Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble/Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Sebbin (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith, Victor St. Simon, Connors (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Kinktober 2026, Day 2: Orgy/Embarrassment, Gangbang, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane, Bottom Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Anal Sex, Double Anal Penetration, Dom/sub Undertones, Cock Slut Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Somnophilia, implied/referenced drugged sex, Puck Bunny Shane Hollander, Spit Kink, Objectification, minor mentions of Bears/Bears, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Double Penetration, Implied/Referenced Painplay, set in the year last boston year, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, despite the filth in the tags it gets sweet at points, Begging, love (i fear) is not a strong enough word for what they have, Humiliation Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 42 of heated rivalry masterlist, Part 5 of kinktober masterlist

Collections:

Kinktober 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-02 Words: 15,006 Chapters: 1/1

i'm either fuckin' or workin', so the grind don't stop

Summary

Boston is vicious tonight, answered in full by Montreal, with both teams acting as if it's a playoffs game instead of a March regulation game.

He has no idea what Ilya's said to them, has no idea why they're all so motivated, but he can't stop himself from feeling deeply fucking pleased at the thought of such good hockey being played for a chance to fuck him.

He knows that Ilya can spot the bright flush of greed, the hunger painted in the curl of his lips as they fight for the puck. The damp, wet pant of his mouth only reminds him of other, equally as pleasurable places he's heard it, despite his best efforts, and by the time the third ends, he's fighting to breathe through his arousal, his whole body aching from the game.

OR: It's the last regulation game of the season before Ilya moves to Ottawa. Shane doesn't want the Bears to worry, but he doesn't mind the chance to prove it—he'll take care of Ilya perfectly. After all, he can take care of all of them, can't he?

Notes

truthfully this is a gangbang, but orgy was the closest i could get to it! embarrassment def features too though, so i punted it to this day. enjoy!

The rules are simple. 

If Ilya wins, Shane gets fucked by Boston's first line. If Shane wins, he gets fucked by Boston's first and second line.

Of course, it isn't helped by the fact that Shane wants it so badly, molten desire unspooling through his veins. He feels selfish, greedy, bloated with desire at the mere thought, and he knows Ilya can tell, a cat-like smirk permanently smeared across his mouth.

"So hungry for goals today, moya shlyukha," Ilya murmurs, as they slam into each other. He's damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his temples, his mouth guard sliding into place. Fuck, Shane wants him to switch theirs, wants to sink his teeth into the worn plastic, into the indents of Ilya's molars. He wants to lick the sour tang of stale air right off it and say thank you. He wants and wants and wants, desperate and greedy, even as Ilya continues to talk. "Good." He clicks his tongue, the puck rattling between them, the scrape of the skates an intoxicating underscore. "My boys only deserve to fuck the best of the best."

Shane shivers under the weight of approval singing in his veins, and pretends that Ilya isn't aware of just how fucking badly he wants it.

He's thought about it, before. It's one of the more illicit thoughts he's had for years, a fantasy he's returned to; caught and captured, forced to his knees in front of the hulking mass of Bears, Ilya a line of heat at his back.

Caught myself a puck bunny sneaking around out back, Ilya would drawl, sliding a hand across his jaw. He'd press on Shane's cheeks until his mouth dropped open, drool pooling behind his teeth, his eagerness betrayed by how easily his tongue flops free. His chin in the callused palm of Ilya's hand, all sense knocked askew by the crush of sheer profane want that burbles in his veins. Think we can fuck the sluttiness out of her?

Shane always holds it there for a long beat, in that ripe, defining moment. He knows enough about the Bears—from on the ice and Ilya's stories—but not enough to actually make a guess of how they'd react.

In his daydreams, he always ends up skipping forward, to the thick of things, when his mouth is full, sweat and spit and cum smeared across his skin. When his ass is stuffed, gaping from the force of their fucking. Would they fit two cocks inside of him, he wonders at, marinating in the unsettled, nasty feeling of his own torrid desires. Would they take out their anger from their loss or their triumph from their win, and make him cry? Would they see him writhing on the benches, ass in the air, begging for more, and realize that he's nothing more than insatiable greed made flesh? Heat flares at the base of his spine at the thought of being too much, a lean sort of smugness at the mere idea of his appetite wearing them thin. Would they tap out and find other things to satisfy him with? Would he end the night with a stomach full of cum and a hockey stick in his ass, needlessly humping away, still eager to be used? Or would it finally sate him, his hole open and leaking, a tally mark of loads inked onto his ass, smeared underneath the mess of spend splattered across his skin?

He's never quite sure how his mind turns to such things, but he's stopped shying away, made bold by love. Ilya, for one, always seems intrigued by how depraved he gets, even when he's blushing and squirming and can hardly get his words out.

Shane surfaces from his haze, and steals the puck back, wriggling out of Ilya's heavy press. "You'll have to do better than that," he hisses, and wheels about, racing for the goal, the puck cradled in his stick.

The game passes in bright, staticky flashes; hockey—for the most part—tends to seal off his ports of desire, despite it being a main instigator as well. There is only the ice and the need to win, a heated ember of hunger flickering in his chest, waiting to flare the second he steps off the rink.

Boston is vicious tonight, answered in full by Montreal, with both teams acting as if it's a playoffs game instead of a March regulation game.

He has no idea what Ilya's said to them, has no idea why they're all so motivated, but he can't stop himself from feeling deeply fucking pleased at the thought of such good hockey being played for a chance to fuck him.

He knows that Ilya can spot the bright flush of greed, the hunger painted in the curl of his lips as they fight for the puck. The damp, wet pant of his mouth only reminds him of other, equally as pleasurable places he's heard it, despite his best efforts, and by the time the third ends, he's fighting to breathe through his arousal, his whole body aching from the game.

It's a good ache, though, one that he relishes. Bruises are going to form from him being slammed into the boards by nearly all of Boston's first and second line, and he knows that he's going to fantasize about what could've happened if he'd dropped down under Ilya at the first crush and sprawled out across the ice.

If he'd shown just how heated the rough touches made him, how eager he is to be used, how filthy he feels, watching the muscled mass of Boston fly across the ice, and imagining them just taking him. Winning, he knows, is equally as sweet, another layer of syrupy pleasure licking down his spine. He can feel the burn of Ilya's stare from across the rink, that heavy press of anticipation.

Coming off the ice is a revelation, the world crashing back into him in waves—dodging press duties with ease, peeling out of his jersey and pads, showering, the heavy pulse of water pressure thundering over his skin, declining to go out when Hayden asks as the last of Metros head out, going back to the showers to diligently work a plug, one that he'd brought from home deliberately (even as the knowledge, and potential for humiliation if anyone had found it, had burned bright and hot in the pit of his navel), into himself at the texted orders of Ilya. He only realizes as he returns to the empty guest locker room and tugs his briefs and sweats on that he has no idea where he's supposed to go now.

He reaches out for his phone, snagging it from his stall, unsurprised to find a flurry of messages waiting for him.

Lily
fuck, you are so fucking impressive, sweetheart
you are so goddamn sexy when you want to win so badly
hm, is a shame that you are doing it under false pretenses, yes?
i mean, what do you think your team would say if they knew it was because you wanted to be fucked so badly by boston?
do you think they would break you in first?
send you over to us full of cum, ready to be fucked out, kept safe and warm in your needy ass.
winners would get first chance of making it take, i think, of finally breeding you up
only fair, even if you are the only reason they won. i know it is a reward for you, lyubimyj, to be taken apart, ruined with your own slutty needs
we would make you crawl for for the privilege of fucking us, maybe. would ask you how badly you want it, even with you on your knees, bruises up your thighs, handprints on your skin, cum dripping from your open, puffy hole, your plug cast aside.
no one wants a used up whore, but you're so pretty when you beg, when your brain is empty of everything but cock and cum. it's how you should always be, i think, sometimes. it's how i like you, but you know this, moya shlyukha.
and, oh, yes, i do know how much you want it. how much it aches, your tight hole, to be empty.
i promise i would only make you cry a little bit, before giving my dick to you. would let you fuck your way through my team, before keeping you safe and warm in my lap.
i know how badly desperate sluts need to be filled. it's not your fault, sweetheart—you need it, don't you, hm?

The floor drops from underneath him, dizzying arousal slamming into him at the thought; fuck, but Ilya always knows what to say to make him so needy he's crying. The mere idea of being passed from locker room to locker room—a trophy for the winners, a consolation prize for the losers—it's enough to make him want to drop to his knees here, in the empty visitor's locker room.

His palms are sweaty as he types out a shaky reply, shivering under the magnitude of his hunger. Fuck, he can imagine how it would feel, how open he'd be after one train is run on him, the fingerprints bruising his hips.

The worst part is that he knows he wouldn't be satisfied; he'd need Ilya. He always needs Ilya. It's settled permanently into his DNA at this point, a little checkbox of certainty: he will never be as complete, as whole, until he's with him.

