marly pushes two fingers into Shane's mouth; obediently, Shane wets them before they both return to Ilya's cock and continue worshipping it together. Its swollen hardness twitches against Shane's lips, and Ilya's making a lot of noise now; Shane feels like every brush of his wet tongue elicits another heartfelt moan. 

Ilya's right, right on the edge, Shane thinks. Another few minutes of this and he'll be begging—and then Marly grins and reaches up behind Ilya's balls. And he clearly does something significant back there, because Shane tastes a fresh burst of pre-come, and then another, and then, and then—

"Oh, shit," Ilya bites off, and thrusts abruptly into Shane's mouth; Shane feels his cock flexing, and then tastes it, Ilya coming in his mouth, jagged little thrusts that wouldn't normally be enough but presumably Marly's got a whole finger in his ass by now; Ilya's moaning like he's about to burst into flame.

Shane automatically swallows the first salty-bitter jet of come and then pauses, lets the next one pool across his tongue. The flavor fills his senses, alongside the usual satisfaction that he did this, he brought Ilya off—but today it wasn't just him. Fiercely turned on by that thought, he lets Ilya's cock slip from his mouth for the final spurts – catching the warm splash of it across his lips and chin – and then he glances toward Marly, questioning again. Conscious this might be too much for him. 

But Marly makes a low noise in his chest and leans in, lapping the splashes of come off Shane's skin and then pushing his tongue into Shane's mouth, and Shane groans right back at him, every nerve firing. Sharing the melting sharp taste of Ilya, letting Marly lick into his mouth, suck the salt from Shane's tongue, fuck—it's so filthy, makes him so fucking hard. He hopes Ilya's watching. 

"Fuuuuck," Ilya breathes, which Shane guesses means that he is. 

Marly pulls back eventually and sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth. He's still dressed with just his dick out—they're all still dressed, apart from Ilya, who's kicking off his pants but still wearing the smart white business shirt, crumpled now, cuffs askew. 

"Guess I didn't have to worry about being the first man down, then, hey Roz?" Marly says, giving Ilya a shit-eating grin, and Ilya swipes at him weakly, cuffing him around the side of the head before groaning, laughing.

"Fuck!" Ilya's voice is a strange mix of triumphant and despondent. "Yeah, well I didn't think you were gonna… fucking… two-time me like this," he growls, waving at them both on their knees. 

"I don't think that means what you think it means," Shane says, and Ilya lets loose a fluent stream of Russian in which Shane recognizes more than one expletive. 

Shane grins at him, rising to his feet and stepping in to get kissed, peripherally very conscious of Marly also standing up behind him. Marly who will now taste of Ilya, and who has not yet come himself, and who Shane is very, very interested in being fucked by. First dibs.

Ilya's mouth is warm and soft, and much less petulant than his tone of voice. "Oh, Shane," he breathes, against Shane's mouth. "That was—" Incredible, he'd say normally. Or he'd say something about being powerless to resist Shane's charms, or he'd just kiss him, long and loving, needing no words at all. "—awesome," Ilya says now. 

Shane laughs, pulling back to exchange a glance with Marly. "Awesome, huh?"

"Damn right," Marly says, his attention locking on to Shane. 

Shane swallows. He has a sudden sense that they need to move away from this table or Marly's gonna have him bent over it in five… four… three…

"Can we find a bedroom?" Shane suggests quickly, threading his fingers through Ilya's and giving his hand a brief squeeze. 

Marly closes in behind Shane – he's tucked his cock away again, Shane realizes wistfully, as the bulge of it nevertheless presses against his ass – and the warmth of him looming behind him is intense. 

"I dunno," Marly says, all mock concern, resting his chin on Shane's shoulder from behind as he contemplates the disarray of Ilya's stance, "I think we mighta done a number on him. Dude cannot walk." 

"Fuck you," Ilya retorts, with a sharp wry smile. "I could score ten goals right now without even trying."

"Sure," Marly laughs, and then his mouth brushes hot across the back of Shane's neck, and his hand ghosts over the front of Shane's pants, thoughtfully palming his erection through the fabric, casually confident. Shane has a sudden vivid image of how this could play out: Marly crowding him forward into Ilya's arms and fucking him right here, right now, still standing—well, barely standing. It's hot but it's not what Shane has been picturing all these weeks.

It galvanizes him into action.

"Okay," Shane says, giving Ilya's hand another quick squeeze before releasing him. "You, bedroom. You," he says to Marly, spinning and poking him in the middle of his beleaguered shirt, "strip, then follow him. And I will join you shortly."

It has the desired effect. "Yes, Captain," Marly shoots back, already working on his buttons; Shane averts his gaze before he can get distracted, and goes back to the doorway to find Ilya's familiar, weighty shoulder bag. 

They'd packed it together, last night, joking around as they added multiple bottles of lube and Gatorade, a set of brand new butt plugs, condoms just in case anyone changed their mind when it came down to it. Shane thinks about the easy way Marly had leaned in and sucked Shane's tongue after Ilya came in his mouth. He doesn't think anyone is changing their mind.

He finds an unopened box of cigarettes, which he can't really blame Ilya for, and the iconic glossy bottle of Ilya's cologne shoved carelessly in as well, making the air in the bag smell faintly like Ilya; for a moment a weird hyper-real nostalgia rises over Shane like a cloud. 

Is he really going to fuck someone else? Not just messing around, not just oral—is he really going to let Marly unlock that part of him? That insensible needy creature who can't control himself, will do anything to get the person fucking him deeper, harder—is he really going to hand that guy over to Marly? 

He already knows the answer to that question. His cock is a hot, heavy weight filling out the front of his pants. He hasn't even touched it yet, just felt the muted fireworks of Marly's palm closing around it through the fabric. 

But—is this a mistake?

He hefts the bag on his shoulder and walks back through the suite, and then halts in the doorway to a low-lit bedroom. It's like being struck by lightning, the blood leaving his brain so fast he almost swoons again. 

They're both naked, and Ilya's clearly feeling revived because he's got Marly flat on his back, one hand between his legs, kissing his neck. Their interlocking bodies and gleaming skin look like a banquet to Shane. 

As Shane watches, Marly arches beneath Ilya, head thrown back, toes stretching out, heels digging in; all that from one finger, Shane thinks, because he's pretty sure he's got all the lube in the bag, and Ilya's not going to be making a novice take more than a single finger on spit alone, is he? But he's definitely putting something inside him, from the way Marly is writhing beneath him, clutching the back of Ilya's head; fingers buried in messy curls, mashing Ilya's mouth against Marly's stubbled neck. 

Shane's own mouth feels thick, stoppered with mixed lust and envy as he hurries to strip off his own clothes, barely pausing to fold them. 

He obviously, objectively, knew that watching Ilya work someone else over would be hot, especially someone like Marly, who Shane finds so attractive already. But he hadn't quite realized the extent of the double jealousy his body would experience alongside. He wants to be both of them, and have both their hands on him, both their attention on him, while simultaneously not interrupting a second of this. 

He walks closer, dropping the bag on the bedside table, and they both pause and look up at him with blazing dark eyes. 

Fuck.

If this is a mistake, it's one he can't blame himself for making. 

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 4: Payload

Chapter Summary

The boys deliver on their various promises. And deliver. And deliver…

"Hey," Ilya says, and Marly flashes him a dazed grin. 

"Finally! Get down here."

Shane gets down there. He was right; the array of hot naked skin is unbelievable, and at first all he can do is luxuriate in it, his hands travelling shamelessly, grasping and stroking, kissing whatever he can reach. There's a moment when he's stretched out in between them – Marly mouthing one side of his neck, Ilya attacking the other – where he experiences a sudden suspicion he is dreaming. Center of everything. How else could this happen? It feels so good. 

Ilya seems to keep his head a bit better; his actions become gradually purposeful. "Come on," he murmurs, guiding Shane to lie on his back and encouraging Marly to sprawl between his thighs, on his stomach; before long Shane has his legs apart, knees hooked over Marly's broad shoulders, and Marly is dipping his head, kissing Shane's thighs, working inward in teasing little forays.

"Show him what I taught you," Ilya says to Marly, and Marly mutters something affirmative against Shane's skin. Ilya looks up at Shane and smiles proudly. "You are welcome."

Shane laughs shakily. "Thank you," he says obediently, enjoying the freeing feeling of Ilya decisively grasping the reins of this situation.

Shane knows where he is, with Ilya in charge. He's at liberty to just feel. 

He lies back as Marly's tongue brushes his hole at last, painfully aroused. It's a lot; the sight and sensation of Marly between his legs, the little hot panting kisses he's lavishing on sensitive skin, and then, drawing Shane's attention like a magnet, sliding down to kneel behind Marly, Ilya. 

Fuck, Shane thinks, watching Ilya sinking down until his face is almost out of view, burrowing between Marly's legs, both hands firmly spreading Marly's thighs. He had that look on his face that means business—and again, immediately, Shane's on board. He can't see exactly what Ilya's doing to Marly, but at a guess it's pretty similar to what Marly's doing to Shane. Within seconds Marly is moaning against Shane's hole, licking him and then breaking off to gasp or swear in response to some action of Ilya's. 

"My god," Marly says abruptly, sounding almost anguished. "Why the hell don't more people do this?"

"Plenty of people do this," Ilya counters. 

"To me," Marly says, half laughing, half protesting. "C'mon dude, I've travelled! My list is epic, my number is high – why has no one I've ever fucked done this to me before?"

"I think you have been fucking the wrong people," Ilya muses. 

"Damn straight," Marly says and it's just – it's right there. 

"Damn straights," Shane deadpans. and then regrets it because Marly has to turn his head away to laugh. Ilya's cracking up as well, but Shane doesn't mind that, because Ilya's mouth wasn't on a mission to blow Shane's mind just then. 

"Goddamn! You didn't tell me he's funny," Marly says, a teasing aside to Ilya, just accusing enough to make Ilya crack up again. 

"Don't worry, is not often," Ilya says lightly, to Marly. 

"Hey!" Shane protests, although the feeling of being talked about is still delicious, enticing. 

Marly looks up at him from between his thighs, and that is deadly. Shane stops protesting. Marly doesn't look away as he sinks slowly back between Shane's legs, taking little nips at his inner thigh, the curve of one cheek, before nuzzling in against his hole again, his eyelids drifting closed. 

"Holy shit," Shane mouths, feeling like all the air has left the room in one big swoop. It feels like Marly is locking in, focusing—and it's turning out that Marly is really fucking good at this. He's definitely got transferable skills from that epic list of his. The slick slide of his tongue feels deft, not performative, and it takes him no time at all to work out what Shane likes; to be teased and toyed with and fucked with his tongue, tormented to the point of gasping, before getting soothed again, softly licked, kissed better. 

It feels so good it's getting to be a problem. Shane physically can't get his legs wider, and he's squirming, panting. He's so wet, aching to be filled. Properly. He wants Marly to slide up on him and push his dick inside – just like he sort of promised – without opening Shane up any more first. The thought of that naked stretching push… fuck, his own cock's leaking now. 

He wonders if he'll come right away—if he does, he's confident Marly will enjoy it, and – most importantly – won't stop. Will keep fucking Shane, like he did Ilya, making him take it until he's finished, driving inside with his full weight behind it. 

"I'm gonna be—so good for you," Shane says, just throwing it out there, enjoying the sound of the words out loud. 

"I know, baby," Marly says, and pushes his tongue in deep, making Shane cry out in mindless gratitude. He clenches on the slippery heat of it, rolling his hips. 

Fuck, he needs more. 

Ilya's not moving things along as quickly as he'd hoped, though. In fact, Ilya seems completely distracted back there.

"You can, uh—you don't have to wait," Shane tries. He's not trying to take the reins from Ilya, or anything. Just… nudging them toward the next level. 

"That is true," Ilya says, and Shane feels Marly shiver.

"Yeah?" Marly says. 

"He is not girl," Ilya says informatively, "so you do not need to make him come first, before you fuck him," and Shane has to close his eyes because that hits something darkly hot inside. He enjoys the combination of Ilya talking about him like that, like he's giving Marly hookup advice – describing Shane like just another one of their conquests – alongside the fact that Ilya is, actually, giving Marly hookup advice about Shane. It's true, and Marly might not know that, because Marly doesn't normally fuck guys, in fact has only fucked one guy before – which was Ilya, who, it stands to reason, is gonna be nowhere near as good at taking dick as Shane – and Marly has never fucked any guy bareback, which Shane is quietly confident is going to blow his mind. 

"C'mon then," Shane whispers, picturing it with a ferocity that makes his cock strain. Fuck, he just wants to do it already. Marly's gonna be so hard, with everything Ilya's doing for him, and his dick is going to feel so good, sliding inside Shane, skin-to-skin. "You're not gonna make me beg for it, are you?"

He feels Marly smile. "I mean I wasn't, but now I might…"

"Please fuck me," Shane says immediately, shamelessly, and is rewarded with a short appreciative exhale, hot breath teasing his rim. He lets a little of his desperation show in his voice. Okay, maybe he's trying to tug on the reins slightly. "Please, I need it, I've been waiting so long." 

"Even though he was fucked for very long time yesterday," Ilya comments, his knowing tone making Shane's mouth open in outrage, while Marly huffs a startled laugh, sitting back up. "And again this morning."

"And now it is nighttime," Shane shoots back, and then adds, with a note of reckless chirping, "and anyway, Ilya, that doesn't count because I have been waiting for Marly's dick for three weeks—"

"Doesn't count?!"

"—whereas you had him already, twice!"

"Wow," Marly says, eyes bright as he looks back and forth between them. 

"Well I guess you won't die if you have to wait even longer then," Ilya says, which is the point that Shane realizes his impulsive chirp may just have radically backfired. 

Fuck, wait up. Ilya's not serious, is he? 

Not really, surely. 

"Uh, what?" Shane feels like he's sweating all of a sudden. 

"You are right, of course," Ilya drawls, grinning, and now he's crawling up the bed, right up until he's level with Shane, and places a finger on his lips. His eyes are sparkling. He's caught Shane talking back to him; they all heard it. "He has very nice dick and knows just how to use it." In dumb reflex, Shane's hole starts to throb. "But you, I think, just lost your privilege." 

"Ilya," Shane says, pleading against Ilya's fingertip, urgent now. Holy shit, why does he find Ilya putting him in his place so fucking hot? 

And in front of Marly, too. It should be excruciating but instead Ilya's glittering gaze makes Shane feel like a prince getting disciplined; a spoiled, pampered prince, putting a foot out of line one too many times, who now must take his penance like a man. 

"C'mon, please," he says, enjoying the desperation in his own voice a little too much. He really means it, though. "Don't make me wait any longer."

"Nuh uh." There's no disrespect in Ilya's manner, only a devotional sternness that makes Shane squirm and pant in equal measure. 

"Ilya."

"Shane," Ilya retorts. "One day I will make you wait. But not today." With a dull shock Shane realizes they're Ilya's own words, from yesterday, which feels like a million years ago now. Ilya's voice is silky as he adds, "Well… look what fucking day it is, Hollander."

Shane's jaw drops in outrage again; he'd be offended if he weren't so fucking turned on, and the feeling of showing this side of their dynamic to Marly makes his heart race extra hard. 

Ilya gives a magnanimous shrug. "Is just good manners, no? He is our guest, he should take, uh, priority. Yes, I think it is better you wait your turn," he adds, and now he sounds like a coach, dispassionate, analytical. "We make sure our guest has good time first." 

"I mean, I am definitely having a good time already," Marly volunteers, glancing from one to the other.

"I know," Ilya says, shooting a look down at him that borders on sultry. He's practically pouting as he says, "But I want to show you really good time." 

Shane's gaze drops; sure enough, Ilya's cock looks firm again, hanging down between his legs like a weapon. A weapon Shane wants inside him, right fucking now, but apparently he is going to be made to wait for it. A coach voice sounds in his head again: That's the thing about star players, when they're only thinking about themselves on the ice. Gotta rein them in til they cooperate.  Shane shivers, chewing his lower lip. It's not a bad tactic of Ilya's, this. Shane had been prioritizing his own needs, to the point of stepping out of line…

"Sounds good to me," Marly is saying, stretching. 

"And of course," Ilya says slowly, clearly enjoying Shane's stricken expression, "because is Marly's first time, I will have to be so careful, take so much time on him…"

"Ilya," Shane says weakly, "c'mon, this isn't fair," testing Ilya's resolve.

"Mmm. Niet," Ilya agrees, and then kisses him. "Not for you. Very fair for Marly though. How does this sound?" He turns to Marly, warm and attentive. Shane wants to scream. "You would like me to do this, as long as I take a good long time?"

"Hell yeah," Marly says easily, then winks at Shane, "if he doesn't mind."

"The more Shane minds, the more he will remember to behave nicer next time." 

Shane almost wishes being spoken about like this had less of an instant, incendiary effect. Instead he swallows, bites his lip, tries to remember to breathe. 

Marly looks between them, drinking in the energy passing between them. "Oookay," he says, and visibly decides to go with it. "Well, you gotta know I'll take your lead, Cap—you know what you're doing." 

"Correct," Ilya says easily, then shoots a meaningful smirk at Shane, and Shane catches the look that flashes through Marly's eyes as Ilya looks away from him—something exhilarated, dangerously close to adoration. 

"You don't gotta go too easy on me though, dude," Marly's saying, reliably drawing Ilya's attention back over in his direction. "I can take whatever you dish out." 

"No, no, is important that we go slow. Very, very slow," Ilya says, and he sounds so reasonable, so considerate, that it's almost possible to forget he's clearly doing this to drive Shane mad. Or maybe this is a two birds, one stone situation. "Even if some people are impatient."

"Poor guy looks like he might go up in flames." 

"Good," Ilya says shortly. "Shane knows how to be good for me. This was not it. Now," his voice softens, compelling, "come here."

Marly goes. 

And Shane watches as they kiss, kneeling together right there in front of him, painfully slow and languid; it's a porny kiss, lots of tongue, easily within reach, and Shane finds his fingers are closing in the sheets just from the sight of it. 

It gets worse as Ilya visibly gets into it, arranging their cocks between their bellies and stroking a hand up and down Marly's back; worse still as Marly scowls and nudges against him, dark brows creasing like Ilya's touch is too intense to be believed. Their eyes are closed and they're breathing hard, and then Ilya's hand reaches out to Shane. 

For a moment Shane thinks it's to beckon him closer, inviting him into the fray, but then Ilya gives him a mean smile and says, "Lube, please."

"Fuck you," Shane says, and Ilya's eyebrows inch up. 

"Oh I'm sorry, you are sulking? Do you not want to earn your place back as good boy?"

It's designed to make him blush and he feels it happen, heat spreading over his face and down his neck as he reaches into the bag, without looking away from Ilya, then passes him a bottle of lube. 

Then, because Ilya's not the only asshole in this room, Shane pulls out a bottle of Gatorade as well and twists off the lid, takes a swig. 

Ilya's eyes widen slightly, twinkling delighted, before he covers it with a glare. "Very, what is word? Insolent. Just for this, I will not allow you to use butt plug either."

Shane refuses to regret his choices. 

Marly raises his eyebrows. "You guys brought butt plugs?"

"Yes," Ilya says, and strokes a playful fingertip down Marly's chest, giving him an indulgent look that makes Shane dry-mouthed with envy. "However, that is only reward for good boy – not for sulky brat."

"Fuck you," Shane mouths again, and obviously that's the moment Ilya glances at him, catches it. 

Ilya opens his mouth to reply, then cuts off as Marly pinches his chin and turns his face back toward him. Maybe he's trying to save Shane. Maybe he just wants to keep Ilya's attention.

"Am I being good, though?" Marly asks, and Shane's cock pulses as Ilya's indulgent smirk returns. Marly seriously seems to have Ilya wrapped around his little finger, and it is unfairly hot to watch from the sidelines. 

"So far…"

"Do you wanna put one in me?" 

As if in answer, Ilya kisses him, then draws back to look at him again, eyes half-closing. "That is not what I want to put in you." 

Marly looks like the cat that got the cream, lazily shifting in Ilya's arms. "No?"

"Nuh uh," Ilya says, soft now, shaking his head a little before closing the distance between their mouths again. It's an almost impossibly sweet kiss this time, and Shane's lips burn.

He takes another frustrated swig of horrible unrefrigerated re-hydration drink. He watches Ilya take Marly's hand and wrap it around Ilya's cock, stroking himself using Marly's hand. It probably feels incredible, him getting back to full hardness. Shane's fingers twitch. 

"This is what I want you to take for me," Ilya says, barely audible above their matched heavy breathing. "Do you think you can manage it?"

"Fucking try me," Marly says, and Ilya laughs under his breath, then glances at Shane. 

"If not, he will do it," he says, and it's pitched as an idle possessive suggestion but Shane finds himself brightening. That could work, surely, and sounds much quicker…

Ilya seems determined not to make anything quick, though. He draws Marly down onto the bed, pushing him back on his elbows and making himself comfortable between his legs, then busies himself pouring way too much lube into his cupped hand. He smiles innocently at Shane as he smears it all over Marly's cock, making him gasp and lift his hips, before turning his attention to his ass as well. 

"Oh," Marly breathes, when Ilya breaches him with a single finger. "Oh, fuck…" 

Shane can't take his eyes off Marly's dick, glistening obscenely. Mocking him with how hard and full it looks. He could just sit on it. Surely that would be nice for Marly, for Shane to bounce on it a little—or even just lie there perfectly still, he could do that, couldn't he, keep Marly's dick warm while Ilya introduces him to the wonderful world of bottoming?

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He's already in Ilya's bad books from that one reckless moment. He can't push it any further, however much he'd like to.

"Oh fuck, Roz," Marly groans, and the noise rolls through Shane like an earthquake, making his own cock bounce, his stomach twist. It sounds so good, how Ilya is making him feel; Marly's practically purring. 

"Ah yes, this is good part," Ilya says, which makes Shane look despite himself. 

He regrets it instantly. Ilya has two fingers, also obscenely glistening, sliding in and out, in what looks to Shane like the slowest, gentlest prostate massage he's ever seen. Marly gasps and rocks against Ilya's hand. Making a lot of noise about not much, in Shane's opinion. 

Fuck, he's not going to survive this. 

"Can I suck him while you do that?" Shane asks, as meek as he can make it. 

Ilya's eyes flash. "No." 

"Oh my god," Shane protests, dropping the meek act. "Please." 

"No," Ilya says again. "You will make him come too soon." 

"Hey," Marly says.

"Believe me, he will," Ilya says, with a sharp twist of his fingers for good measure, and Marly's body convulses around Ilya's hand. 

"Fuck," Marly bites off. "Do that again."

Shane watches, squirming with envy as Ilya does it again.

Marly throws his head back, almost snarling. "Jesus fucking Christ. Holy fuck. Again, why—why—?"

"Why does no one do this to you before?" Ilya supplies, and Marly nods vigorously, bending his knees to roll his hips against Ilya's hand. Ilya smiles, shoves him back down. "Because you are big, strong hockey player and they do not know how to treat you." 

There is a very real risk, Shane suspects, of Marly falling in love with Ilya for this. He has that transcendent look Shane sometimes catches on his own face, when Ilya fucks him in front of the mirror. Like Ilya has stripped him of his problems and occupied him with only pleasure instead. He'd call it beautiful if it weren't so pornographic to watch. Maybe it's both. 

Shane exhales, working up the focus to try again. "Please," he says, appealing to the part of Ilya that cannot resist him begging. "Please, there must be something I can do…"

"Ahhh," Marly moans, and there's a subterranean rhythm to it, his voice wavering against the thrust of Ilya's fingers. 

"Mm, that is good, yes?" Once more, it seems Ilya's focus is entirely on Marly. 

Shane practically hums with frustration. 

"Yes," Marly says, "yes…" 

"You are ready for one more finger?"

"Yes…"

"Holy shit, Ilya, I am dying here," Shane blurts out, and Ilya's gaze cuts to him again. 

"You will wait." 

Fuck. The order of it cracks over him, whip-sharp. Shane reaches for his cock, unable to prevent himself, even though he knows there's an unwritten rule against this; Ilya's eyes flash again. 

"I said wait."

Fuck, Shane's definitely sweating now. He forces his hand away at the last moment and clasps his fist to his mouth instead. Fuck, he's on fire, he's actually ablaze with it, with wanting, with needing. This is fucking torture. Hot, hot torture. He's been fucking benched. For bad behavior. And his punishment is to watch Marly get taken apart by Ilya's knowing hands. Shane sinks his teeth into his knuckles as Ilya adds a third finger – painstakingly slow – and gnaws on it as Marly thrashes and writhes. 

Marly's cock is deeply flushed now, straining, beaded at the head with glossy liquid. 

"Can't I please just lick it off?" Shane whispers, without even intending to speak, his voice crumbling around the edges—and something in that reaches Ilya. Whether it's how genuinely broken Shane sounds, how pathetic the request is, or if it's something in Shane's face, he doesn't know. But Ilya glances at him for a long moment, then nods. 

Gratitude floods through Shane as he rushes to do it, kneeling by Marly's sweaty hip and ducking down to lap the head of his cock; it's delicious, and the cry Marly gives in response is delicious, and most delicious of all is that Shane is involved again. 

"Thank you," he says to Ilya, unable to contain how earnest that is, and Ilya encloses Shane's jaw with his other hand, draws him closer, and kisses him. 

Shane's whole body lights up. He moans desperately against Ilya's mouth, somewhere between kissing and exhaling in relief, and then again when Ilya gives his tongue a deliberate suck. Tasting Marly, Shane realizes. 

"Now him," Ilya says quietly, and it takes a moment for Shane to understand what he means. 

Shane ducks and sucks the head of Marly's cock again, a little longer this time, then crawls up enough that he can kiss Marly as well. Marly doesn't stop panting as Shane licks into his mouth, imparting the traces of his own sweetness, and he finds Marly's skin is damp all over now, salty beneath Shane's lips. He is losing it over being slowly fingered. Well, Shane would too right now. 

He wonders if he's been good enough by now to earn a treat, but he senses – not yet. If he had, Ilya would have told him. But he can't wait much longer. Even if it's bad behavior, again. He's got to speed this up somehow. 

"Feels good?" Shane whispers to Marly, who groans and nods."It's so good, isn't it? He's so good."

"Legend," Marly agrees breathlessly, and then bucks as Ilya does something else with his hand. "Ah! Fuck!"

"And just imagine," Shane says, below where Ilya can easily hear him. "If his fingers feel this good, just imagine how it'll feel when it's his dick."

"Shane," Ilya says; shit, he's noticed. "What are you whispering to him?" 

"Nothing," Shane says, with another quick kiss to Marly's mouth, then adds in an undertone, "Imagine…"

"Fuck," Marly says, and for a moment Shane thinks it's just another groan, before he adds, "c'mon, Roz, enough hand stuff, fuck me already…" 

Jackpot. 

Shane looks innocently at Ilya to see how this goes down. He's expecting to be rumbled – it was an obvious play, overtly executed – but Ilya's speechless and flushed, gazing down at Marly like he invented racecars. Too turned on to be observant. 

Ilya lies down next to Marly and carefully coaxes him to lie on his side. Facing Shane, so Shane has an unobscured view of Marly's face as Ilya lines up behind him, then pauses for a moment. 