He would crawl, he knows. If it got him to Ilya, he'd do whatever is needed to be done.

yeah, i do, he writes, shivering at the blatant want typed across his screen. How forthright it looks, in the blocky font, his desperation made plain, always need you.

good boy, Ilya responds with immediately. five minutes, but i will text you to come. our locker room. i left a surprise in your stall, under your sweatshirt. put both on.

okay, he sends back, nerves making themselves apparent as he wipes his hands off on his loose sweatpants, desperately trying not to get too hard, trying equally as hard not to rock back onto the plug. It's a losing battle, he knows, but it makes him feel better to try, even as it stretches at his nerves, prodding at the soft spots of hunger that only Ilya is capable of pulling to light.

good fucking girl, Ilya texts, and Shane has to put the phone down or he's going to do something stupid, like call him, just to hear him say it aloud.

He stands up and reaches for his sweatshirt, nipples pebbling in the cool air as the air filters kick on, a thin breeze washing over his skin. He's panting, he realizes distantly, his brow wrinkled as he clenches down, soaking in the pleasure that skitter down his spine, sending his cock kicking in his sweats.

It takes a moment—an embarrassingly long one—to gather himself, before he can actually find what Ilya was texting him about. Lo and behold, though, beneath his sweatshirt—Shane's usual oversized Metros one; the same one that Ilya steals whenever they're together (and Shane loves it all the more for that, the way he can sometimes catch the faintest imprint of Ilya's cologne and sweat around the collar)—sits a thin, black shirt. Shane pulls it out, freezing as the words register.

PUCK BUNNY, the micro tank top reads on the front, in hot pink lettering. Underneath PUCK BUNNY, is a faint pink lettering of est. 1991 etched into a puck, demarking the shirt as fucking custom-made, just for him. There's an outline of bunny ears behind the Y, and Shane can feel his face grow hot and red as he stares at it for a long, swollen beat.

His dick twitches, humiliation crawling up his spine. He gets even harder, so fast, that he can feel the pulsing throb of blood, the way his cock is making a genuine mess in his pants, precum drooling from the tip, a damp spot already blooming; hard to see, even in the navy of his sweatpants, but he knows it's there all the same. Everyone will know, when they peel him out of his pants, his briefs; they'll hear the sodden slap if it against the concrete. Heat curls down his veins; sharp, agonizing desire boils in his stomach.

He doesn't think he's felt so insane before.

Distantly, he wonders; is there a limit? Can there be an end to the tide of lust that rampages through his body whenever Ilya is near, whenever they're together? He's pretty sure there isn't. Even more tellingly, he's pretty sure he doesn't want there to be.

Dazedly, he turns the tank top around to tug it over his head, pausing at the sight of more words, and moans as he realizes what he's looking at.

ROZANOV 81, the back reads, still in that damned hot pink font. Bunny ears stick up again from the 8, skewed to the left, as if sitting crooked on someone's head.

He rubs a trembling thumb over the lines of the V, a tremor wracking his body, before he pulls it over his head, squirming through it. It sits high on his chest, ribbed and small enough that it cuts across his abs, settling just over his obliques. He shifts on his feet and it twists higher, another smooth inch of skin appearing. It doesn't help that the sweats he's wearing are his more worn ones, the one's that sit low on his waist. He has a feeling that Ilya knows that, though, that he's planned this entire outfit deliberately, even the pieces Shane thought were his.

He feels more naked than he's ever felt before; bare-boned honesty obvious in the lines of his body as desperation grows. He doesn't try to avoid the bloom of want in his stomach, even as he tugs on the sweatshirt and sits back down, squirming against the bench.

He picks up his phone with trembling fingers, and pauses when he realizes there's a new group chat awaiting him.

puck bunny fuckers anonymous

Lily
send a picture of your dick

Maybe: Cliff Marleau
what the fuckkk, cap

Lily
my jane may be a whore, but she deserves to know what she's in for tonight

Maybe: Victor St. Simon
i didn't know you were dead ass serious about running a train on your girl
i'm in, to be completely clear
[IMG65382.PNG]

Shane groans as the picture loads, his cock only leaking more, dribbling against his sweats. His hole throbs, desperate to be actually full, and drool pools under his tongue, wanton and sloppy. St. Simon's cock is thick, and curved, flushed burgundy, a pearl of precum beading at the top.

It's also shameless; there are other feet in the picture, as if he couldn't help himself and had to just whip it out, all to impress him.

Fuck, but Ilya is so good at knowing him, at reading the line of desire and force he wants to walk, at understanding how he has to be made to take the fucking, as if it's going to fix something in him.

It's hot, too, how easily all of Boston listens to him. It soothes the wrinkle of fear that someone else would try to take charge. But no, here, from these texts, it's clear as day.

In Boston, Ilya is king, and all of his teammates are nothing but mere followers. They're desperate for his attention, for the keen edge of his gaze, for the bewildering pull of his sharp, knowing eyes.

He's going to be on his knees for these men, he realizes abruptly. He'll be the whole focus. They're not going to stop until they're satisfied, because that was the part of the deal.

A shiver runs down his spine. He can't fucking wait.

As if St. Simon was all that was needed, dick after dick of the Boston Bears roster fills his screen.

Fuck, he feels crazed, like the slut Ilya calls him as he stares at their cocks and shudders at the knowledge that they're all going to be inside him soon. He clenches down on the plug and whines, the sound high-pitched and humiliating as it spills through the air, glancing back down at the group chat.

puck bunny fuckers anonymous

Lily
jane, outside the locker room.
now, lyubimyj.

yeah, okay

Lily
good girl

Maybe: Connor Connors
fuck im gonna cum if you say that to her irl

Maybe: Brad Hammersmith
??? bro, you're so fucking easy

Lily
for jane, you all are easy

Heat churns in Shane's stomach as he rises, tugging the hem of the sweatshirt just to be sure it's covering everything, and stepping out of the door without a moment's hesitation. Even as nerves batter at his insides, it's simple to follow Ilya's orders, letting himself shift into a version that he rarely allows out of their houses.

Really, this whole thing is easy if he thinks of it like a dream, the soft edges of reality muted into something indistinct.

He's nothing more than Ilya's, in this gentle, warm space; that's all he needs to be.

The hallways are easily navigated, familiar enough as Shane pads along the empty corridors. Cold washes over him, his hair damp at the nape of his neck.

The lights buzz as he rounds the final corner and finds Ilya standing outside Boston's locker room, texting rapidly, leaning against the wall.

Shane doesn't even bother with a greeting, he slides up beside him and waits, letting his eyes trail over the thin Bears t-shirt Ilya's wearing, the gray sweatpants that do nothing to hide his half-hard dick. If they weren't so fucking public right now, Shane would be on his knees, mouthing over the swell of it.

"Jane," Ilya says easily, the click of his phone locking sending waves of eagerness through Shane's body as he lifts his head. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi," Shane manages. He feels weightless, drifting through the motions, the only thing keeping him tethered to reality the crinkle of Ilya's eyes, the warm curve of his smile. He can see the deep lines of love in his face, and lets himself sink into that soft, easy place where only Ilya exists. His whole body is throbbing with desire, aching for the familiar, heavy pressure of his palms. "Uh, good game."

"Very good game," Ilya echoes. He pauses, his eyes dragging down the length of Shane and then back up, a weight to his gaze that simmers across Shane’s nerves. He's sure Ilya knows how wet he is, a thought that brings more heat to his cheeks. "One private check-in, yes, before we start."

Shane nods, and Ilya reaches out, tugging them into an tiny closet across the way, hard enough that Shane slams into him, bracing himself against his chest.

He opens his mouth to ask, but before he can get a word out, Ilya's licking into him, slobbering across his teeth, the slick sound of gathered spit sliding across his tongue as Ilya grins widely at the shocked noise that he lets slip free, neither of them caring as their teeth click.

Immediately, Shane groans, sucking on Ilya's tongue, panting into his mouth, his eyes rolling back at the sting of teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He's swept away into an ocean of lust, waves of electric pleasure slicing up his spine, a drugging want filling his chest, whimpering underneath the onslaught of touch.

As if Shane isn't already whining for more, desperation in every pathetic noise that slips free from his mouth, Ilya's hands come up to cup around Shane's jaw, neatly collaring his neck. He holds him in place unrepentantly, even as he moans, chasing after his tongue when Ilya pulls back.

"Ah," Ilya whispers, sounding somehow agonizingly put together despite the insistent press of their cocks against one another. Shane's burning up like a comet in the atmosphere, trails of desire spilling out of him as he strains to get closer. "I should have known."

He doesn't even try to let Shane answer, instead slipping his fingers in and over his teeth, prying his mouth open. He peers at the dark maw of Shane's mouth for long enough for Shane to shift on his feet, wretchedly embarrassed and warm with syrupy humiliation, before he hums, and strokes a fingers across his back molars.

"Looks almost wet enough for my boys," he murmurs, before he leans in closer and spits, the warm, wet glob of it landing directly on his tongue.

Shane groans, his lashes fluttering closed as Ilya's fingers drag the spit across, massaging it into his taste buds.

He tastes like skin, and blood, and the faint lemon body wash that he uses at the rink, but mostly, he just tastes like Ilya; that irreplaceable flavor that Shane is always chasing.

The sound of him gasping is loud in the closet, as Ilya nudges his fingers back, bumping against the back of his throat. Shane swallows instinctively, opening his eyes to stare at the grin that crackles across Ilya's face.

"Good girl," he croons, and Shane’s whole body twitches, his cock throbbing. He can feel Ilya's thigh shift to press between his legs, a deliberate destructive pressure on his cock, catching on his balls. He's delirious with need, shards of sinful voracity racing across his skin. "Oh, my boys are so eager to use you, kotik. They're pent up from the loss, you know?" He pushes his fingers in deeper, the wet squelch of them ringing through the air as he pants, his jaw loose and open. "I told them, my Jane likes to feel it, boys. I said, my Jane is so cock-hungry that she will whine and cry and bitch and moan until we fill her up. I said, I know this because when we are home she crawls after me like a dog, panting for her favorite treat."

Shane, embarrassingly, moans, swallowing around Ilya's fingers. It's no secret, between them, how badly Shane aches, how tightly they're twined together, how Ilya could ask for anything, and he would give it, would carve out his heart and hand it over with a smile. Ilya's other hand comes up, his thumb settling lightly over the corner of Shane's tear-damp eye, and he can feel the heat of his love as he feathers a kiss over his nose, the bite of teeth against the apple of his cheeks.

"I said," he murmurs, leaning in closer to whisper in his ear. "When Jane cums—and she will cum, because she is wet and easy and a whore—all that means is you need to fuck another orgasm out of her." He pulls his fingers out of Shane's mouth, patting his cheek hard enough that it zings across his skin. "Don't worry, moya shlyukha. I've told them what you need."

Shane leans forward, helplessly turned on, his hips grinding forward as he moans.

"Thank you," he manages, daring enough to press a kiss to the edge of Ilya's jaw. "Love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart," Ilya murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple as his hands slide down and across his back, wrapping him in a tight hug. Shane curves into him, the last bit of his apprehension dissipating under his grip like mist under the summer sun.

Ilya lets them have one more moment of quiet, his fingers sliding under the sweatshirt to stroke against his spine, before he pulls back, reaching up to knot his hand in Shane's hair.

"Alright, pretty girl," he says, tugging Shane's head back to sink his teeth into the side of his neck, worrying a lurid bruise into his skin. Shane moans at the sensation, sinking deeper into that hazy place where only Ilya and Ilya's needs exist. All he feels is pride at the mark, the clear ownership imprinted into the curve of his throat. "Let's go, kotik."

Shane lets him guide them, clenching his eyes shut at the bright lights of the hall as spots appear in his vision, only to stumble over his feet as Ilya shoves him through the locker room door.

The first thing that greets him is low laughter, as he blinks again rapidly, peering at the very dim lights of the room. Someone's killed the overheads, and all that glitters are amber lights stuffed inside a few stalls, the edges of the glow just barely letting him see the faces of the five mostly naked men waiting for him.

"Hello, Jane," Marleau drawls, leaning against the edge of one of the stalls. Golden light curves around the heft of his biceps, the scruff of his chin. His pants are slung low, his cock already obviously hard, and Shane can't help the way his gaze lingers, greedy for a look. "So nice of you to join us."

Shane opens his mouth to answer, even though he has no idea what he should even say, only to groan as Ilya lightly kicks out the back of his knees. He drops, catching himself on the edge of the bench and blinks up as all six of them crowd in around them. Folded down into the middle of them, he feels caged in, trapped at the mercy of their wolfish desires.

"Shit," Connors murmurs, smirking faintly. Shane's whole body throbs with hunger at the faint gleam of tempered malice in his eyes. This is made all the better by the fact that Shane knows that some of these men have been wanting to put him in his place for years over the agony of losing to him. He’s sure they felt that sting after the game today. He wonders if it felt as good as he expects, when they realized they'd get their chance to show him what he deserves tonight. "You weren't kidding about how she looks on her knees."

Ilya hums, fond and warm, and reaches out to run a hand through Shane's hair as he pants at their feet. He feels sloppy with desire, his basest, animal instincts out on vulgar display. "Mm, you have never fucked a puck bunny like mine, before," he says, before his grip tightens, Shane arching into the sting, gasping at the pressure of the plug, his dick blurting out another humiliating dribble of precum. "Jane, introduce yourself to my friends."

Shane's eyes roll back into his head for a beat, heady embarrassment and waves of pleasure lapping at his bones, before he reaches out, unerringly palming the heft of St. Simon's dick.

Hammersmith snorts, a loud, ugly sound. "Jesus, Roz," he mutters, as Shane's other hand slides across Sebbin's low-sitting waistband, his fingers deftly tugging his cock out. "She didn't even think twice. You sure she's not on her knees for every team in the NHL?"

"She is not," Ilya says, easily, tugging at his hair. A moan rattles up Shane's ribcage, breathy and pained, reedy with pleasure. "The best part about her is how she only gets wet when I am around. I do not have to worry about her fucking a fourth-rate team; not when her cunt is dry." He laughs, low and mocking; Shane can feel the drip of precum from both cocks in his hands at his words, the wet schlick of his strokes. "Such a precious slut, my Jane. Her pussy will only accept high-scoring, quality dicks."

Shane's mouth parts as Marleau's hand smooths across his lips, the tips of his fingers callused and warm, damp with salt that Shane abruptly realizes is precum. He can't stop himself—doesn't even want to—and bobs his head forward, swallowing easily around the thick heft of his knuckles. He echoes the motion with his hands, settling into an easy rhythm, hyper-aware of Ilya's grip on his hair.

"Goddamn," Marleau says, a grin evident in his voice. "She really is a cock hungry whore."

Goosebumps break out over Shane's skin, his whole body flashing hot at the murmurs of agreement. His hands tighten for a beat, before easing, the wet click of his throat loud around the disjointed breathing of the six of them.

Marleau's fingers curl, pressing down across the back of his tongue and Shane pauses in his sucking, letting him tilt his chin up, pliant and easy as his eyes dampen.

Ilya's hand tightens in his hair, and Shane blinks away tears, groaning at the sight of Hammersmith and Connors fisting their own cocks.

The air is heavy, damp with the scent of want and the salt of musk. His knees ache against the concrete as he works his hands over St. Simon and Sebbin, his jaw aching as Marleau pulls his fingers out, before abruptly filling it with his cock.

Drool spills out from the corners of his mouth, the squelch of pressure lost beneath the groan Marleau lets out as he rocks forward, the head of his dick pressing easily against his soft palate.

In the distance, someone swears, but Shane's eyes flutter closed as he hollows his mouth and sucks, chasing after the bitter taste.

"Jesus, she's fucking desperate," someone mutters, their voice too low for Shane to parse over the flutter of his heartbeat in his ears. "You should've fucked her on center ice, shown the whole world what a fucking whore you have on your hands."

"I get why you're fucking moving to Canada, dickhead," Marleau groans, as Shane swallows around him. His hands are still moving up and down St. Simon and Sebbin's cocks, their pre tacky and thick against his fingers as he twists his hand across the base of their cocks. He's not too ashamed to have practiced, well aware of his ability to latch onto one sensation and float away. He had to be good for them; had to prove that he is worth it, that Ilya won't go without in Ottawa. "If I had a girl that begged for my boys to run a train on her ass and sucked my dick like this, I'd be down bad, too."

A flash of hot pleasure spills across Shane’s skin, and he speeds up his hands, tracing the tip of his tongue up the vein running up the underside of Marleau's cock, his whole body throbbing with desire.

"Let me have a fucking turn," Connors mutters, and Shane cracks open his eyes to find him looming, his cock in hand, precum pearling at the tip. He drops his jaw, spit pooling in his mouth and moans when Connors fits the head of his cock in next to Marleau's, the stretch of his lips a dull ache he craves.

He laps at their heads, eager and filthy, dipping his tongue into their slits, precum mixing with the drool spilling out of his mouth. He feels at once useless and coveted, hungry and full, desperate to be sated with the blunt pressure of six cocks filling him again and again and again.

"Fuck," Hammersmith mutters. "You know, Roz, I thought you were joking, when you said that Jane might be enough of a whore to still want more after we were done with her, but Jesus Christ—look at her." He spits, and something damp and wet hits Shane's face; saliva drips down his cheekbones as he whimpers, bobbing his head forward to try to get more of both cocks in his mouth.

"Fucking—"

"Oh my god—"

"Shit, she's a fucking whore—"

"Good girl," Ilya says, and Connors swears, yanking his cock out of Shane's mouth, knocking Marleau's out of place as well.

"No," Shane whines, his voice crackling with arousal and raspy with the dull ache of pleasure. The chorus of low swears that greets him only makes him flush with a deeper, baser pulse of satisfaction. He can't stop thinking about how all of these men are going to know this about him forever; they're going to watch him be undone with his own avidity. Heat prickles up his spine; he wonders if he will become an urban legend, tall tales of a slutty show at the send off of a beloved captain. He should hate it, he thinks.