"You are sure," he says,and Marly just nods, nods, arching back against Ilya's chest. "You must tell me to stop if it hurts," Ilya says, "don't be a fuckin' jock about it," and Marly grins like that's an excellent joke and not something that Ilya has repeatedly said to Shane over the years.

"Sure, man," Marly says, his eyes half-closing. 

"Ready?"

"Mmm," Marly confirms, shifting against him, and then, as Shane watches, his face stills and his voice drops. "Oh, fuck. Wow. Fuck."

"Wow," Ilya says, and then, "okay—wait, relax." Shane sees the strain on Ilya's face as he forces himself to stop. He's panting already. "Relax."

"Mm, trying," Marly says, his eyes closed, forehead creasing, and there's strain in his voice now too; Shane sees his erection flagging. "Jesus, you feel massive."

"I am massive," Ilya agrees, and Marly gives a shaky laugh.

"For real—hold on, just—wait," he breathes, lowering one hand to his cock, stroking it a few times. "Fuck."

For a moment, the lilt in his voice makes Shane wonder if he's going to ask to stop, properly stop. And that's just… well it's fine, obviously, if Marly wants to, but it also feels like a huge missed opportunity. He got so into the fingering, Shane's positive he can enjoy this too.

He clears his throat. "Can I, um," he starts, and sees the instant gratitude in Ilya's eyes, so doesn't bother finishing that sentence. He lies down in front of Marly, on his side, brushes a kiss over his lips.

Marly inhales sharply, his eyes opening. He looks totally glazed, his pupils blown, breathing snagging on every inhale.

"Hey," Shane says, soft but not whispering this time, making sure Ilya can hear. "If it's too much, just stop."

"'S not too much," Marly mumbles, and Shane grins and kisses him again.

"Yeah, but he is massive, isn't he? And you know how long I made him wait until I let him try this? Two years."

Marly lets out another shaky little laugh. "What the fuck, dude."

"Yeah," Shane says, leaning in again, sucking on Marly's lower lip this time, catching it gently between his teeth before letting it go. "Two whole years of just oral and like, hand stuff. And a lot of, uh, using a dildo. So when the time came, I had been looking forward to it for a long time. And we still had to go pretty slow."

Another kiss; Marly kisses him back this time, with a little noise of pleasure, and Ilya makes a little noise too, like he's shifted a fraction more.

Encouraged, Shane keeps going. "Anyway, I'm only telling you this because, like, there is no rush here, we don’t have to do everything tonight." It's on the tip of his tongue to say, We can do it next time, or the time after that, or you can just fuck me every time, that also sounds like a good deal. But he doesn't want to scare him, so he settles for, "Unless it feels good."

"It does," Marly insists. "It feels hella good, it's just—tight."

"So fucking tight," Ilya rumbles, behind him. "Feels incredible. But like I must be hurting you. I can stop," he offers, and Marly makes an alarmed noise.

"No! Just—give me a sec—"

Shane reaches down, gathers Marly's cock against his own and gives it a few slow strokes, spreading the lube over both of them. Marly's cock is firming up again, so he must be doing something right here. He kisses Marly's lips once more, then along his jaw, before burying his face in Marly's neck. Fuck, he was right about this too, this smells heavenly, the musk of warm skin beneath that engine oil bite of cologne. "Mmm," Shane hums, kissing his neck, and feels Marly's cock jump in his hand.

"Aw, fuck, Hollzy—Shane, sorry—" Marly gasps, and Shane grins against his throat.

"Call me whatever you damn well please," he says, and he feels something brush his skin; he glances across to see Ilya's hand, stroking his arm, then giving him a secret thumbs up.

Keep going.

The rush of cooperation melts his heart even as it turns him on. He's definitely off the bench, and fuck, he loves being on the same team as Ilya. He'll do anything to keep this feeling. He redoubles his efforts along Marly's throat, and realizes Ilya is doing the same, kissing over the nape of Marly's neck, along his traps, across his shoulder. Coaxing him to melt between them.

"Fuck, guys, that's—"

"Mm," Shane says, a little buzz of agreement before he strokes their cocks a little more vigorously, and Marly gives an honest-to-god groan at that. Emboldened, Shane lets his hand wander lower. He tugs gently on Marly's balls, smoothing his thumb over the furred weight of them, then lets his fingers meander behind.

They become ten times more slippery as he encounters the truckload of lube Ilya's used, and he bites down on his own bottom lip at another spike of luminous physical envy. Why are they wasting time with this when Shane could be being fucked already, and enjoying it a million times more? But he breathes through it, and then his fingertips encounter the velvety hardness of Ilya's dick sunk barely into the stretched tightness of Marly's hole – not even past the head – and his arousal rockets back up.

He can feel everything.

"Fuck, that's really hot," Shane says, lightly circling his fingers, tracing the stretched skin. He drops his voice to a teasing burr against Marly's ear. "He's so big and you're so tight—it's so hot you're still trying, you must really want him to fuck you."

He doesn't know if this line of talk will do anything for Marly, but if someone had said it to Shane during his first time he would have imploded on the spot. And then gotten competitive about it.

Marly growls out something in reply too low to hear.

"Mmm," Shane says, stroking over Marly's rim in what he hopes is either a soothing or arousing gesture, then gives Ilya's dick a slow stroke, making it twitch.

They both gasp.

"Yeah, alternatively you guys could abandon this and fuck me instead," Shane says, only half joking, and this time they both make negative noises.

"No way," Marly says, and then Shane feels him nudge sharply back, and the rest of the head slides inside.

"Fuck," Ilya says loudly.

"Oh my god, fuck," Marly groans, a gravelly richness filling his voice, "don't—don't stop," and Shane feels Ilya's dick moving through his fingers in a slow, wet, steady push.

He stops about halfway in, and Shane remembers when Ilya used to do that for him, fuck. It's been a long time since he's needed to.

"You okay?" Ilya asks, and it's been a long time since he's needed to ask Shane that too.

"Yeah," Marly gasps, and Shane tries kissing him again; Marly immediately pushes his tongue into Shane's mouth, making a ravenous little noise.

He feels Ilya push slowly the rest of the way in, and all three of them groan. Shane retrieves his hand, wrapping it around Marly's cock again, stroking it tight against his own. Marly is panting and whining slightly, under his breath, and Ilya is clearly making a tremendous effort to hold himself still, buried to the hilt and trembling.

"You okay?" Shane breathes, keeping his hand moving.

Marly nods without speaking, his expression lost somewhere between wonder and apprehension.

"What if I…?" Shane starts, then breaks off and sits up a little, tries to meet Ilya's eye. He wants to stay on the same team. "Can I try something?"

Ilya looks like he's losing his mind; he's got tooth imprints in his lower lip, and his face is flushed, eyes glossy. He nods, pressing mindless kisses to the back of Marly's neck. He's holding still like a man drawing tension on an Olympic bow.

Shane rests his forehead against Marly's for a moment. "You're doing really well," he says simply, amazed to find he's genuinely proud of him, then rushes on to cover his earnestness, keeping his tone flat, "for someone who was like, straight, three weeks ago."

"I learn by doing," Marly says, which is such an absurd thing to hear in this situation that Shane laughs again, kisses him still smiling.

"Yeah man, you got this," he crows, with a touch of coach-like motivational speaker tone. Fuck, he can’t believe he’s this involved for Marly’s first time. It’s making him giddy.  "Achievement unlocked. But I still think it might pay for me to distract you some…"

"Mm—?" It's definitely a distracted noise.

"Mm," Shane says, retrieving his hand and reaching back to spread some slickness onto himself. Even his own touch feels incredible, and his breath catches as he eases in one finger, two. At least he's not being subtle about it, he thinks, so Ilya can't accuse him of cheating the rules he's laid out. Is this bad behavior? Maybe some might think so. But Shane thinks it's just out-of-the-box tactics for the team.

Ilya has his eyes closed when Shane checks, his forehead tense and dewy with sweat. He looks like a man trying to count back from a thousand. In French.

"Okay," Shane says huskily, shifting closer, slotting himself against Marly and arranging his knee over Marly's hip—angling Marly's cock between his legs. "So what I was thinking was… do you wanna fuck me at the same time?"

"Seriously?" Marly's voice is also shot. Behind him, Ilya makes a noise that's almost a sob, and might also be Shane's name.

"Yeah," Shane says, and then shivers suddenly. Fuck, after all that waiting, this has come around all at once. He's about to let someone who isn't Ilya fuck him, for the first time. Not just someone. Marly. Marly, who Ilya is clearly trying not to overwhelm right now, despite having chosen every single one of the most overwhelming options this evening.

He guesses they don't make things simple for themselves.

"Oh, Shane," Ilya murmurs, more collected now, "now you choose to be good," so apparently he's back in the room enough to tease Shane, at least. "So selfless…"

Shane gives a laugh that ends in another shiver when Marly's fingers light upon his ass. "Uh huh." The aching tingling is back, the tension of wanting near unbearable. "C'mon. I swear it will feel even better."

"He is right," Ilya says, and then, "oh, fuck," as Marly shifts minutely toward Shane, presumably jolting Ilya, deep inside him.

"Fuck," Marly echoes, and then, in a shade more of his normal voice, "come on then, baby, come here," and Shane decides he's not going to get more of an invitation than that.

He shifts closer; the angle is slightly awkward but Shane can cope with that, is used to Ilya fucking him at all sorts of insane angles, and so he hitches his leg more steeply over Marly's hip, and holds Marly's dick still, and slowly aims himself against it, adjusting with his fist until the slick pressure of its fat head builds and then—there.

Fuck, fuck, that's it, there. The hot slippery bluntness of Marly's cock, breaching him, and the stretch is as good as he'd fantasized, and Shane's controlling the angle and the pressure and it's glorious, pressing until he slides on inside, and Shane can't take it all without dislocating a hip but it doesn't matter—it's enough. They're doing it, they're actually fucking doing it. Marly's pushing inside him.

"Holy fuck," Marly breathes, sounding like he's been punched in the gut, but in a good way. "Jesus, that's—Christ—"

Shane grins and rocks his hips, euphoria pumping through him at the blazing stretch of it, at last, at last.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Shane says eagerly, trying to wriggle closer, take more; ideally Marly would roll on top of him now, really crush him, but that would also require Ilya's cooperation.

"Don't hold back," Shane says instead, loud enough to be imploring to both of them.

Marly gives an experimental thrust and three guttural groans ring out across the room.

"Christ," Marly bites off again, and Shane tries to imagine what he's feeling, being able to push forward into the tight yield of Shane's ass, yet moving on Ilya's cock as he does so; and then, as Marly withdraws to thrust again, he must be impaling himself on Ilya once more. Taking and giving at once, and serving both of them; a different type of paradise.

"Does that feel good?" Shane demands, looping his arms around Marly's neck, feeling the bump of Ilya’s hands where they’re holding Marly’s hips, thrumming now with the excitement that this is working. He's in his own paradise; he's getting what he wants and he's helping Ilya make Marly feel good.

"Yes, baby, you feel amazing," Marly says, his words blurry but carried on a practiced, languid undertone.

"No, I mean – all of it," Shane says, pressing against him, and Marly nods, sliding his face against Shane's forehead, vague and almost animalistic. His big hand slides over Shane's hip, cupping his ass, hitching him closer; another practiced, instinctive move that fills Shane with anticipation. It feels like he's about to get drilled.

"Yes."

"Yeah?" That's Ilya's voice, and he's still holding back, Shane realizes; is letting Marly move himself between them, nothing more. Marly's starting to find a rhythm now, but it's glacial compared with Ilya's norm. Shane feels a stab of pride for him, too, letting Marly take this at his own pace, when Shane knows firsthand how desperate Ilya must be be to pound him.

"Yeah," Marly pants, and he's building up the length of his strokes now, giving Shane more and more of his dick on every thrust—which must mean he's taking more and more of Ilya's dick each time.

"You like that?" Ilya asks, a weight of repressed power in his tone.

"Fuck yeah—all good now," Marly says, emphasizing his point with a snap of his hips that almost lifts Shane off the bed. Shane's eyes roll back, and he makes a low noise of approval; he could stand to have Marly do that particular move a few dozen more times.

"Good," Ilya mutters, his hand joining Marly's on Shane's hip, and then he pushes Shane flat on his back, and pins him to the mattress beneath Marly's weight.

Shane's world explodes. Marly growls and shifts forward as well, folding Shane's knees right back and then sliding into him, properly into him, as Ilya follows him down; their combined weight sets off a chain reaction inside Shane, adrenaline ricocheting wildly into pleasure. He's completely trapped beneath them, and Marly is buried deep inside him, and now Ilya and Marly seem to be moving as one. The fusion of their shared intent goes through Shane like a firecracker, filling him up with anticipation in the microsecond before Ilya starts to thrust.

"Ohh—" Shane manages, before his breath is entirely lost. He can feel the jolts of Ilya's thrusts through Marly, through his heavy body, his thick cock, driving right to the heart of Shane. The heat is insane, the wet noises of skin-on-skin fucking, Marly's mouth sliding against Shane's ear.

Shane hears him try to muster words a few times, but they're repeatedly lost in a chorus of gasps and sighs. He's got his own eyes squeezed shut—he can't see Ilya but he can imagine him, on top now, in his element, fucking Marly with less and less caution as he feels the two of them melt beneath him.

Shane can't catch his breath, can't move, can't do much at all except shiver and gasp and receive Marly's dick in all its thick, raw, hammering glory. His own dick is captured between their bodies, pleasure sparking at every rub of Marly's furred belly; he imagines getting off like this, painting him with come, and feels his balls tighten. It could definitely happen. This angle is so much better, with his knees around his ears, completely open to being taken. They might not even notice him come, could continue like this all night, taking turns fucking each other in between fucking him; he doesn't know if Marly can get off with a dick in his ass, but he's sure as hell looking forward to finding out.

Fuck, it actually might happen. Marly's dick is hitting all the right spots inside him, and their paired weight is making the pressure relentless. If someone squeezed his dick right now, he'd go over. Or if Ilya keeps fucking Marly at just that angle, keeps going, exactly how Shane needs it—

"Ah, fuck," he gasps, "I'm—that's—"

A ringing fills his ears as several things happen at once; the pressure reduces, the hot weight on top of him lessens, Marly withdraws completely from him, and the orgasm coming for Shane like a bullet misfires completely.

"—fuck," he cries out, shuddering in entirely the wrong sort of sweaty abandon, blinking and looking around with confused betrayal.

Marly looks as dazed as Shane feels, Ilya having apparently hauled him away from Shane mid-thrust. Ilya's arm is still slung around his chest; as Shane watches, Ilya separates from Marly completely and crawls over Shane, pokes him in the chest with one finger.

"Not yet."

Shane gazes up at him. Ilya probably expects him to protest or banter, but he's instantly so lost in the depths of Ilya's eyes, of being his full focus, that he just smiles breathlessly. "Okay."

"I know you did very good waiting," Ilya says—then waggles his head from side to side, turning his mouth down. "Mostly," he amends, then smirks. "But good enough, under circumstances."

Distantly Shane knows this is meager praise but it feels like water in the desert. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So now I want to reward you, and for that, I think, is better you have not yet come. Okay?"

Shane's heart is a soft drumbeat in his ears. "Okay."

Ilya ducks down, kisses him, slow and deliberate. He doesn't allow the rest of himself to sink down as well, and so Shane finds himself arching up, trying in vain to brush their chests together, keep the kiss going even as Ilya draws back.

Ilya smiles and presses his palm to the center of Shane's chest, pushing him back down. "Wait," he says, and then makes a show of glancing at Marly then back. "Front row seat," he says, and winks, making a sunburst blossom in Shane's chest.

As Ilya takes his place kneeing up in front of Marly again, it could not feel more different from earlier. They both keep stealing glances at Shane, sending him little smiles.

They've been plotting this, Shane realizes. For Shane.

Ilya clears his throat. "So… that was hot," he says to Marly, who gives him one of his lazy grins. 

"Yeah." 

"Sorry to interrupt." 

They angle toward each other, sprawling on the bed with their knees to the side; a pair of Greek statue bookends, each complete with lovingly chiselled phallus. Art come to life.

"It's cool."

Ilya nods sideways at Shane. "He was about to come. Very close."

"Without me lending a hand?" Marly looks impressed, his gaze raking briefly over Shane before returning to Ilya. 

"Yes. He does that sometimes." Ilya smirks. "On… special occasions." 

"That's fucking hot."

"Yes. And I am sorry to deny you, because it feels fucking hot around your dick as well, but," Ilya shrugs, lowers his voice, "you remember, we still wanna do that other thing, right?" 

Once more, the recognition that they have been talking about him gives Shane a warm, otherworldly feeling. The performance of this conversation is stone cold delightful. They're doing a bit for him?

Marly's eyes darken. "Right," he says, nodding, then lowers his voice as well, leaning in. "Uh… but does he want us to do the other thing? We haven't exactly asked him."

"Believe me, he wants to." 

Delicious shivers climb over Shane's skin; he's having to take slow, deep breaths to keep from saying something embarrassing. He wants to ask, get confirmation, clarify exactly which too-easily-declared fantasy he's successfully filled Ilya's head with this time—but the feeling of them not telling him is too enticing. 

"Awesome," Marly says easily, then cocks his head at Ilya, looking… purposeful. "If we're gonna move on to that, though…"

"Mmm?"

"Can I get one of those butt plugs of yours, while we do it? I'm kinda… missing the feeling."

One check of Ilya's face tells Shane that Marly's careened off script. 

"My god," Ilya says, giving Marly a look of starstruck disbelief. "Did they make you in lab too?!" He waves at Shane. "I mean, I already know they make Shane Hollander in lab for me. He is too perfect to be left to chance. But now you?"

Marly laughs and ducks his head. Surely not blushing. "I'm just up for a good time, man, you know this about me."

Ilya catches him by the chin, lifts until Marly meets his eyes again. "Yeah, I do," he says, and leans in, kisses him. 

For a moment it's dizzyingly sweet.

And then, Ilya freezes. 

It's subtle, but Shane practically sees the hairs rise on the back of Ilya's neck, a flush of colour chasing after; he's spooked himself.

Ilya draws back abruptly, clears his throat. And then Ilya pats Marly's face and adds, too serious, "And I am so glad we are doing this thing with you, and not some asshole off Grindr."

Shane's hazy horny momentum screeches to a halt, his jaw sinking ajar. He croaks out, "Ilya, what the fuck?"

Ilya turns to him. "It's this app—"

"I know what Grindr is," Shane hisses, too loud. The whole implication is horrifying. And inaccurate—Shane would never. Even if Ilya's joking it's in fucking poor taste. But why even suggest—?

Ilya turns back to Marly, undeterred. "It's this app," he says, informatively, as if Shane hadn't spoken. "Like, Uber for gays. You can have them delivered." 

Shane's voice climbs the register. "Please tell me you're not on—"

"Obviously not," Ilya says, looking delighted at how much this has ruffled Shane. 

"And it's not paid," Shane insists, "for—anyone, it's not for paying people to—it's a dating app!"

"Dating?"

"…Probably more other stuff, than dating," Shane says, the heat going out of his voice. Now he's just bewildered. Why the hell is Ilya talking about this? They were right in the middle of something!

"Mm. Anyway," Ilya says to Marly, waving a vague hand to dismiss Shane's outburst, "I just think we got really fucking lucky that you are into this. So we don't have to look elsewhere."

Despite his bewilderment, Shane is still coherent enough to witness a jumble of expressions cross Marly's face, a wary flicker narrowing his eyes. 

"Sure," Marly says, nodding, and then the angle of his jaw bulges as he stares blankly at Ilya, then glances at Shane, and then his gaze darts away completely. "Lucky."

There's a moment where Shane can't think of anything at all to say, and Ilya chews on his lower lip, uncharacteristically silent. Not correcting anything or taking anything back. 

Then Marly's shoulders shift, hunching in and then, just marginally, squaring. They're pretty fucking square already. But it's unavoidably more noticeable when Marly lifts his chin to Ilya and says stonily, "Dude, c'mon. I'm not a fucking Grindr hook-up."

Ilya blinks, and then his eyebrows draw together like that's absurd. "No. Obviously not," he says, with a tiny hand gesture, like he's giving Marly that one. To Shane, it seems like he's not giving an inch. 

To Marly, too, apparently; exasperation blooms in Marly's voice. "I'm not! I'm… were you even awake for what we did back there? That was some real shit!"

Ilya rubs his nose. "I guess."

Marly laughs in outrage. "You guess! Fuck off, dude."

Absurdly, for two guys naked and kissing thirty seconds ago, they're now both glaring. Still naked, still hard, but walls have slammed down behind both their expressions, and a cool edge of hostility enters Ilya's tone. 

"You are telling me to fuck off right now? You want me to go?"

Shane feels like he's watching a natural disaster occur in slow motion. He can't look away. To him, Ilya's losing it; the boyish impermeable bluster wearing thin, rattled underneath. But to Marly he probably just seems like an asshole. 

"No," Marly says, "but I'm not—" and then he cuts himself off, making a dark frustrated noise, hands balling into fists. 

Fuck, is Marly thinking about bailing? 

Shane's gaze snaps to Ilya, willing him, commanding him inside his brain: don't you dare let him leave. 

Ilya's guard is up, his eyes opaque, but he looks resigned, too, like none of this is a fucking surprise to him. 

Well, it's a surprise to Shane; he feels like his skates have gone out from under him, like he's smashed down onto the ice with tiny birds flying round his head. They were fine and happy and hot and now they're—whatever this is. He's not sure where it went wrong, the vibe skidding from perfect to crazy bad in under a minute, but he's pretty convinced it started with Ilya. Ilya, breaking something on purpose. 

Ilya does that sometimes. Generally, it's to protect them. At any cost; Ilya will smash up anything, take any hit, draw fire, lampoon his own reputation, if it keeps what he and Shane have safe. Is Ilya trying to protect them from Marly? But that sits wrong with Shane now, like a note from a piano that's drifted out of tune. There's been an intrinsic shift inside him, while he wasn't looking, and he's suddenly certain: they don't need to be protected from Marly. He might even need their protection. 

"Ilya, stop," Shane says, finding his voice at last, then gulps as Ilya sends an impatient scowl his way instead. 

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything. I'm just asking, where does he want me to fuck off to?"

"You're being an asshole," Shane tells Ilya.

"I'm not—"

"No, listen, Roz," Marly interrupts, firm enough that Shane prickles all over with the energy of it, locking in. "I dunno what's got you ripped all of a sudden, but it's not fucking coming from me. I don't want you to go anywhere. And I'm not going anywhere, so whatever, we can get this back on track if you want." For something that sounds so promising to Shane, it's accompanied by one hell of a glower. "But listen good first, okay? Because for fucking real – if I fuck your boyfriend with you, like we said, then afterward I'm sure as hell not going back to being just bros." 

In the stunned, stretched moment that follows, his dark laser focus swings to Shane. "Unless that's what you want," he bites off. "Is that what you want – just bros?" 

"No," Shane says, honestly. This, he can definitely contribute. "Not at all."

Marly returns his glare to Ilya. "Roz? Whadda you want?"

Incredibly, Ilya doesn't fold. "What are you offering?" 

Marly throws his head back and groans. "I don't know! But not nothing," he growls. "Can we start at not nothing?" 

They're glaring at each other again, the tension thick enough for a lesser man to suffocate in. 

Shane swallows, dares himself. "Okay," he says, cutting across them, taking the risk of drawing both their fire. "I see your not nothing," he says to Marly, his voice ringing out cautious, but deliberate, "and I raise you… hooking up again. Like, more than once."

Marly's stormy expression mellows as he looks at Shane, shifting with undisguised approval. "Right, yeah, got it. Okay – I see your more than once," he says, folding his arms across his chest, "and I raise you… regularly." 

Shane nods, even as his mind whirrs. "Yeah. I mean – it's difficult," he feels compelled to say. "I'm in Montreal, you guys are in Boston… unless you mean just you two, regularly," he says, rushing now, and hesitates. "Uh, I'm not sure how I'd feel about that." 

Marly's expression softens further. "I don't mean 'us two, regularly'," he says to Shane, stabbing a thumb at Ilya. "First, he's a colossal ass but he is right to not wanna leave you out, I get that. And second… I just meant, I'd be up for making this—" He draws a tiny circle with his finger, scouring out a space that somehow encompasses all three of them. "—more regular than not?" 

"Oh," Shane says, heart swelling. He nods, risks a glance at Ilya. "Okay."

Okay? Ilya asks silently. 

Shane gives him another nod. 

Tension drains from Ilya's expression—not all of it, but most of it. "I see your 'hooking up'," he says, turning back to Marly, speaking like he's testing the weight of the words on his tongue, "and I raise you, staying the night."

"All in," Marly says.

Shane gives a startled laugh. "Yeah?" 

Ilya's gaze zips between them, and his eyes look suddenly very clear. He cocks his head at Marly; all the tamped-down aggression has melted into something much more… curious. "So… was that your max bet?" 

Marly meets his eye. "No, actually."

"Huh." Ilya lowers his hand to where his cock is at half-mast, gives it a couple of reflexive pulls; Shane's whole body reacts, surging warm, alert.

Marly's attention follows Ilya's hand before jumping back to his face. "Wanna try and guess what is?"

"Do not guess," Ilya says to Shane, the edge of his mouth tilting. 

"Why not?"

Ilya makes a warning noise. "Did you ever play poker with Marly? He is, what is word? Card shark."

Shane huffs. "Yeah, I can believe that."

"Fuck you," Marly says easily, and Ilya doesn't balk this time; instead he's still stroking, slow, almost thoughtful, and now Marly's matching him, stroke for stroke. 

"Very good on same team," Ilya says, still to Shane, still without taking his eyes off Marly, "pretty lethal opponent." 

"Could say the same for you two," Marly says, offhand and yet not, and Shane's mind fills with a vivid, almost-too-intense image: the three of them on the same line. It's too insane to even imagine right now. 

"Marly," Shane says instead, hearing his own voice come out husky. His hand has dropped as well; how could it not? 

"Yeah?"

"What's your max bet?"

Marly grins at him. "Now that's not the sort of prime intel I'm gonna give up so easily," he says, and then his grin turns lascivious. "But right now, whaddya say to double or nothing?" 

And Shane doesn't actually play poker, so he's not sure what that means in a game context, but he's pretty sure he can nevertheless turn this his way. "I'll take double," he says, keeping a straight face but letting his gaze drop, openly regarding their dicks. 

"That is not what that means," Ilya says, shaking his head. Ilya does play poker. "Is not something you choose between – it's what you get when you win." 

"Okay," Shane says, shrugging. He shifts down on the bed until he's propped on one elbow, squeezing his cock with his other hand, and slowly spreads his legs. "How do I win?" 

Marly laughs at Ilya's instant, lust-dazed expression. "I think you just did."

"Okay, great," Shane says, starting to stroke himself. "When can I collect?"

Marly reaches up and pats Ilya on the cheek, the exact same gesture Ilya had used when he was throwing a wrench in the works of this thing; but Marly's not sabotaging. Marly's moving this along. 

"Roz," he says, "you in there? Earth to Roz! How are we gonna do this?"

Ilya wets his lips, apparently giving this question serious consideration. "I think… first we need to kiss him all over."

"Legit game plan," Marly says, and he doesn't even sound sarcastic; he's moving as he speaks, fingers enclosing the nearest of Shane's ankles and lifting it to his mouth. 