He doesn't.

"Come back, please, want you—want you in my mouth, want you to choke me, want you to—"

"I'm gonna fucking cum," Sebbin spits out, and Shane drops his hand immediately, glancing up at him with wide eyes. They make eye contact, and he can see the sharp greed in Sebbin's gaze, before his eyes drop down to trace around the wet smear of Shane's mouth. Lust jolts down his spine, his mouth dropping lower in blatant invitation, before he regains a little bit of sense.

"Inside," he pleads, before tipping his head back to meet Ilya's knowing gaze. "I want you to cum inside me."

Ilya's mouth curves. He's still dressed, his cock tucked away, and it makes Shane feel insane, the agonizing delight of being watched as all of his obscene desperation is put on blatant display. Ilya loves him, he knows, and still, this feels as though he's a piece of meat being broken in, before being lovingly gifted back to him. He shivers at the thought of Ilya fucking in through five loads of cum and drops St. Simon's dick at the click of his tongue.

"Fuck, she's well trained," St. Simon rumbles, his voice deep and threaded with hunger. "She come like that or did you have to brainwash her into being a slut?"

Ilya laughs, bright and airy, and drags Shane back by his hair, breaking free from their tight circle. Shane eagerly follows his grip, scrambling after him on his knees, his cock throbbing at the chorus of hungry mutters that spill through the air.

"Oh, she came like this," Ilya says, as Shane's knees hit a thin mat, placed in the center of the room. He tugs again, and Shane follows, settling onto his heels in the center of the it, the strain on his kneecaps easing. He blinks wetly up at Ilya, well aware that adoration is smeared across his face alongside the tacky spit and precum. "First layer of clothes off," Ilya orders, lifting his hand from his hair, and turns back to face the other five, still standing across the room.

"She dropped to her knees about thirty seconds after I kissed her the first time," Ilya says, as Shane methodically begins to pull his outer layer of clothes off. He tugs off his pants, folding them carefully and settling them in the corner of the mat, listening to the laughter from the others. It doesn't help that his boxers are clearly soaked through with precum, the gray fabric dark and wet. Syrupy humiliation coils in his stomach as he flushes at the bare-bones of Ilya's retelling of their first hook up. He can't even whine about it; not when Ilya's telling the truth. "Trust me, Sainty, she arrived at my door primed and ready to be a fucking whore; the most training I had to do was fuck her once—then she was eager and conditioned for only my dick." He laughs again, cruel heat baked into his voice. "Helps too, you know, that she's a sensitive little thing; once a slut like her cums hands free, she'll always come crawling back to the place she gets it best."

Shane swallows down a whine, shivering under the weight of their attention, before he freezes once he pulls his sweatshirt off, having completely forgotten about the gift from Ilya sitting pretty underneath.

"Oh, shit," Marleau breathes as Shane carefully folds the Metros branded sweatshirt and sits back on his heels, cloying resignation swirling in his veins. "Roz, you're fucking crazy."

Shane peeks up at him, shivering at the edge of bladed desire curving across Ilya's lips.

"Oh, you haven't even seen the best part," he murmurs, picking up Shane's neat pile of clothing and setting it in his stall. "Jane, turn around."

He doesn't even pretend to hesitate, he spins.

Groans fill the room, echoed by the slick sound of hands stroking over cocks, and Shane can feel the hot streaks of blush rushing down under his skin. He oscillates between the urge to preen and hide, caught in the crosshairs of Boston's best and brightest.

It washes over him, just how insane this all is, but before he can get too in his head, Ilya's hand settles on his hair, and all his tangled worries dissolve.

"Well," Ilya murmurs, scratching at his scalp. Shane glances up at him, shivering under the weight of his hunger as he stares down at him. "Who wants her ass first?"

"Jesus Christ," Hammersmith mutters. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Ilya says coolly, lifting his gaze up to meet his teammates eyes. Shane keeps his gaze fixed on Ilya's face, staring at the cut of his jaw, the curls that halo his head. "She prepped herself, but with her tiniest plug, yes? It will be a tight squeeze, but she likes it." He glances down at him, a mean smirk spilling across his face. "Tell them, Jane."

Shane shudders, dropping his gaze, clenching around the plug. "I—I like it when it hurts," he admits, shivering at the chorus of groans that greets his words. "I like to, uhm, feel it afterwards. For days." He flicks a look at Ilya, only to find him staring expectantly at him. "I like it when I—oh, god—I like it when I just have to take it. When, uhm, Ilya holds me down and makes me cry." He blinks rapidly, a scythe of humiliation spilling down his veins, and forces himself to say, "I like it when I say no, because I really, really mean yes."

"Good fucking girl," Ilya says immediately, crouching down to smatter a bunch of kisses across his face, over the strangled noises of the others. He scrapes his teeth over his jaw, dragging his nose over the shell of his ear. "You are so brave, lyubimyj," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I am so proud of you."

Shane moans, resisting the urge to grab him and sinks his nails into his thighs as Ilya straightens, his aura of callousness returning with hardly a stutter.

"Yes, you all should be jealous," he says, smug adoration in his tone overlaying the cloying tinge of ownership. "Jane is all mine, and she will always be mine, and we are not playing that game, tonight, yes? If Jane says no, she means it." He pauses. "Maybe if you all are very, very good, we will return for that kind of game later."

"Course, Cap," Marleau answers, his voice rough with desire, as the others mutter vague agreements. "I think it's more than enough that she likes it to hurt."

Shane flushes at the baldness of his words. It sounds so crude coming from someone who isn't in their relationship, but he thinks he likes it all the more for it, as embarrassment floods him. He swallows down a moan, something that he knows Ilya can see, and sinks even deeper, staring up at his boyfriend with all the love he feels.

"Jane?" Ilya says, smiling down at him. "You have something to beg for?" Heat prickles at his cheeks as Shane blinks wetly up at him, ignominy welling up in his veins. Ilya tsks, arching a brow. "Sweetheart," he stage-whispers, a cruel smirk clear, "If you want my boys to use your ass, you're going to have to ask them very, very nicely, okay? They're doing you a favor, by being here, yes?"

Shane shifts on his knees, swallowing down a gasp as the plug rocks in deeper. "Please," he starts, only for Ilya to click his tongue.

"Turn around and let them see you," he says. "And take off your soaked boxers while you're at it."

Shane whines, static jolting through him, but listens, shuddering at the touch of air against his flushed cock. His underwear is sodden, just like he knew they would be, his dick drooling and wet. He peels them off, folding them as best he can, handing them off to Ilya when he gestures for them.

"Oh, fuck," Connors says, as Shane resettles on his heels, keeping his eyes fixed on the array of men, all five of them naked and touching themselves. They've crept closer, too, at some point, having gathered at the edge of the mat Shane's kneeling on, none of them bold enough to step forward.

"Of course, he's fucking hung, too," Sebbin mutters, his wrist twisting, flashes of his dick appearing with every pump of his hand. "Jesus Christ."

It takes Shane a moment to realize Sebbin is talking about him, biting back a groan. It's one of Ilya's—and his, if he's being honest—favorite things to comment on, how useless and big his cock is, how it's a shame he's only good at being fucked. Static vibrates up his spine, spreading out under his skin at the familiar notes of degradation, and he can't help the way his fingers twitch from where he's pressed them into his thighs as precum rolls down his shaft.

He drags his gaze along their waists, eager and wanton. They all have sizeable cocks, thick and long, from what Shane can see, though he's pleased that none seem to be as well-endowed as Ilya; all of them, then, he knows he can take.

A smokescreen of pride and heat and shivery hungry fills him at the view, his hips tilting just once, before he stills them, desperate to be filled. He wants more than he knows how to ask for, wants to be filled and fucked and used and to exist as nothing more than some sort of toy for them to abuse, brainless and cock-hungry, just like Ilya always says.

"Go on," Ilya prompts him, when he's stared at them for too long. An unfamiliar haze sweeps over him, cherry-sweet and almost virginal; he's flush with astonishment and prickles of sweat as he stares at their dripping cocks, watching avidly as they jerk off. It's heady, feeling to have all their eyes on him, a different sort of rush than the one he feels when he steps out onto the ice. "Beg."

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip for a second, before gasping as Ilya slides a hand into his hair again, and tugs, just once.

It pulls him back into his body, lets him figure out how to speak with his actual words, rather than just whining and pawing at them as if a dog. He thinks they would like it, but if he has enough thoughts to speak, he knows Ilya is always going to make him verbalize it. Ilya, especially, likes how squirmy it makes him, how sometimes he has to pry the filth out from between Shane's molars, dragging his aching, lascivious wants out into the stark light of day.

"Please," he starts, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He can feel the syrupy heat of salacity crawling up his cheeks, staining him with sin. It only makes his cock harder, as he debases himself, his body culled into nothing but need. "Please fuck me. I—I need it. I want it—wanna be fucked full of cum, wanna be used until I can't take any more, and still be made to take the rest. I—please, fuck me. I'll be good, I promise."