Ilya grabs his other ankle, ducks down, starts laying open-mouthed kisses all up the inside of his calf. And Shane doesn't particularly have a leg thing, but he does have an Ilya thing, and it turns out a Marly thing, and so this feels fucking wonderful. 

He likes how they're moving him, angling his legs to accommodate their warm, sliding mouths getting higher and higher. He tracks the different styles of kisses and nips—Ilya precise, deliberate; Marly haphazard and stubble-fuzzy, but no less distracting, as he rounds the outer edge of Shane's knee and trails up his thigh. 

Shane tries to relax into it, enjoy it, imagining that very soon these two menaces will converge on his cock, but the sensation goes from tickly one minute to sharp the next, and he's moving restlessly by the time Ilya's mouth reaches his outer thigh as well. 

"Stop kicking," Ilya says, as Shane's heel connects with the lean angle of his hip. 

"'M not kicking."

"Stop kicking or I will ask my good friend Cliff Marleau to hold you down." 

Shane redoubles his kicks. 

"Marly?" Ilya purrs. 

Marly pins Shane's hip with one heavy hand, then settles the other on his opposite knee, holding him still as Ilya's mouth returns its torturous ladder-climb up Shane's leg. Ilya doesn't stop and lick Shane's cock as anticipated, instead feathering kisses all the way up Shane's side. Marly ducks and laps a slow line along the base of Shane's ribs. 

"Ohh." Shane can't help but moan a little, sigh a lot. His skin feels like tiny sparks are alighting on it from all directions. He gets a hand in Marly's soft, thick hair and directs him a little: yes, press his teeth into the angles of his ribcage, yes, suck harder. Shane won't be back in a locker room, getting changed in front of people, for a few whole days; plenty of time for marks to fade, even if he doesn't want them to.

Is that your max bet? Ilya had asked, and Shane didn't have to play poker to translate that. And Marly had said no. There's more that Marly wants, more than hook-ups, more than sleepovers. Shane will need to schedule some time to freak out about that, surely, but right now he's greedy for it; yes, stay; yes, write this thing in indelible marker across my chest; yes, with your mouth. 

Ilya's hand is the first one he feels sliding up between his thighs. Shane shifts impatiently, and is rewarded by Marly holding him down harder, a commanding press into the mattress that makes the sparks dance. 

"Can you pass me that," Ilya says to Marly, and Marly releases Shane to twist around and locate the lube bottle, passes it over. 

Ilya could have asked him, Shane thinks, but it makes sense that he didn't, because Ilya and Marly are on a line here and Shane is the opposition. Not that he's opposing anything. More like, they're the winning team and he's the prize. 

Ilya pushes two fingers inside him, cool and wet with fresh lube, and Shane's back arches like a bowstring. He's already been fucked this evening and he hopes he's imminently going to be fucked again, but there is something about the possessive precision of Ilya's fingers that always threatens to take Shane apart. 

"Yeah," Ilya says, and his voice sounds distant; he's answering some unspoken question from Marly, giving him some direction, which Shane doesn't have a chance to decipher before the wet heat of Marly's mouth encloses Shane's nipple. 

"Mm," Shane hears himself say, his hand plunging back into Marly's hair. His scratchy stubble is enraging, wonderful, against Shane's sensitive skin, and the swirl of his tongue coaxing Shane's nipple to peak up is a remarkably sensuous thing. When Marly sucks, a path seems to light up between his mouth and Ilya's fingers and—and, fuck. Not just Ilya's fingers. Now one of Marly's hands is between Shane's thighs as well, his knuckles brushing Ilya's, his fingertips sliding over Shane's hole and then seeking, seeking. 

Shane's back bows again as Marly's two fingers slide in alongside Ilya's, all at once stretching him twice as much, and fresh sparks race along that circuit between his ass and Marly's mouth. Marly sucks harder in response, and then Ilya's mouth descends on Shane's other nipple – nuzzling, mirroring – and Shane cries out. 

Ilya grunts against his chest, and Shane feels his cock bump his hip. Shane's own cock rears up, sticky and pulsing with the rhythm of their fingers inside him. Even though it's just fingers, he's losing his mind at the sensation of his body giving way to their intention. He feels so slutty, so open, so vulnerable, and it's driving him wild—and they still haven't asked. 

Sure, he knows they'd stop if he wanted, but still nobody has asked his opinion on what they're doing to him, and gradually he realizes that's part of it, that's part of what they're doing for him, not letting him agree to it, not letting him give them permission. His mind is un-tethering from reality, in that slinky way it sometimes does. He's floating in the hot, sleek tides of being wanted and used and shared, anticipation building for what comes next. 

Ilya lifts his head, cool air flashing over Shane's nipple in the wake of his mouth. "Shhh," he soothes, and Shane realizes he's been moaning with ever-increasing plaintive urgency. "Are we hurting you?"

"No," Shane gasps. 

"Are you ready for my dick?" 

"Yes," Shane says eagerly, "yes—" 

"Mm. No," Ilya says, sending a dull shock through Shane's system, for all he knows it's part of the build. "I think, guests first."

He's still not asking, not defining. Shane nods blindly, missing their fingers the moment they withdraw but biting his tongue, shivering all over as he lets them rearrange him onto his hands and knees. 

He expects Marly to line up behind him, but instead he lies on his back, while Ilya puts his mouth close to Shane's ear. 

"Ride him for me," he says, stroking one hand down the hot damp stretch of Shane's spine, ending in a brief squeeze of his ass, sinking his thumb inside. Shane shivers and clenches around it, and Ilya chuckles and withdraws again. "Like that. So eager. Show him how good you are, when you're getting what you want."

There's another cool spill of lube over Marly's cock, waiting for him. Shane straddles him and reaches back, pausing for a moment to look at the man spread beneath him like a feast. He still seems so big, the muscles of his abdomen and chest defined beneath golden skin and dark body hair, angling up to those huge shoulders, that taut neck and strong jaw. Those smoldering eyes.

"Yes, yes, he is very handsome," Ilya says, softly taunting. "Now sit on his cock before I start to think you disobey me."

Shane's eyes flutter closed; this is confirmation that Ilya's giving orders, not making suggestions. They're showing Marly exactly how it can go between them, inviting him into the heart of things. He rubs the firm, rounded head of Marly's cock against his hole, teasing himself with it, and then painstakingly slowly sits down. The stretch is exquisite, and the appreciative noise Marly makes teases along the insides of Shane's ears. 

He reaches the base and rises off again without pausing, not wanting to find stillness. His thighs can cope, moving him smoothly on Marly's dick, letting him take a slow draw up the whole length of it before sinking back down. He can hear Marly's breathing adjust in response, matching Shane's. 

"Good," Ilya says, and lifts Shane's hands to his own chest. Ah, so he wants a performance. 

Shane licks his lips as he pinches his nipples, still damp from their mouths, still sensitive. With Marly's dick in his ass, the pathway between each point feels less playful and sparky, more like igniting a line of gunpowder. "Oh! Fuck." 

"Jesus," Marly rumbles, as Shane works himself on Marly's cock, squeezing his own tits, not quite able to open his eyes. He can't cope with watching Marly watch this. His cock is bouncing against his stomach, he's starting to sweat, and his breath is shortening, fraying. "Uh, Roz? If you wanna do anything more adventurous you might need to do it soon."

The next thing he knows, Ilya is patting Shane's face, and it stings, the shock of contact enhanced because Shane was already in motion when Ilya's hand collided. Or maybe Ilya intended to slap him around a little. "Shane. I know you love his dick, and it feels so good inside, and – if I let you – you will bounce on it until you shoot all over yourself…" 

Marly's hips stab up at that, sending a lancing heat through Shane's body that renders him temporarily speechless. Fuck, he's strong. 

"…but you must not," Ilya finishes, as if he hasn't noticed the interruption. "Because I am going to fuck you as well. And I think you will enjoy it more if you have not come yet. But… you know? Even if you do come, I am going to do it anyway." 

It's diabolical because the sound of Ilya rasping that, and the feel of how Marly's cock swells in response inside him, and the threat in Ilya's voice all combine to catapult Shane directly toward the edge. He freezes mid-way up, trembling, gritting his teeth, dropping his hands to his thighs and digging his fingernails in, fighting the urge to come. 

"Because you have been teasing us with this promise for weeks," Ilya explains calmly, "and you have made me curious, so now it is time to pay up. Now sit."

It's like he's addressing a dog. The command rings through Shane and he exhales shakily, lowering his hips, taking the full length of Marly's cock inside him and then adjusting his weight to sit deeper, getting it all in, thick root to pulsing tip.

"Oh my God," Marly mutters, and Shane opens his eyes to see him squinting up at Shane like the sun's shining right in his eyes. "You're so fucking beautiful." 

"Just because he can take your whole dick, you call him that," Ilya teases, and Shane expects Marly to laugh along with him, but instead he shakes his head. 

"No, time out – like yeah, it's hot, but are you seeing this?" Marly exclaims, indicating Shane's face, his neck, his chest where his nipples feel pointed, swollen. "This is some Renaissance shit.”

For a moment Ilya's hard facade cracks, and adoration shines out. "Oh," he says, crawling around to lower his mouth to Shane's collarbone, dusting kisses along it before dropping to suck one tingling nipple into his mouth. 

Shane whimpers, and feels Marly's hips stab up again, though he can't get deeper right now. 

"Yes," Ilya says gruffly, drawing back, having clearly recovered himself, "you are right, we have very beautiful toy to play with." He lifts a hand to the back of Shane's neck, presses. "Lie down."

Shane's hands move from his thighs to Marly's stomach, then slide up, unable to resist treating himself to the feel of him as he lowers himself forward without lifting off Marly's cock. The heat of Marly's skin is intense. Shane's knees spread to either side, thighs falling wider apart, leaving him feeling utterly exposed. To Ilya. 

"Hey," Marly murmurs, looking down at him; he's just marginally taller, lying in this position, and his voice sounds richer when Shane can also feel the reverberations of it through his chest.

Shane blinks up at him, trying not to pant in his face. "Hey," he says, and then gasps as a cold dribble of liquid spills over his hole. His focus slams downward as his muscles tighten, instinctively gripping Marly's cock tight. 

"Might be cold," Ilya says, two seconds too late to be a credible warning. "But I will warm you up."

Shane gasps again as the unmistakable blunt heat of Ilya's cock slides over his rim, spreading the lube. It feels intimate and filthy and intimidating at once, and also like Ilya is toying with him; all together, a bundle of Shane's favourite things. 

Marly's hips move in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm, not fucking him exactly, just keeping his cock moving inside Shane, a couple of inches of sliding non-friction. Marly ducks his mouth to Shane's ear. "You feel so good, baby, you know that, right? So good…"

"Mm," Shane says, fearful to say more because what if Ilya notices, what if Ilya stops? The heavy pressure of his cockhead is right, right there, rubbing back and forth over his hole, above where Marly is buried inside him. 

Keenly, he does not want Ilya getting distracted mid-play.

"And if this is too much, you gotta say, okay?" Wow, Marly is being sweet with him, somehow that fills him up with even more nervy apprehension. "Don't be a jock about it."

—and fuck, that's directly borrowed from what Ilya said to Marly earlier, before he entered his virgin ass, and it's been a long time since Shane thought of himself as any kind of virgin, but Marly cooing in his ear like this is making a thousand thoughts fly through his head at once. 

He doesn't have time to assemble those thoughts before Ilya's lining up for real, pushing Shane even further forward so that Marly's cock' is partway out and then aiming, going for it. At first it's just a soaring pressure, slick and hot and focal, and then the extra stretch begins. 

"Holy fuck," Shane gasps, getting a mouthful of Marly's salty skin, and Marly goes absolutely still beneath him, hips rigid, cock straining, as it feels like Ilya's dick just starts to cram itself inside. Fuck, he's huge. Shane was already stretched and now he's at breaking point, and it's—it's actually too much, he's too big, he can't take them both. Fuck, it's impossible, a wave of actual physical panic is welling up inside him – he can't do this! – and all at once he's shaking and swearing against Marly's neck. 

"Wait, wait," Shane grinds out, and to his credit Ilya does immediately back off, easing out again, one hand on Shane's sweaty hip. Shane's hole is smarting, his body thrumming all over, and fuck, he's such an idiot—he's promised too much, he's let them down. "Fuck!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Marly says, deep and soothing, stroking Shane's flanks like someone trying to calm a startled horse; distantly, the irony of this turnabout is not lost on Shane, but mostly his body is just flying with adrenaline, his thoughts a spiralling scattered mix of frustration and disappointment and even a kick of the age-old shame. Wanting something you're not meant to have.

"It's just an idea," Marly's saying, kissing Shane's cheek, his ear. "If it's too much—" 

"Mmm, no," Ilya interrupts, and now his hands are firm on Shane's ass, spreading him again. Shane's attention slams back down to earth, into the palms of Ilya's hands. "Hey Marly," Ilya says, and his voice is firm too, firm and idly cruel and exactly the grounding Shane needs. "Remind me. What is word for when girl pretends she is going to let you fuck her and then she doesn't?"

"Uh… a cocktease?" Marly asks doubtfully.

"Exactly," Ilya purrs. "I thought it was that. So… what is it, Shane, what do you think? Are you cocktease or slut?"

Heat rolls up over him in successive, blinding waves. "…Slut," Shane manages. 

"Oh yeah, I thought so," Ilya says. "So you will take it, yes?" His finger is stroking over Shane's rim now, thoughtful, steady. "You will take me as well?"

"Yes," Shane says, though even he can hear he's not confident about it. 

"Oh, baby," Marly says, nuzzling down to kiss his mouth; sweet, slow kisses that remind Shane he's more than a shivering mass of obscenely overstretched nerves. Not a lot more, but at least he can still taste the tease of Marly's tongue, inhale his skin.  

"Good," Ilya says, as if taking Shane's answer at face value. 