"Holy shit," someone mutters as Shane sways forward, his eyesight too blurry and his mind too fuzzy to place their voice. "I need to stop fucking jacking off, I'm gonna cum."

"Only cumming inside the puck bunny," Ilya says, as Shane whines pleadingly, glancing up at Ilya. His boyfriend sounds vaguely irritated, even as he gently scratches across Shane’s scalp, before once again tightening his grip and tugging, clearly moving with a plan in mind. "You know this, Smithy."

A muffled groan fills the air as Shane blindly follows the direction of Ilya's hands, settling into the familiar position of his hands and knees, his ass facing the five of them as Ilya pets his head.

Shane clenches around his plug, smothering the needy whines in his throat as Ilya beckons someone forward.

"Ass, mouth," Ilya says. "It does not matter; all that matter is that Jane must take it, yes?"

A synchronous yes, Cap rumbles through the room as another pair of hands smooths over his ass. Shane tilts, dropping into an impossibly deeper arch, hazily grateful for the limberness of his spine. Distantly, he can feel the heat from the others as they step forward, but nearly all of his focus is caught between the rough, callused hands tugging at the plug, their fingers circling his tacky rim.

"Jesus," Marley mutters. "Look at that drooling pussy."

Shane's cock twitches, shivery lust blanketing him as another set of hands join the first, clearly curious as they touch his balls, run a finger down his shaft.

There's a shuffling noise, and then Ilya is shifting to the side, still fully clothed, his dick rock hard in his thin sweats. Shane can't tear his eyes away from the sight, his mouth thick with spit and the luster of want.

"I know," Ilya coos. "So many hands on you, moya shlyukha, and all you want are mine." Shane doesn't know if there's a question in there, but he nods like Ilya's expecting an answer, sluggish and drifting, his lashes trembling as someone tugs again at the plug, watching him clench around the thickest part of it.

"Fucking Jesus," someone mutters, and then there's a hand on his chin, lifting his gaze up and away from Ilya.

"Hi, Shane," Sebbin says, his eyes crinkling up as Shane gasps at the sound of his name, lust welling up at the acknowledgment. As hot as it has been, to be named as Jane, it's even hotter to be seen as himself. And it's utterly clear, as he stares up at Sebbin, that it won't soften the flare of heat that's in his gaze; in fact, he thinks it makes everything that much hotter. "Who knew that Montreal's best player wanted to be fucked like a slut?"

Shane blinks at him, teary-eyed and mute as Sebbin's thumb presses down against his bottom lip, stroking across the drool-slick pink.

"Makes sense that they couldn't satisfy you," he murmurs, his tone shifting into something saccharine, as if he's offering his condolences. He sounds tartly pleased as well, an unraveling of depravity wound through his words. "No worries, Hollander. We're here to put you out of your misery."

His grip tightens and Shane's jaw drops open without thought, his eyes fixed on Sebbin's knowing gaze. "What a fucking whore," he says, as Ilya starts to laugh, and then Sebbin's guiding his dick across Shane’s mouth, easily sliding in.

He's thick and hot in Shane's mouth, slick with precum. The head of his cock bumps against the back of his throat, and Shane swallows around it easily, shivering at the groan Sebbin lets out.

Wet sounds fill the air, Shane tracing his tongue down his shaft as best he can. There's so many hands on him, drifting across his skin, wandering over his ass, fondling his balls. Someone's hand curls around his cock, giving him one tight stroke, base to tip, before their thumb lingers, rubbing across his slit.

It's painfully good, as he slides deeper and deeper into just feeling, his thoughts leaking out of his head, hunger and lust boiling in his stomach.

He can feel the eyes from the others on him, and arches his back, pressing into their touch, preening as their grips gets rougher with desire. It's heady, knowing that they're all watching him, and fucking humiliating; they're always going to know him as a desperate creature, as the whore he pretends he isn't.

"Roz said you like it rough, you know, even before you confessed," Sebbin rasps, laughing a little. Shane would almost think he was bashful, if Sebbin's voice wasn't laced with dark hunger. He sucks harder at his words, eager for the follow through, his whole body pulsing as if one giant nerve ending. "Or, really, Roz said that you want to be taken like a whore worth not even a single penny, which was pretty damn evocative—"

The rest of his words fade out as someone yanks the plug out of him and gives him no time to adjust before they bully their way into his hole with their dick, their shaft dripping with lube, the squelch of it loud enough that Shane can hear it even over the groans of everyone else.

Shane gurgles around Sebbin' cock, his eyes flying wide open at the sharp, delicious rush of painpleasureheatwantsting spills down his nerves as whoever it is bottoms out.

"Yeah," Marleau says, his voice only identifiable from the Midwestern twang in the vowels. It sounds like he's underwater, the words stretching thin as Shane tries to process them and all of the sudden sensations that are ripping through him. Heat flares in his navel, a decadent rush of endorphins lighting up his whole body. "Alright, Sebs, let's do this thing."

For a second, Shane doesn't understand, his thoughts scrambling—aren't they already doing the thing? Him? Isn't he the thing?—but then they both start to move.

Agonizing pleasure slides through his veins at the steady roll of Marleau's hips. He can feel spit bubble in the corners of his mouth, the weighty drag of salt and skin over his tongue.

Static greed shatters against his ribs, as Marleau scrapes over his prostate, Sebbin filling his throat. The clicking gluck of his cock fucking into his mouth spills through the air, tangled with the slap of Marleau's hips, the groans from both men as they split him open on their cocks.

Arousal hums in Shane's body, filthy and sweet, his eyes rolling back in his head as Marleau grinds into him, the drag of his dick overwhelmingly good.

"Oh, sweetheart," Ilya croons, just loud enough for Shane's attention to cling to his familiar, sin drenched voice. "You are so beautiful when you are being ruined."

Words from the others dance in one ear and out another as Shane sinks deeper and deeper into nothing more than vivacious hunger, the agony of want piecing through his chest, the rush of desire in every shallow inhale he manages around Sebbin's cock.

Ilya's hands slide from the crown of his hair to his face, brushing over the corners of his mouth, the edge of his nail digging into the soft skin of his cheek.

"You can fuck him harder," he murmurs, as Shane whines louder around Sebbin's dick. "He can take it like the good girl he is."

"Fucking hell, Roz—"

"Oh god, fuck—"

"—can't cum now—"

"—and fuck you, Cap."

The rest of their words fade out as drugging, glitchy pleasure rolls up his spine, both of them fucking him harder, a snarl of hunger etched across Sebbin's face when Shane glances up at him through tear-slick lashes.

"Gonna fill your throat," Sebbin rumbles. He's flushed down his neck with lust, his teeth gritted. Pride grows in Shane's sternum at the damp sight of him so undone, as he hollows his mouth and swallows around the head of his cock. "Gonna make it so that we're all you can taste, so that every time you come back to the Garden, we're all you can think about off the ice."

Shane wails an agreement, his voice muffled by Sebbin's dick. He can hardly do anything but take it, as they steadily drag him closer and closer to orgasm.

The bitter saltiness of precum floods his mouth, dripping down his throat. Hands drag across his skin, fingers pressing against his puffy rim, nails scraping down his spine. Someone kneels down on his other side, across from Ilya, and reaches underneath, tugging at his tight shirt and scoring their hand across his chest, before pinching his nipple.

He tightens up, heat and agonizing pleasure consuming him as sparks of pain light up his nerves.

"Fuck," Marleau hisses, his grip bruising against Shane's hips as he speeds up. Shane can hear the loud, wet slaps, the heated panting ringing through his ears. Marleau grinds into him hard, sparks skittering through his body as he rushes toward orgasm, his cock drooling onto the mat. His eyes roll back at the thought of the hot pink brand of ROZANOV, 81 against his back, between his shoulder blades. "Fucking take it—"

Shane clenches down, Marleau's fingers tightening, as he thrusts twice more and then slumps over Shane's back and starts to cum. The pulse of it is enough to send Shane rocketing into his orgasm, his balls drawing up as he wails again around Sebbin's dick, drool dripping down his chin.

He's undone with desire, crazed with want, bloated on greed; he never wants to leave the weighty unspooling of pleasure as it lances through his guts, soaking in the blistering heat of an orgasm.

"Jesus Christ," Sebbin manages, sinful debauchery caged in between his teeth, and then Shane's throat is full of cum, the hot, salty spend coating his tongue as Sebbin pulls out, quick enough to get a final spurt painted across his panting, open mouth and the pink of his cheeks.

For a moment, neither of them move, caged over him, their bodies caught in stillness even as aftershocks stutter through them. Someone's hand lazily pets down Shane's ribs, sliding under his tank top to get at his sweat damp skin, as he sucks in air, shuddering through the feeling of cum filling him.

"What do you say?" Ilya asks, his voice stern.

Shane moans, scrabbling for words. "Th-thank you, Marleau, Sebbin," he manages through his slack jaw. "Thank you for filling me up."

Someone swears, their voice loud, but all of Shane's focus is locked in on Ilya, as he pats his cheek hard enough for him to feel a little sting, a mocking parody of a love tap.