His finger presses back in, alongside Marly's cock, and then melts away. Again, lingering this time, the burn lessening as Shane imagines what he's seeing; fingering Shane's hole while Marly's still deep inside him. Again, stretching him slowly, again, more, until Shane feels like he's choking on his own arousal, squirming on Marly's cock, splayed open. 

Ilya wouldn't be doing this if he didn't believe Shane could do it. 

"I can't wait any more," Ilya says, which Shane mutely translates as, Are you ready to try again?

Shane breaks away from Marly's mouth to say, "Yeah, yeah, fuck. Do it." 

"Or will you disappoint us?" It sounds like he's smirking, and Shane whines in his throat, because as usual Ilya has skewered the wriggling shady center of this, and tugged it to the surface for all to see.

"No," Shane breathes, and then Ilya's lining up again, one hand heavy on Shane's hips, connecting, certain. White noise descends in Shane's ears. 

Instinctively, Shane finds Marly's mouth, starts kissing him desperately. It's an instantaneous reassurance, and a pleasurable diversion, as the pressure on his rim steadily increases. The discomfort of resisting is building, building. He wants to give in, but he can't just relax into it because his muscles have already done that, he's already adjusted to Marly sliding inside, and as hard as he tells his body to let Ilya in as well, it seems the message evaporates somewhere along the line. 

All he can do is breathe, and distract himself with kisses, and ground himself under Ilya's heavy hand. 

He wonders, suddenly, indignantly, how they do it in porn—is it mind over matter? Drugs? Have they used some sort of device? He's going to find out, if this doesn't work, he's going to research it, because—oh fuck. Oh, fuck, it's going in. 

"Oh fuck," Shane babbles, as an insurmountable pain-pleasure intensity rushes over him, Ilya's dick prizing him open, slowly but surely, easing in alongside.

"Fuck," Ilya echoes, immediately slowing, the hard edge dropping away from his voice as breath sweeps up to meet it, "fuck, fuck, Shane—"

"Oh Jesus, fuck, Shane," Marly groans, tipping his head back. Shane can feel him straining beneath him, but can't spare a moment to wonder how it must feel to him, Ilya's dick sliding bare against his own, because he's too busy losing it over having two dicks inside him. Properly, finally, finally. 

"Oh my God," Shane hisses, staying perfectly still as Ilya pushes right the way inside, and it does still hurt – they're both large men – but it's the deep ache of achievement now, nothing terrifying or unsettling about it. Shane's done it, he's fucking done it, he's taking them both at once and it is so fucking hot he can barely breathe. 

"'S… fuck… tight," Marly gasps, his breath a hot blast against Shane's tingling skin. 

"Yeah," Ilya says, an effortful undertone, folding down to plaster himself along Shane's back, trapping him beneath his gorgeous weight—and yet he's still not moving, sunk to the hilt against Marly with his necklace trailing across the base of Shane's neck, but remaining disconcertingly still. 

"I can take it," Shane says, in case that's what Ilya's waiting for; he's not sure if it's true but he wants it to be. He's feeling wild, a live wire insulated between two thick bodies, humming with unspent power. He wants them to fuck him.

"Mm," Ilya says, against Shane's shoulder, and then, when Shane gives a helpful nudge backward, "fuck, wait, wait, I don't wanna come yet." 

Pride floods Shane in a rosy flush, and he remembers his own cock trapped against Marly's stomach. He tries to focus on that instead, shifting minutely, pulsing his dick against Marly's warm slick skin, rubbing it against the lean muscled heat of him. 

"Shane," Ilya moans, accusing now, "I mean it, if you don't want me to come in three seconds you gotta wait." 

Shane's moan shudders out of him. He gets it but he needs this, they can't pause again now, he's gonna lose his mind, he needs—

"What if I move?" Marly asks, and Ilya gives a strangled laugh. 

"Is roll of dice, but fuck yes, go on."

One of Marly's hands skates down Shane's side, anchors on his ass; the other slides up into Shane's hair. "You want me to move, baby? Fuck your ass while he gets his breath back?"

Shane can't muster an answer beyond another moan and a flex of his cock against Marly's stomach, but it's enough. Marly's fingers dig in and he starts a slow roll of his hips, thrusting smoothly up despite their combined weight, and Shane starts shuddering immediately. He's crammed so full, Marly can't move without sliding along his prostate; even a gentle thrust has Shane crying out, beating the mattress with his fist. 

"Fuck," Ilya mutters, and he's got himself under control, maybe, or maybe he doesn't care how quick he comes anymore; his hips tap forward, again and again, matching the deeper slide of Marly's dick, and Shane's remaining sanity burns away. 

"Holy shit, fuck, fuck me," he mumbles, melting between them, feeling them synchronize against each other, building pace. And it's not just the astonishing stretch that is rendering him insensible, not just the relentless compression of his prostate with every single thrust, but the inescapable acquiescence of it—they're inside him now, taking him together, sandwiching him between their hot, hard bodies, and he's powerless, perfect, giving his body entirely over to their desires. He can feel every obscene detail as they slide together in his ass, naked and swollen hard as they start to thrust for real. 

"Fuck," Marly's chanting softly, kissing Shane's cheek, his chin, everywhere he can reach; whereas Ilya is grabbing hold of Shane's shoulders and using them for leverage, putting his back into it, slamming home. 

Marly and Shane both groan at that. 

"Yeah?" Ilya pants, repeating it, harder, faster. "Yeah, is this what you wanted? What you dream?" 

"Yeah," Shane manages, huffed out between the insubstantial breaths he's forced to take each time the others release pressure on his diaphragm. "You?"

"Better." 

Shane will quiz him on that later. Right now there is no later, no second-guessing, no quiz; there is only the three of them, coordinating, staggering toward unison, their mingled groans saturating the air. 

Shane's going to come, he realizes, and it's not something he can control. Like all the most intense nights with Ilya, his body is now just a warm and needy thing, a vehicle for pleasure, all dumb reflex while his mind unlatches and soars. 

"I'm gonna come," he slurs, and they both redouble their pace, which is cute, but unnecessary; for Shane the touchpaper is lit, the explosion is just a matter of time.

"Yeah," Ilya gasps, against the back of his neck, gripping him tighter, slamming harder. 

"Me too," Marly says, strained, snapping his hips, "gonna—fill you up, and then Roz can fuck it deeper into you—" and that's it, Shane is convulsing between them, his cock spurting endlessly between them.

"Fuck," Marly groans, following through, emptying himself deep inside Shane's body. Shane feels him swell and his rhythm stutter before it gets much, much more slippery.

"Fuck," Ilya says loudly, digging his fingernails into Shane's shoulders and shoving deep, deep, grinding it into him, "Fuck, Shane—Cliff—fuck, I'm—" and then he's convulsing on top of them, moving in heavy instinctive selfish jolts, fucking Shane with ragged imprecision until he comes, completely undone. 

Shane lies between them, tracking every shove inside him, every liquid rush. It's obscene. Horrendously messy. Fuck, so hot. He's taken a double load, he keeps thinking; they've both come inside him and they're both still inside him and he's so full, so ruined, so theirs. 

"Oh my god," Marly ventures, eventually. Shane can feel his breathing slowing, the expansion of his chest growing less hectic. He doesn't seem uncomfortable. They must be heavy, though. But he's strong, Shane thinks dazedly, smiling where he's tucked his face against Marly's collarbone. "You guys good?"

"Good," Shane confirms, and gives a demonstrative squeeze of his ass that makes the two of them startle. "You?"

"Cloud fucking nine," Marly says, then strokes his hands up and down Shane's sides. "Though I'm definitely getting a cramp. Roz, you still with us, dude?"

"Mmm," Ilya says, and then mumbles something else that Shane has no hope of catching, and rests his cheek on Shane's back. For a moment Shane thinks he might be going to sleep, but then Ilya heaves an enormous sigh and starts pressing kisses to Shane's skin—a sure sign of consciousness. "'S okay. 'M awake."

He reaches down and, in a move that slightly blows Shane's mind, wraps his hand around both their dicks and slowly, gently eases them out together. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Marly mutters, under his breath. and then Ilya is releasing him and sliding off to one side, and Shane rolls off on the other. Marly takes a huge breath at that, and groans on the exhale. "Wow."

Ilya starts to laugh softly, pats Marly affectionately on the chest with his open palm. "Go team!" 

Marly laughs as well, covering Ilya's hand with his own. "Go team." 

Shane grins, rolls on his side; they both look destroyed, and happy, with their eyes closed. 

He slips his hand on top of Marly's, gives it a tentative press, and finds his fingers sliding easily between those of the other two men. 

"Go team," Shane whispers, and they lie there a while.

Chapter 5: The Rundown

Chapter Summary

Shane has got some processing to do. Meanwhile:
- Everyone gets clean;
- Ilya and Shane come clean to Marly about their future plans;
- Marly and Ilya can't help but mess Shane up again

Significant tags for this chapter:
- spit roasting
- wet & messy
- polyamory

Chapter Notes

WE MADE IT!

THANK YOU GUYS for the enthusiasm on the previous chapter, it has made a crazy week a lot more awesome and I just love this corner of the fandom so much <3

(also, because people keep asking, hell yes ofc I am down to hear if it's getting people off, at the end of the day it is smut, no? we're good here)

likewise yes, yes absolutely, please make art, or podfic, or missing scenes, or whatever you please for this series. As long as AI isn't involved (AT ALL), and no money is being made, I probably think your suggestion is a great idea <3

okay ENOUGH RAMBLING: we're on the home stretch! and it's time to put these jocks back in play.

The shower is hot, and powerful, and necessary.

Shane turns under the glorious blast of it, relearning the shape of himself, etched anew in streaming hot water. He's yawning even as he grins, eyes sliding closed against the spray. That was so fucking hot. Everything he wanted. And nobody has mentioned Marly leaving.

After, he wraps a towel around his waist and strolls back out of the bathroom, thinking about suggesting they move to one of the other bedrooms entirely, then emerges to see the destroyed bed is already empty.

He wanders back through to the main room and notes the champagne in its cooler has also gone, and so have three of the glasses.

Intriguing.

A muffled rumble of male laughter catches his attention—from outside? There's a private terrace, extending out into darkness from sliding glass doors. He can see a couple of low lights have been turned on out there, dim gold illumination picking out the dark bulk of a large, outdoor, wood-panelled hot tub wreathed in steam.

It's occupied.

Shane turns down the overhead light and walks closer to the glass doors. Through the window they look like a sexy commercial for a spa hotel, with steam rising around their bare shoulders, light glinting off Ilya's champagne flute as he tips his head back and drains it.

Shane snorts and shakes his head. He's pretty sure there are rules about glassware and alcohol that are getting broken right now, and nudity too, no doubt.

Gingerly, he lets himself out onto the terrace. He hates hot tubs! The chemical smell and the gross fact that other people's feet might bump him, and the aggressive bubbles that make his nose prickle – no thanks.

But he guesses he can stand to go out there and explain that he'll meet them in bed.

And… to tell them, don't be long.

He could tell them that from the door, of course. But, he can admit to himself, he kind of wants another fix of their mutual attention, right now.

Cold blankets him the moment he steps out, a crisp edge of frost in the air. His bare feet are chilled instantly—it's the middle of the night, a few stars twinkling overhead. Shane refuses to scamper across the frigid terrace.

Ilya looks up as Shane approaches with a brisk tread.

"Found you," Shane says, resting his elbows on the chest-height wooden edge and peering down. There are steps up the outside and down into the dark water. The tub appears to be wood-fired, and there aren't any jets or bubbles or stupid underwater lighting rigs that make Shane feel like a resident at a novelty aquarium.

There's just Ilya and Marly, lounging nude at opposite sides of what must be an eight-man hot-tub, chatting in low amused voices about destroying Detroit.

"Hey," Ilya says, and beams up at him through the steam. "Wanna join us?"

"I hate hot tubs."

"True," Ilya says, and shrugs. "We won't be too long. You don't have to come in."

"But if you do, we'll make it worth your while," Marly says, and waggles his eyebrows salaciously.

Shane shivers, from the cold. Not from Marly being as casual and playful with him as he usually is with Ilya. "Oh yeah? And how will you do that?"

"Uhhh… foot rub?" Marly offers.

Shane grins. His feet are rapidly turning numb. "I mean, I don't hate that idea…"

"Come in then," Ilya offers, then points at an empty champagne glass on a built-in wooden tray, also boasting the champagne bucket. "Pour you a drink?" There's a can of ginger ale as well. "Sorry, is not cold," Ilya says, which must mean he brought it with him. Shane can't seem to stop smiling.

"I guess I could give it a go," Shane says, dropping the towel before he can reconsider, climbing the wooden steps and then cautiously lowering himself into the glossy dark hot water.

He gives an involuntary sigh as he sinks in, up to his chest—it is blissfully warm. He supposes it isn't a terrible feeling. The normal chlorine smell he hates is missing, thankfully, and there's a minimal tang of wood-smoke instead, making him feel like he's in a remote log cabin with two gorgeous woodsmen, not at the top of a million-storey hotel with a pair of top-tier hockey players. There are no annoying bubbles, and it's big enough that when he reclines, equally spaced between them, their limbs aren't all jumbled up together.

But, he finds, if he reaches his foot out on purpose, he can rest it on Ilya's thigh.

Ilya's hand drops under the water and squeezes it.

Marly pours a round of champagne, and Shane decides he can treat himself to a small glass – it's hardly the wildest thing he's done this evening – while the other two continue their conversation about Detroit, and Ilya idly massages Shane's foot.

Shane listens and sips, tipping his head back against the wooden side and letting his limbs float in the hot water, his focus drifting amongst the few bright pinprick stars visible overhead. Marly's voice interweaves with Ilya's, a rich tapestry of low, familiar tones. Someone hadn't been pulling their weight on wing, and it was really exposed in the final play. Ilya still scored off Marly's assist, though. Someone else had rolled their ankle and still isn't recovering. Maybe they should get a second opinion.

The champagne tastes nice, crisp and cold with lots of tiny bubbles. Shane relaxes even deeper into the warmth. The freezing air stirs the surface of the hot water, in a way Shane can admit feels really good against his skin right now.

"—but I guess now we won't go head-to-head against them until next year," Marly's saying, and Shane had lost track of their conversation but this makes him jerk back to it.

Ilya's hand on Shane's foot also stills.

"Uh, yes. So next year might look a little different," Ilya says slowly, after a moment.

Shane's heart squeezes, abruptly nervous.

Marly tilts his head. "Yeah?"

Ilya sips his drink, nodding, then presses his lips together as he swallows. "Yeah. The, uh, the Raiders' roster might look different. Will look different. I'll be a free agent and I… uh…"

"You're gonna move closer to this one," Marly supplies, indicating Shane with his thumb.

Ilya's eyebrows raise in surprise, and he stares at Marly for a long moment before nodding again. "Yeah."

Marly grins back at him, crooked. "Ahhhhh, fuck. Yeah, okay. You really are. Fuck, dude." He blows out a breath, a white plume in the frosty air. Then laughs ruefully, meeting Ilya's eye again. "Well, obviously I'm bummed – but not surprised."

Ilya blinks. "Really?"

"For real! It's the one thing I couldn't work out about you guys. You're great together, you're great for each other, but you live in different fucking countries? That shit doesn't work for long."

Ilya squeezes Shane's foot hard.

Marly swirls his champagne in his glass, watching the spiral of bubbles rise, then shrugs. "And yeah, okay, of course it sucks for me, and for the Raiders, but like – shit happens. Rosters change. If they can't afford to pay for your boy here to join you in Boston, what do they expect you to do?"

Ilya gives a startled laugh, and Shane blinks. They've never even discussed that possibility. "They don't know anything about it. No one knows yet. Any of it."

Except you, Shane thinks. Just like that, Marly knows everything.

"Sure, no, 'course, I get it," Marly says, sounding resolutely fine. "So who are you gonna sign with?"

"Ottawa."

Hearing it said out loud makes Shane's heart skip a beat.

Marly's eyebrows shoot skywards. "For real? Jesus." He whistles. "That is one helluva step down, bro."

Shane scrambles to defend their choice. "It is, but they can afford him, and then, you know, we'll be so much closer, and hopefully, one day…."

"Nah, I get it," Marly says, and throws Shane a smile that makes his chest go tight. "One step at a time." He chuckles, shakes his head. "Ottawa, though. Fucking hell."

Ilya snorts. "Yeah," he says. "Takin' one for the team," he drawls, and it's sardonic but there's a new lightness to it, that Shane realizes has been missing from their last few conversations about this; as if the future is marginally easier to picture, now that Ilya's told someone he cares about.

"Respect," Marly says. He lifts his glass in salute, then drains it, waggles his eyebrows again. "So… will you be up for visitors, after this big move of yours?"

The edge of Ilya's mouth tips up. "You'd wanna visit me in Ottawa?"

"You bet," Marly says, then winks at Shane. "You can give me the tour. Heard it's the hometown of some generational hockey talent, or something."

"Pff, you heard this? I did not hear this," Ilya says, and starts squeezing Shane's foot again.

“We should go in. It’s gonna get cold.”

“It’s really not,” Ilya says. 

“Okay, well I don’t wanna turn into a wrinkly prune.”

“This is better reason,” Ilya says, then sinks down so the water comes up to his chin. “Dibs not being one who goes to get towels.” 

“You can’t dibs that,” Shane says, even as he casts a wistful eye over to the rack of neatly rolled towels, all the way back across the chilly terrace. 

“Just did.”

Marly laughs. “Okay, Cinderella,” he says, which makes no sense to Shane, but he doesn’t hate the teasing note in Marly’s voice, his crooked grin. “Move over.” 

“‘M not a princess,” Ilya grumbles, but shifts his long limbs agreeably enough for Marly to climb out between them, steam rising off him into the chilly night. 

“Holy shit, it’s freezing,” Marly mutters, and for a moment Shane thinks he’s just going to bolt, but then he’s returning with an armful of towels, shaking one out and holding it up for Shane. “C’mon then.”

“Ugh, don’t pretend you are better boyfriend than me,” Ilya grouses, as Shane rises from the water and steps gratefully down into Marly’s arms. 

“Who’s pretending?” Marly shoots back, wrapping Shane up and then dropping a kiss close to Shane’s ear. “Quick,” he murmurs, “let’s lock him out here.” 

Ilya overhears. “Don’t you dare!” 

Shane laughs, scrambling with Marly for the doorway, Ilya exploding naked from the water and sprinting to close the distance between them. He tackles them together just as they get back inside, all dripping wet outrage and grabby hands, and they collapse onto a huge couch in a heap of damp towels and headlocks and muffled, hysteria-tinged laughter. 

Shane finds himself in the middle. His skin feels electrified by the hot-cold-hot transition, and by Ilya’s hands now investigating his thighs beneath the towel. 

"Oh, hey," he says, accepting a kiss from Ilya, slow and sweet.

"Hey," Ilya says. "Warm you up?"

"Yes please."

It's languid, gentle. They're both so hot. Shane’s so relaxed and tired he's pretty sure he can’t get it up again, but it still feels nice, Marly leaning down to kiss him, Ilya’s hands moving more purposefully now. 

“I don’t… uh, think…” Shane starts, mumbled against Marly’s lips, and feels him grin. 

“So don’t think,” Marly says, with a little huff of laughter. “Always works for me.” 

Shane stretches out between them, on top of Ilya and under Marly, warmth blooming inside him as he melts between their hands, their mouths.

It's really, really nice. Like the sort of lazy make-out session he remembers from last summer at the cottage, when he and Ilya had nothing to do but explore each other, make themselves familiar. Make each other home.

It doesn’t even feel like they’re gearing up to fuck again, he thinks—but then Marly kisses Ilya firmly over Shane’s shoulder, there's a latent heat to it that spikes, and Shane feels Ilya’s dick valiantly trying to rise against his ass. 

“Oh my god,” Shane says, turning his head and grinning incredulously. “You wanna go again?”

Ilya flashes his teeth. “Always!”

He's bluffing, Shane thinks. Or maybe he's not.

Ilya's come twice already but Shane's only come once. Same for Marly, he thinks. He'd thought he was going to sleep but now… not so much. Now he's floating, relaxed and happy, tingling with their mutual attention. He's feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of their lips, trailing along his damp skin.

Shane lies back comfortably between Ilya’s legs, his shoulders against Ilya’s chest, with Marly half on top of him. He's vividly aware as Marly gets hard as well, pressing against Shane’s hip. Shane gets his hand down there, wraps around it, and Marly grunts and shifts to kiss Shane instead.

Shane opens his mouth, sucking his tongue, breathing in the faint lingering hints of champagne and wood-smoke. Okay, yeah, he's very on board with this now.

Shane moves his hips, suggestive, and Marly breaks off the kiss abruptly.

"You can't be serious," Marly says.

"Shane is always serious," Ilya says, "when there is possibility of getting dicked down."

Dimly, Shane knows he should protest at that, but his attention is entirely on the fat weight of Marly's cock, sliding against his stomach. Fuck, he really wants it.

“Go on, put it in,” Shane breathes, trying to guide it between his legs.

Marly makes a strangled noise. “Pretty sure we’d need more lube.”

Shane swears under his breath. “No, I can’t wait. Just spit on me.” He feels Marly’s cock flex at that, promisingly solid. “I can take it.”

"Don't wanna… hurt you," Marly says, sounding uncertain. “Maybe I’ll just jerk off over you.” He makes a show of aiming his dick over Shane’s abs, then chest, stroking hard. “Unload on your beautiful tits. How’d you like that?”

Shane wonders if it’s possible for a brain to actually short-circuit. The thought of lying here in Ilya’s arms while Marly comes all over him like that is—

“Shane would be very furious with you if you did that,” Ilya tells Marly.

A tiny frown creases Marly’s brows. “You wouldn’t like it?”

“No, I’d really like it,” Shane says, “but, uh…”

“Not as much as if you fuck him again,” Ilya supplies.

Marly smirks. “Got it."

“Come on,” Ilya says, covering Shane’s mouth with his hand and then pushing two fingers inside. “Get them wet.”

Shane sucks them messily, getting off even more on how Marly’s looking at Ilya’s fingers in Shane’s mouth.

“You gonna get him ready for me?” Marly asks Ilya, still stroking himself. “Open him up so he can take my dick again?”

“He does not need much to be ready,” Ilya says, as Shane starts slipping into the familiar hot haze of being talked about like they own him. “He will still be good from earlier. Won't you?” Ilya asks Shane, nuzzling his ear. “From letting us fuck you together… letting us both use your tight hole at once… such a good boy.”

Shane shivers and nods, bending his knees, spreading his thighs. He sucks Ilya’s fingers, staring at Marly’s dick. His own dick is straining now, lifting off his stomach.

Marly’s gaze drops between his legs. Shane wonders how he looks—is it red, puffy? Can Marly see how much it’s throbbing again?

“Spit on it,” Ilya says to Marly, his other hand moving down to cup Shane’s balls, holding them out the way.

Marly ducks down and obeys, and Shane moans around Ilya's fingers at the wet sensation spreading across his skin. Fuck, how is he already so needy again? He'd thought they were going to sleep!

“Yeah?” Ilya murmurs, squeezing his balls as Shane squirms and nods. “You like that? You’re gonna be good for him?”

For us.

Shane nods, releasing Ilya’s fingers, and Ilya reaches down and dips his fingertips into Shane’s ass, not deep, just spreading the slick around.

“Yes,” Shane whispers, lighting up, aching for more. He licks his wet lips, missing the pressure against his tongue already. “C’mon, fuck, Marly, please—“

Marly lowers himself over him, bracing one arm on the couch, the other sliding between Shane's legs. “Tell me, baby. Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to fuck me,” Shane insists, tilting his hips. It’s suddenly inconceivable that they ever could have gone straight to bed. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

“Roz, what do you think? Fuck him raw or go get the lube?”

Their fingers are stroking over his rim together now, making Shane's head spin.

"Mm, actually you are right," Ilya muses. "He is very sensitive. Maybe you will hurt him if you just push in like this, without anything else."

"You won't," Shane says desperately, but it's no use, Marly's levering himself off the couch and walking back through to the bedroom. "Fuck," Shane whines, twisting around to glare at Ilya. "You made him go."

"Sulking again," Ilya purrs, grinning. "All because he is trying to take good care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of," Shane says, frustration making his voice hiss. "I need—"

"I know what you need." Ilya's tone cuts across him and Shane stills instantly. "Turn over. You need to keep my dick warm while you wait."

Fuck, Ilya's right, that's exactly what he needs.

"I don't think I will come again," Ilya says, almost conversational, just the tiniest catch in his breath as Shane rolls onto his stomach and kisses his way frantically down to Ilya's cock. "But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy your mouth while he fucks you."

"Yeah," Shane agrees, brushing his lips against it, licking and sucking until Ilya sighs and repositions himself, holding Shane's jaw so that the head of his dick can push between Shane's lips.

"Okay, shhh," Ilya says, pressing lightly on the back of his head, guiding him down. Shane's eyes flutter closed as his mouth is filled; the hot simple pressure of it feels so good, Ilya's hands idly controlling the pace, barely letting him move.

"Didn't wanna wait your turn, huh?"

Fuck, that's Marly back already, amused voice ringing out from somewhere behind him. Shane keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of being watched doing this, the sound of Marly's steps padding nearer.

"No! He just needed something to keep him occupied while he wait for you," Ilya says, with a little roll of his hips that makes Shane's eyes water. His dick is fully hard now, salty-sweet against Shane's tongue. "But you can go ahead, you do not need to ask first."

The filthy honesty of that statement makes Shane's head start to swim, or maybe that's from Ilya's cock, rocking against the back of his mouth. Not forcing him, just increasingly hard and slick, clearly getting more turned on as Marly gets closer. Watching them both.

Shane feels a hand on his ass, gently squeezing. Even that paltry contact sends a ripple of excitement through him, and he moans around Ilya's dick, sucking harder.

Marly gives an appreciative hum. "If you're sure…"

"Unless you want him to do something acrobatic," Ilya says, and Marly snorts and slides his thumb between Shane's cheeks, slippery now. It pushes easily into him, making Shane moan louder.

"I just wanna feel him take my dick again," Marly says, husky now, and Ilya makes an approving sound.

"And I want to watch."

Shane feels the couch shift as Marly climbs back on behind him, and it occurs to him that they should have moved to a bed, that would've been smart, but he hadn't been thinking with his brain, and now it's demonstrably too late. Marly's crawling on top of him, heavy and huge. Marly's hands part Shane's cheeks, and he feels another hot splash of spit across his hole—unnecessary, surely, given all that lube he went to find, but it makes Shane's balls tighten all the same.

Shane clenches against nothing, imagining what Marly is seeing: Shane spread out for him, needy, already used, totally available. Ilya's, to share. He wants to beg, but he can't, because his mouth is full of Ilya's cock and Ilya's hand on the back of his head is still gently pressing down.

He just has to wait. Not the top of his skill set.

"Mm," he tries, a hopeful little noise, and tips his hips back.

"Christ, you're so fucking hot," Marly mutters, sounding almost angry about it, and then Shane feels the warm slick pressure of his dick against his hole, and makes the noise again, urgent.

"Shhhhh," Ilya says, stroking his face, and it trips some delicious reflex in Shane's brain, soothing and arousing at once.

He relaxes in Ilya's arms just as Marly starts to press more deliberately, feels the brief resistance in his muscles, swiftly overcome. He groans softly, enjoying the gliding stretch as the head of Marly's cock pushes him open, and then Marly's sliding all the way into him, sweet and slick and easy, like he belongs there.