He's still hard, as Ilya keeps his hand on his skin to slide his fingers through the mess on Shane's face. He pauses, long enough for Shane to register just how much of it is splattered over his cheeks, before Ilya feeds it back to him. He curls his tongue over Ilya's fingers, suckling at the tips of them as he swallows down the end of Sebbin's cum, greedy arousal pooling in his stomach.

"Holy shit," St. Simon says, over their heavy breathing and Shane's messy lapping. "He came hands free."

"A good trick from my Shane," Ilya rumbles, petting over his lips. Hot smugness swamps him, as Shane nips at his fingers, eager for more, even as he drifts. He doesn't need to pay too much attention, not when Ilya is here. "One of his most impressive, yes?"

"So impressive," Marleau manages, as he gently pulls back, before a thud sounds. "Jesus, Hollzy, what the fuck."

Shane lets his head loll back, glancing over his shoulder, a faint hazy smirk curling across his mouth at the sight of Marleau, splayed out across the edge of the mat, his chest heaving. Sebbin settles down beside him, and Shane's heart twists, just for a moment, as Marleau tosses an arm around his teammate, tugging him in close, neither of them caring that they're naked or tacky with sweat.

"Fuck," Connors says, before two fingers slide into Shane's dripping hole. Electricity races up Shane's spine as he crooks them, nudging into his prostate with unerring precision. "Two loads down and still hungry for more, huh?"

"Y-yeah," Shane whines, arching his back and dropping his head. He tightens up as best he can, humiliation dripping though his veins at the thought of him being lose and sloppy. By the end of it, Ilya and St. Simon will be able to slide right in. He sucks another smear of cum off of Ilya's fingertips, before he continues, "More, fuck, more please."

Waves of heat wash over him as another hand catches his jaw and draws his head up, thumb smoothing over his cheeks, until he meets Hammersmith's eyes.

"You know, we used to talk about you," Hammersmith says, as Shane blinks at him, doe-eyed and fuzzy, the words blossoming in his mind gently. "Made jokes about how intense you are, about how fucking hot you are. Marley called you a top once, though, and Roz spent the whole night laughing so hard he got the hiccups, and then it sort of—well. People started thinking about how you'd look under them, you know? But, shit, Hollander. It doesn't hold a candle to the real thing. And, fuck, look at you—kind of crazy to think that one of the NHL's greatest is begging for dick. Begging for his biggest rival's dick, for his rival team's dicks. You really are nothing but a fucking slut, huh? All that brilliance, cored out for cock. All that fucking hunger, channeled into being a whore."

Shane whimpers, resisting the urge to nip at his fingers as they trail over his lips.

"'m not really a slut," he manages, because it's not like he's doing this with anyone but Ilya, and ignores the laughter from his boyfriend as best he can, despite a blush creeping across his skin. He rolls his hips back against Connors' touch, the faint squelch of his well-fucked hole loud in the ensuing silence as he continues. "'m not."

"And I suppose you know it is just you who thinks you are not one, despite letting my boys fuck you and whining for me?" Ilya says, condescension thick in his voice. "You have forgotten just what makes you, you, moya shlyukha. It's that filthy desperation you're so eager to hide, yet so willing to leak out if it gets you what you want." He clicks his tongue, his tone shifting. "Now open your mouth and let Smithy do whatever the fuck he wants to you."

Shane's mouth drops open on instinct, glutinous with desire, and Hammersmith shakes his head, sliding two fingers over the bow of Shane's mouth. "C'mon, pretty boy," he coos, sugar sweet patronization soaked through his tone. "You're terrible at making a good case for yourself, but that's okay. We don't need you to talk. Show me what Roz has been lucky enough to have all to himself."

Shane blinks up at him dumbly, only to gag loudly as Hammersmith shoves his fingers into his mouth, petting over the back edge of his tongue.

"Fuck," he hisses, drool slipping down his knuckles, ravinity lining his face as Shane stares up at him. "C'mon, Hollander. Fuck your face on my fingers, and maybe, if I think you're worth it, I'll feed you my cock."

Shane shudders at his words, but listens, bobbing his head forward and sucking as best as he can, looking up at Hammersmith through his lashes, sparks of heat collecting in his stomach. He wants to be good enough; he needs to be good enough. He doesn't want them thinking he can't handle it, that Ilya's losing out on good pussy by moving to boring old Ottawa. The feeling of debasing himself only grows as Hammersmith feeds him two more fingers, stretching them out to that they tug on the edges of his lips.

Behind Shane, Connors pulls back from where he was playing with his hole, rubbing his fingertips around the edge of his rim, knuckling at his taint. He tugs at his balls, squeezing them ever so slightly, and Shane moans at the edge of an ache, the mere hint of pain enough to make his cock drool.

"Jesus, Roz," Connors mutters, dragging his fingers back up and just barely putting one in. Shane clenches around it, hunger welling up inside. He wants to be full, he has to be full. He can feels Marleau's cum dripping down his ass, as he frantically tries to keep it inside of him, and shame and hunger and disgust writhe in his stomach in an intoxicating swirl. "He's so desperate for dick, he's shaking."

Ilya snorts. "She's a whore," he says plainly. "Being fucked is her calling."

"Every time we play him, I'm going to think about this," Connors says, muttered agreements rising from everyone else. Heat flares between Shane's shoulder blades as he closes his eyes to listen better, still laving his tongue over Hammersmith's knuckles. "I'm going to think about how Shane Hollander gets on his knees for everyone he shouldn't, all because he's too fuckdumb to not want Ilya Rozanov's cock. All because he was told to."

"You should be jealous," Ilya says, as a tidal wave of pleasure rises in Shane, listening to them talk. His jaw aches, drool splattered across his face. He can feel an awful, wet streak of Sebbin's cum that Ilya missed, and he knows he must look a mess as he swallows as best he can around Hammersmith's fingers, rolling his hips back in an attempt to convince Connors to fuck him. "I could tell my Shanya to do anything, and he would do it. My own personal fuckdoll, yes? I could say, cockwarm me, and then I could say make me cum, that is your dinner, and he would be on the floor, mouth open, crying for it. I could say, I will fuck you when you sleep, and he would nod and ask if I would like him to take Benadryl so he will be even deeper asleep."

"Holy shit," Hammersmith mutters, yanking his fingers out of Shane's mouth unceremoniously, and replacing them with his cock as his eyes flutter open, meeting his eyes. Familiar lechery twinkles in his eyes as he rolls his hips forward, sheathing himself in Shane's throat for one beat before pulling back. "Take it, you fucking slut. Knocking yourself out for dick—fuck, that's insane."

Someone trails their hand down his spine, light enough he can barely feel it over his tank top, before joining Connors' fingers and tugging at his rim.

"Go on," Ilya murmurs, sounding a little ragged for the first time all night. "Fuck him like you would like to at center ice."

Electricity races up Shane's spine, whines leaking out around Hammersmith's dick as he bobs his head forward, swallowing down the spurt of precum that spills across his tongue. Hammersmith's cock is wide, Shane's jaw aching as he fucks into his mouth, the wet click of his throat loud.

Connors wastes no time, pressing forward, his hands clutching at Shane's sweaty thighs. Ilya's fingers remain hooked around the edge of his hole, massaging him open even more as Connors rolls his hips forward and sheathes his cock in Shane's ass.

"Need to fuck you wide enough," Ilya murmurs, prideful ownership dripping from his words. "Sainty and I will make us fit, no matter what, and you will like it, won't you, sweetheart?"

Shane whines an agreement, his throat full, his walls rippling, and sinks further into a haze, drifting through the flares of heats, the pools of lust. Everything feels too good, too much, and still, somehow, not enough.

Even as Connors nails his prostate with every thrust, even as drool slides out from the corners of Shane's mouth, as Hammersmith's hands curl across his jaw; even, as Ilya's finger slides in alongside Connors dick, Shane wants impossibly more.

Waves of hunger lap at his bones, deep, aching pits of desire cratering through him. All he can do is feel, soaking in the drag of pleasure, the heavy weight on his tongue, the blunt pressure against his walls.

He's cored out with greed, filthy, lecherous thirst settling deep in his soul. He has nothing to do but take it, no worries to hold onto as the Boston Bears fuck all sense out of him under their captain's guiding hand.

"You're so cockdrunk, moya shlyukha," Ilya murmurs, dragging his awareness back, inch by sin soaked inch. "So hungry for more, hm? It's what makes you the best, that greed, that desperation. You'll never quite be satisfied with my boys, hm? You'll always be searching for me."

Shane tries to agree, the words garbled in his throat, tangled with spit and dick, sloppy with precum.

"You don't need to speak, Shanya," Ilya coos, as he fits another finger in, crooking them. Shane groans, shivering under the onslaught, but still arches his back, avid for touch. Cloying rapacity sticks to his ribs, sliding under his skin.

He wants impossibly more; he wants for Ilya to fit his whole hand in, for all six of their cocks to fit inside him; he wants to be turned into nothing more than a drooling cocksleeve, beloved and well kept. He wants his purpose to be servicing Ilya, following him around and letting him use him whenever he feels like. Who cares if it's on ice in the middle of the game? Shane is nothing more than Ilya's and that's all he needs to be. That's all he needs to know. He can let everything else go.