It’s so different from taking them both, it’s almost gentle—until Marly bottoms out and snaps his hips, and Shane’s body convulses around him.

"Whoa," Ilya breathes, and releases Shane's head, letting Shane back off his cock for a moment.

"You good?" Marly asks.

"Yeah," Shane manages, all his attention on the searing hot length of Marly's cock in his ass. Fuck, he was right about the lube—Shane's skin is tingling, tender, would not appreciate friction right now, but this slippery heated wetness is perfect, obscene in exactly the right way as Marly starts to thrust.

"Yeah, that's it," Ilya says, his eyes almost vacant, staring past Shane's head to where they're joined; watching as Marly pulls half out and then sinks slowly back in. "Fuck, that's hot. Look at you. But—harder. Give it to him harder."

"You coaching me now?" Marly pants, sounding amused again, but then punctuates it with a slam of his hips that makes Shane's whole body rock forward.

"Damn right, I will coach you," Ilya says, grabbing his own cock and starting to stroke again. "More, make him feel it. Make me feel it."

"Oh fuck," Shane gasps, blinking dazedly up at Ilya as Marly grips his hips and pounds him. Fuck, Marly's going so deep Shane's blushing. "Fuck—fuck."

"Better?" Marly demands, shifting his weight forward, shoving Shane's legs further open. The pressure on Shane's back is unbelievably hot, crushing him down in Ilya's lap, and Shane would love to be sucking Ilya's cock as well but he's not sure it's physically possible. He can barely coordinate breathing right now, let alone keep his teeth clear of sensitive skin.

"Better," Ilya says, and then, "ohh, even more better," as Marly ducks his head and takes the tip of Ilya's cock into his mouth. He hums around it, cheeks hollowing. Only for a moment before releasing it again, but it's enough to make Shane jolt into action, opening his own mouth and angling it so Ilya hopefully won't be able to resist pushing back inside.

"Ha! Now you are jealous," Ilya crows, as Marly sniggers and buries his face in between Shane's shoulder blades. "You were so good at sharing, before."

"No, I can, I just—" Shane fights to speak when his breath is being literally fucked out of him. "I just—want—to make—you both—feel good."

"Oh, you really are," Marly says, sounding raw. "I never wanna leave this room."

"We'll buy whole hotel," Ilya jokes, then inhales sharply as Shane does his best to swallow his dick again. He can't accidentally bite it if it's in his throat, can he? But the angle's difficult, and now Marly's hand is pushing between Shane's belly and the heaped up towels, searching for his cock, and Shane realizes it's impossible—the best he can do is suck and drool around it while Marly pounds him.

Marly's hand finds its goal, wrapping around the base of Shane's dick and working him over in time with his thrusts. Shane groans and sucks harder, clenching down. He's getting close, but gradually, with pleasure building from the far reaches of his body like early sunrise. He can't keep track of all the different sensations, only that they all feel good. Marly feels good, behind him and inside him, driving into him just right while rhythmically squeezing Shane's dick; Ilya feels good, under him, stroking his face and lazily fucking his mouth. It's all so right, this joint pursuit of pleasure, instinctive, collaborative. Phrases dance through his mind like licks of flame, fluttering.

Don't pretend you are better boyfriend than me. And Marly had shot back, Who's pretending?

I know what you need, Ilya had said, and it's true; sometimes he knows Shane better than Shane himself.

I never wanna leave this room.

Fuck, he suspects that makes three of them.

Ilya's hands smooth over Shane's hair, loving and commanding at once. "Look at you," he says softly, a black velvet tone. "So good to me, so good for us. I love your mouth. Are you close? I want you to show Marly how good it feels when you come on his dick."

Between one pounding heartbeat and the next, Ilya's turned Shane's simple pursuit of pleasure into a gift for Marly, a service Shane can perform for him; yet another way in which he can be shared by Ilya.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and arches back, thrusting helplessly into Marly's hand and then back onto Marly's dick, letting the rush of pleasure consume him. For Ilya; for Marly. Anything they want.

The sunrise turns supernova.

"Oh, Jesus. Oh fuck. Fucking hell," Marly gasps, as Shane comes beneath him, shuddering. Marly keeps going, fucking him through it, the urgency of his hips matched by his crescendo breathing.

Fuck, Shane feels wonderful. Thrumming again, like he's back floating in hot water, suspended as Marly resumes his own demanding pace. Shane sucks quietly on Ilya's dick, anticipation building for Marly shoving deep and shooting inside him—but then Marly pulls out and growls, "Turn over."

Shane releases Ilya's cock and turns onto his back and looks up at him. Marly's towering above him now, jerking off. From this angle he is unbelievably huge. Marly leans down over him, braced on one hand, and kisses Shane on the mouth. "I'm so close," he says, then asks roughly, "Where do you want it?"

"On my—um," Shane says, hesitating because this suddenly feels primal, possessive. Fuck, is this really what Marly wants? To shoot his load over Shane, with Ilya watching? "Wherever you want."

"Sit up."

Shane does what he's told, sitting up, and Marly stands, stroking himself, staring down at Shane with jet black eyes—and then Ilya's standing up next to him, and fuck, now he's jerking off as well, fuck.

It's a locker-room fantasy made real. Shane closes his eyes and tips his face back, letting his mouth slide open.

"So fucking beautiful," Marly says.

"Yeah," Ilya says, words thick with effort. "Do you wanna come on his face?"

"Yeah."

"With me."

"Fuck yeah."

The sound of their breathing is loud, rough.

Shane licks his lips and they both groan.

"Touch your tits," Marly says, and Shane does it, closing both hands over his pecs and squeezing, pinching his nipples, letting his eyelids open just enough to try and see their reaction.

They're a wall of muscle, looming over him, dicks aiming at his face, stroking in tandem. He can see from Ilya's rhythm that he's close, can hear it in Marly's unsteady breathing too.

Shane starts to breathe hard as well, feeling his chest swell under his palms. He presses at his pecs, making cleavage, showing them. Fuck, It's different from when they were both fucking him, because that was for him; something he'd asked for, begged for, fantasized about. This is a different sort of fantasy, downright dirty. He's losing his mind in the thought of being objectified by them, just a pretty face for them to come all over, mess up, claim.

"Open your mouth," Ilya says, and Shane does it, showing his tongue. Even though he's already come, taking these instructions is leaving him light-headed.

"Or do you wanna fuck his mouth again?" Marly asks.

Ilya makes a negative noise. "No. I wanna do this with you. Because he's—ours, yeah?"

"Fuck, yeah. Are you close?"

"Y-eah," Ilya breathes, a telltale hitch in his voice, and then Shane feels it, the first hot splash across his cheeks, striping his face, his lips. Shane closes his eyes tight and lifts his chin for the rest, taking another stripe across his open mouth, and then Ilya – this must be Ilya, Shane thinks, though it's incredibly fucking intense not to know – aims most of the rest across his chest, warm droplets sliding down between Shane's pecs, over his groping hands. "Fuck."

"Fuck, yeah," Marly echoes, "that's it, I'm gonna—" and Shane feels the second load hit his face as well, hot and wet, messing him up even more.

"Whoa," Ilya says.

"Yeah…"

"I need to take, uh, mental Polaroid," Ilya says, and Shane can't even picture how obscene he looks right now, totally debauched. He licks his lips, tasting them both, similar, different. Fuck.

Ruined, he thinks, wasn't that what he was promised? Some approximation of devastation, something he wouldn't want to repeat?

But he does want to repeat. Fuck, he wants everything with these two. He's flying; the only thing he feels right now is euphoria.

He wishes, somehow, that Ilya could take an actual picture, immortalizing this moment where they both claimed him, shamelessly, together.

He wishes they could capture a hundred other things about this weekend, not just main events, but sidelines, glances. He wants to preserve it all.

He wants—more.

He wants them.

That sounds insane. But still the only thing he feels, as he gets kissed, gets cleaned, gets changed, gets into bed with Ilya and Marly—is euphoria. What more could Shane Hollander want? He’s having the best time with Ilya and his hot, handsome, deceptively sweet best friend, who by the way is filthy as hell. And a great hockey player. And up for staying over.

And… hasn't yet revealed his max bet.

It turns out that an enormous hotel bed just about fits them all, though Ilya has to turn the AC down twice to prevent Shane from overheating. They finally achieve an acceptable temperature, dressed only in boxers, with Ilya in the middle; Shane spoons up next to him on one side, and Marly sprawls out along the other.

There are two lamps on either side of the massive bed; they should turn them off and go to sleep, any minute now. There's some lazy kissing first, some yawning, and eventually some groans of exhaustion.

It's late. It's really, really late.

Shane still doesn't want the night to end, though.

He knows check-out's at noon tomorrow, and that Ilya's booked on a mid-afternoon flight. Probably Marly's on the same one. That would make sense. 

Those are the certainties.

Shane doesn't know what else happens tomorrow, though—the stuff that's not scheduled. The potentially-awkward questions, and the answers he's hoping to hear; the sketching of new plans, please. The goodbyes.

He doesn't even know what the inside of his own head will look like, when this unbelievable, insane evening has morphed into memory instead. When it's something they've actually done, not something they're waiting to do. It's all so surreal.

And the feeling of wanting to prolong this final, secluded stretch of time – even this sated and sleepy part – seems to be mutual.

"You perverts never did show me all the toys you brought," Marly mumbles. "Lame."

Ilya laughs, cuffing him. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" Shane's protest is weak even to his own ears. "Nooo. Tomorrow we are checking out. Discretely," he adds, rallying when Ilya makes a grumbling noise. "I mean it. Maximum discretion. No fuck-ups."

"Yes, Cap," Marly says promptly, which fills Shane with a warm tingly feeling.

Ilya shifts around until he's facing Shane. "Yeah…" he says quietly, and suddenly his eyes are full of unspoken meaning. "But, what about after?"

Shane stares back at him, trying without success to discern what is actually being asked, here. "After… check-out?"

"After check-out."

Shane's too tired to get hints. "But I thought you're going straight to the airport. Isn't your flight mid-afternoon?"

"It was," Ilya says, and despite the late hour he still manages to muster a pretty charming grin. "But, uh, we were thinking we could get a different flight. If you wanted. Go back Monday night instead. Whole team practice isn't 'til Tuesday."

Another entire day together? The sudden, shining possibility of it makes Shane's throat hurt. "Really?!"

Ilya nods, kisses him.

Shane grins against Ilya's mouth, dangerously content. And Ilya said we, didn't he? Before he can lose his nerve, he forges on: "And would that be both of you?"

"Yeah," Ilya says, so casual that Shane realizes they must have talked about this, too; Ilya laying the path for Shane to walk down, if he wants. Taking one of the awkward parts and making it effortless. "Both of us. If that's cool."

"That's, uh, that's cool," Shane says, nodding. The possibilities are endless. "If Marly doesn't mind missing his flight too."

"Mind? No way! Hell, I could stay all week," Marly says, and laughs. "I'll jus' tell my captain I've got the flu."

"Haha. No," Ilya says firmly. "We will fly back together on Monday."

"Boring," Marly says, then rolls closer behind Ilya, wraps an arm around his chest, and peers at Shane over Ilya's shoulder. "I dunno, though," he muses, "Hollzy might have plans for his day off that don't involve a home invasion by two dudes with only one thing on their minds…"

Technically, Shane did have plans. But— "No, uh, actually, I think my schedule's wide open."

Ilya sniggers. "Just like your—"

"Fuck off," Shane interrupts.

Marly grins hugely, then puts his whole weight on Ilya, crushing him down against Shane's shoulder as he leans across and kisses Shane soundly on the mouth. It's a quick, showy kiss, no tongue. It makes Shane feel like he's glowing all over.

"Awesome," Marly whispers when he draws away again, and then he flops back on the sheets behind Ilya, stretching out with a satisfied noise, and flicks off the lamp on his side of the bed.

Ilya grumbles, righting himself with the impatient dignity of a cat that's fallen off a table, but then settles again. A moment later, he plucks at Shane's wrist with two fingers. When Shane looks at him, Ilya looks earnest again, his pupils huge in the near-darkness.

"What?"

"You are sure?" Ilya asks, in an undertone. "You want to host us, at your place, one more day – is not too intense?"

"Oh, no, totally – it is," Shane says, starting to grin. He rests his forehead against Ilya's, and finds he's smiling so hard his face aches. "It's way too intense. Wild, even. But… I'm starting to think that might just be our style."

A heartbeat later he's getting squeezed, tight, then released again with a slightly watery laugh.

"Good," Ilya says gruffly, and lies down in the middle of them at last. He closes Shane's hand in his own, which feels nice, and then Shane becomes peripherally aware he's holding Marly's hand too, on his other side.

It reminds Shane absurdly of one of those otters on the internet, floating down the river on its back, paw-in-paw with its mate. But in this scenario, Ilya's got two mates, and he's holding onto them both, equally tight.

And that—that's another insane thought, Shane tells himself, sleepily. That's got to be a remnant of whatever madness has propelled them to this hotel room, this midnight adventure. There's no way Marly just fits in with them, steady and secure, easy as floating down a river.

Shane turns off the remaining lamp, gives Ilya's hand a final squeeze, and drifts off into warm darkness.

Well, he thinks, smiling with his eyes closed. There's only one way to find out.

Chapter End Notes

END

And just like that, we've pushed it over the goal line and I can stop obsessively collecting sports idioms for these delightful himbos. 💪💪💪

Thank you for reading! LMK what you think - or if you liked it, tell your friends 😘🙏

Ummmm and if you are even 2% as feral as I now am for this jock4jock4jock OT3, come say hi/reblog on tumblr: @ukcalico

or if you’d like to read something else by me, my HR master list is here. 💖