Maybe they can install him next to Ilya's stall, can let him have a warm, safe place to rest in between bouts of fucking. He doesn't even need to be awake for it—the few times he's woken up to cum dripping out of him and Ilya's smugly satisfied face have been everything he's ever wanted.

"Fuck, how's he still so goddamn tight?" Connors hisses, as Shane blinks his tear-damp eyes up at Hammersmith, soaking in the gritty expression of hunger. It only grows deeper as he hollows his mouth and sucks harder, pausing to trace his tongue over the bitter salt at the tip of his cock. "Slutty thing like him I'd expect to be loose as hell."

"He's well trained," Ilya rumbles, tugging at his rim, the ache of being full ricocheting through him. "Nobody fucks like my Shane."

It's those words, that darkly covetous tone, that sends Shane barreling over the edge of another orgasm. He hadn't even know he was close, too distracted by the weight of a dick on his tongue, the drag of Connors' cock against his walls, the rough touch of Ilya's fingers.

The world blots out to nothing more than sensation, golden-spun decadence rippling down his spine, white-hot waves of pleasure shivering under his skin.

Someone grunts, low and gravelly, and he tips right over into the sharp sting of overstimulation, gagging wetly around Hammersmith's cock. He doesn't let it escape his mouth, desperate for more cum, even as his eyes roll back.

Words of praise drift in and out of his ears, as he mouths at Hammersmith's dick, clenching down on Connors' cock. Even as the heavy weight of too-much, too-fast buzzes in his veins, he can't help his gluttony for sin, the riptide of need that hums in his chest.

"Shit," Hammersmith mutters, the low grit of his tone catching his attention. "Fuck, Hollander, I'm gonna—" His words cut out as Shane refocuses, hollowing his mouth and fluttering the tip of his tongue against the head of his cock as his hips roll back. Salt blooms across his tongue before he fucks forward, carving a path down Shane's throat, musky cum spilling straight down his esophagus into his stomach.

Shane sucks harder, even as Hammersmith hisses, shivering when Connors hand swats gently at his ass, the sting lighting up his nerves.

"Fucking—take it," Connors growls as Hammersmith pulls back, his dick slipping from Shane's mouth with a lewd, slick noise, the air suddenly filling while his wet, panting mewls. He can't focus, dropping down to his elbows and arching even deeper, his eyes rolling back as it makes Connors cock nail directly into his prostate, soaking in the stuttering shock of heatpaingoodsharp that's collecting in the pit of his navel, his cock starting to get hard again. "Fucking—shit, Hollander. You're nothing more than Roz's, huh? Just his drooly little puck bunny who knows his place, huh? Wanna just get fucked and cum, you little slut, so addicted to his cock you'll do anything?"

"Ye-yeah," Shane manages, his voice pitching up. He presses his hot, tacky cheek against the cool mat, cracking his eyes open to look at Ilya, who's already staring at him, his gaze alight with wonder and heat. "Wanna, oh, god, wanna get fucked—wanna take it, wanna feel you forever, be able to slide right in, no prep—"

"Oh, don't worry," Connors mutters darkly, as a flurry of groans rise around them. "We're fucking your pussy wide open, Hollzy. You're gonna be stuffed so full of cum you'll be leaking for weeks."

Shane clenches down, rippling his walls, and wails as Ilya fits another finger in abruptly, the heavy pressure of them shocking.

"Fuck, Cap—" Connors starts, before his grips tightens and he grinds in, Shane whimpering through the feeling of another load filling him. For another moment, he absentmindedly notes that Connors clearly likes edging into overstimulation as well, as he keeps fucking him with his slowly softening cock, before he pulls back, a gush of cum slipping down Shane's ass, dripping down his thighs.

Ilya pulls his fingers back, too, patting Shane on the flank when he whines in disagreement, all his words escaping him.

"I know, malysh," he soothes. "But, you have fucked four of my boys, and we have the final piece to go, yes? Come, gimme kiss."

Shane peels his face off the mat, wincing at the feeling of his skin sticking before following Ilya's firm grip up, smiling into the kiss. He clearly doesn't care that Shane tastes of cum, nipping at his lip, sucking his tongue into his mouth, openly devouring him.

Shane curves into him, blossoming under his devotion as if a flower in the sun, stretching out for all the warmth he can greedily soak up.

"Fuck, they're in love," Marleau mutters, and Shane can't help the way he preens, still kissing Ilya, even as Ilya's hands creep under his tank top, pulling it up towards his shoulders.

"Come, sweetheart," Ilya murmurs, leaning back enough that their mouths part with a slick noise, heat creeping through Shane's veins at the dark look of lust boiling in Ilya's eyes. "They do not need the reminder that you are mine, if I am in you, yes?"

He nods dumbly, helping as best as he can, as Ilya gently tugs the shirt over his head, over his finger-mussed hair. He beams up at Ilya when he runs a hand through his hair, nuzzling into his warm palm.

"Dude," Connors hisses, sounding almost gutpunched. "Do gay people love better? Fuck—queer people, I mean, sorry, Cap. I just—I mean—look at them, they're fucking insane about each other."

"I think it's just them," St. Simon rumbles, his hands settling on Shane's hips, smoothing tiny circles over the sweaty skin. "Have you ever seen either of them be normal about the other? Not to answer for you two, of course."

Ilya laughs, a soft gentle huff that Shane closes his eyes to listen better to, tilting his head as Ilya's hands slide out from his hair to curl under his chin.

"It's okay to be jealous, yes?" he says, as Shane blinks his eyes open, dropping his jaw at Ilya's firm squeeze. He leans down, mere inches from Shane's face, before he casually tilts his head back and spits in his mouth. The wet glob of it splatters across his tongue, hitting the roof of his mouth; he can feel the heat rebuilding in his marrow, the pit of agonizing hunger rising to swallow him whole once again.

The room rumbles with groans, as Shane blinks once more, before a smile spills across his face. "What do you say, Shanya?"

Shane hums, and pointedly swallows, his mouth curving into more of a smirk. "Thank you," he says, because he knows all his lines, like every good boy should, and really, he loves any chance to show off. "I'm grateful for my treat."

"Oh, holy fuck," Sebbin mutters, and Shane's eyes dart to the side as a slick sound starts up, his eyes widening at the sight of Marleau pumping Sebbin's cock, all four of them staring at him. Connors is slumped over Hammersmith, neither one of them seeming to care that their cocks are slowly starting to harden again, as Marleau's big hand works over Sebbin's dick.

Ilya tuts, tugging his face back to look at him. "Eyes on me, sweetheart."

Shane nods, greed racing up his spine. "Are you going to fuck me now?" he asks, trembling just a bit at the thought. He's ignoring the clear sounds of kissing happening beside him, even though he wants to look so badly.

Ilya's mouth curls into a scythe of danger, whetted on an appetite of perversion. "Yes," he says, and rises, Shane's head following his path even as his hand drops away from his chin. He's immediately completely focused on Ilya as he drags his t-shirt off, tossing it to the side. He looks like a god in the amber light, the muscles of his stomach glowing, the glint of his eyes devious. "Sainty and I are going to fuck you wide enough to gape."

Shane whimpers at the thought, his dick kicking beneath him, a swirl of want and fear and sugar-sweet desire welling up in his veins.

"Promise?"

"Jesus wept," Marleau mutters. "Hollander, you're a fucking—" He cuts himself off, but Shane doesn't turn to look, still absorbed with watching Ilya. Ilya, who hasn't looked away from him, not once. His eyes have been heavy on Shane's skin since they were in the corridor, a comforting weight to the looks, pride and hunger thick in his gaze. Under it, Shane shifts on his hands and knees, his joints aching, another addition to the bruises from earlier. He'll need an ice bath later, even more than usual; it's a cloudy thought that has him flushing at the implications, as if he's not still naked, being stared at by the first two lines of the Bears.

"Promise," Ilya purrs, and stands to yank off his pants. His cock is hard, precum pearling at the top, and Shane's mouth waters, his gut clenching. "Oh, kotik," he murmurs, sliding his hand down his dick teasingly. "So hungry, hm?"

Shane nods, completely captivated. As embarrassing as it is, he hopes it never fades, the absolute yearning that overtakes his mind as soon as he sees Ilya. It's hard now, to keep himself focused sometimes, when all he wants to do is crow that's my boyfriend, when he wants to snarl at the women who think they still have a shot, at the men who can clap their hands on his shoulders and have it be unremarkable.

Ilya drops back down to his knees, tugging him up off his hands and into another drugging kiss. Shane's eyes drift closed, as he drinks up the devotion, the utter love that Ilya's biting into his mouth, stroking over his tongue, spit-smeared and nasty, the sound of their mouths loud in the hushed locker room. The same electric spark as usual fills the air between them, unbreakable even under the keen eyes of Ilya's teammates. It's easy enough to follow as Ilya readjusts the two of them; Shane settling in over his lap and bending down to continue kissing.

Distantly, he can feel the warm hands of St. Simon still touching him, stroking over his thighs, lube-slick fingers fluttering over his hole, massaging at his puffy rim. He's leaking enough to feel the drippage, the slow pulse of cum slipping free from his ass.

"I know," Ilya murmurs, pulling back as Shane's eyelashes flutter, before he forces his lids up, staring down at his boyfriend. He looks unfairly gorgeous splayed out against the thick black mat, his curls askew, lust and love swirling in his eyes. "I know, sweetheart, you're so empty, hm?"

Shane nods, and follows the pressure of his hands, his mouth dropping open as the head of his cock catches on his wet hole, pressing gently against his rim. Ilya rocks his hips up, a tantalizing tease, his mouth curling into a smirk as Shane's breathing speeds up.

"Sainty and I are going to split you open, Shanya," Ilya says, his voice throttled with lust. Behind Shane, St. Simon's hands return to his hole, tacky with lube. He presses three fingers in easily, Shane shuddering under the onslaught, before he scissors them open, just barely dancing over his prostate, an electric shockwave pounding through his body at the faint touch. "We're going to fit both of our cocks inside you, and you're just going to take it, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane says, drunk on endorphins and greed, on the uninhibited pleasure that comes from Ilya claiming him completely. He can't stop petting across Ilya's torso, smoothing his hands over all of his skin, scratching his nails across his pectorals. "Please, Ilya, please—"

As if they've somehow practiced, St. Simon pulls his fingers out and Ilya sheathes his cock in him, bottoming out with ease. Shane's jaw drops, his eyes rolling back, even as he follows Ilya's coaxing hands and settles down, almost sprawled out across his chest.

He can't stop himself from mouthing across Ilya's chest, sucking at his nipples, gnawing at his collarbone, frantically trying to get as much of him as he can inside him. His hands slide across his skin, one dropping low to brace himself against the floor, wiggling in his lap.

He pumps his hips up once, twice, and Shane's whole body shudders with thick pleasure, sparks of decadent agony skittering through his nerves, lighting up that desperate part of him again.

"More," Shane manages, his head dropping down as he pants uselessly at Ilya's shoulder, consumed with lust. He hardly knows what he's saying as he slurs, "More, please, Ilya, fuck me more, wanna feel it for days. Wanna be dripping you forever, keep you safe inside."

"Bylat," Ilya spits out, and suddenly, there's two fingers sliding in next to Ilya's cock, hooking in and scissoring, as static fritzes up Shane's spine, his mouth dropping open on a loud groan, his dick blurting precum across Ilya's stomach. Shane's head lolls, all sense overtaken by the glittering pool of stretchachestingheatwant that grows in his navel.

The pressure of St. Simon's blunt fingers forcing their way sends Shane arching into it, rolling his hips back.

"Jesus Christ, Hollzy," St. Simon rasps, sounding undone already. Pride streaks across the hazy bits of Shane's mind that's working; smug satisfaction at having already ruined him. "You're sucking my fingers in, holy fuck, and you're so tight—I'm—fuck, Cap. He's something else entirely. I can't believe you're letting this happen."

Ilya laughs, breathless devotion soaked into his voice. "Yes, I know this," he murmurs, a hand sneaking down to pet over Shane's stomach, as if he can feel the head of his cock through the skin. "But he bats his sweet brown eyes and begs, and who can say no to a slut like him, hm? He asks, please, Rozanov, let me be fucked by your team, and I say, yes, of course, I know you are always needy when you are empty, it is the natural state of whores like you."

"Not a whore," Shane whines, even a drool leaks out of the corners of his mouth as St. Simon fits another finger in him, lube squelching. He can hardly concentrate as drugging, glitchy pleasure roils under his skin. He's an exposed nerve of desire, all his shameful wants out on brilliant display. "'m just—oh, god—yours."

"You're my whore," Ilya says, arrogance in his voice. "If I say you're a whore, sweetheart, you know it must be true." Shane pants, his eyes rolling back in his head, a yowl leaking out as Ilya roughly runs a palm over the head of his cock, more precum spurting out at the overwhelming touch. "Say it, Hollander."

Shane inhales, the sweat laden air spilling down his throat as he tries to breathe. He feels impossibly full and still empty, somehow; he doesn't think he'll be full completely unless he's somehow tucked all of Ilya inside of him, until he's consumed him in entirety. He thinks that the space between them will always ache, that the pump of his heart underneath his sternum will feel unfulfilled until Ilya's heart is tucked in safe next to his own. He wants to consume and be consumed, wants to rend and tear and expose all his dark spots to light, just to have Ilya wiggle his fingers into and prod the bruise. He wants all his tenderness to come from him, wants to serve and cosset and protect, wants to bloody his teeth in fierce, unrelenting devotion.

"Your whore," Shane says, his lashes fluttering closed. "'m whatever you want me to be, Ilya."

"That's right," Ilya says, darkly pleased. He trembling underneath him, Shane realizes distantly; he wonders how hard it is to be still as St. Simon withdraws his fingers. "And now, I want you to be full."

St. Simon presses forward, the head of his cock a firm, unyielding pressure as Shane's mouth drops open and he sinks into nothing more than feeling.

The delicious ache of it streaks up his spine, the warm pressure of toomuchtoogoodtoomuch sliding through his veins as he sobs. His head is empty, cottony with bliss and lust, brainless for cock, just like Ilya always says. His fingers scrabble at Ilya's skin, scoring red welts across his chest as St. Simon rocks forward again, opening him up even more.

Lightning strikes of agony make his cock twitch; he's hazily aware it's a miracle that he hasn't cum yet, as both of them carve him open, forcing him to take and take and take.

St. Simon is muttering something, prayers and slurred swears mixing together as raw hunger lances through Shane as he bottoms out. For a moment, they both hold there, all three of them trembling, a distant chorus of slick fists pumping at their cocks spilling through the air; Shane would look at the rest of them, if he could bear to open his eyes, but he can hardly be a person with all the smeared warmth of wanting broken open inside.

"Now," Ilya says, his teeth gritted. "Take it."

The weight of the two of them inside has nothing on what it feels when they start to move. He's nothing more than a vessel, as they thrust in, their cocks scraping over his prostate, lighting him up from the inside out. He can't control his mouth as he squeals and whines at the drugging pump of their hips, the intoxicating drag of their dicks. His mouth is open, drool spilling down his chin as he laps at the hollow of Ilya's throat, flaxen waves of pleasure grinding up his spine.

He's undone with pleasure, he's remade with sin. There's nothing more than the fretting of hedonism as it shivers between the three of them, raw carnality made flesh. He has no idea how much time has passed between their thrusts, debauched noises leaking from his throat.

"You sing so sweetly for us," Ilya rumbles, as Shane sobs, empty of everything except for desire. "Perfection, Shanya."

"Love you," Shane manages, as Ilya somehow leans up and presses a biting kiss into the hinge of his jaw. "Love you, loveyouloveyouloveyoulove—"

Ilya gasps, his hand sneaking down to curl around Shane's cock, and Shane is gone—obliterated by indulgence, overcome with love, saturated with lust. The world whites out, even through his closed eyes, as velvet heat and saccharine voluptuousness rockets through his body, everything but opulent pleasure fading out.

He surfaces through murky, heavy waters, to find himself sprawled across Ilya's chest, his hard cock still in him. St. Simon has disappeared from behind him, Shane notes, as his mouth curls into a satisfied smile, prickles of overstimulation buzzing at his nerves as Ilya gently grinds into him, tacky cum leaking from around his dick.

"Sweetheart," Ilya murmurs, petting down his back, firmly touching. "You were so exquisite in orgasm that Sainty came too." He shifts his hips, hissing through his teeth. "You are still…?" Shane nods, but Ilya clicks his tongue. "Words, please, kotik."

"Fuck me," Shane mumbles, keeping his eyes closed as he nuzzles into Ilya's chest. "'m gonna lay here, okay?"

"Pampered princess," Ilya whispers, pressing doting kisses across his face as Shane cranes his head back and purses his lips, begging for another kiss. He drops another kiss onto his mouth, before cradling him close and rolling them gently, his dick never leaving Shane's hole. "How's that, lyubimyj?"

Shane hums contentedly, relief unspooling as his back hits the mat, before he cracks his eyes open to find Ilya staring straight down at him, caging him in easily. "Thank you, baby," he murmurs, curling his fingers around Ilya's wrist as he braces himself over him. "You gonna fuck me now?"

Ilya smiles at him, easy and gentle, and it feels like it always has; that love stretching through the motions, the fucking the easiest way to show the care. Even in their worst moments, Shane has never doubted that he has been safe with Ilya; not in bed, at least.

The first rock forward sends shards of luxurious hurt up his spine, the warm pain that he so loves to sink into, when Ilya is proving that he knows just how much his body can take, when he's unraveled him to his core and has plied his heart open to pour more filth in, to soothe them both with defiled exhaustion.

Shane drifts into the simmering roil of rawness that consumes him, his mouth open as Ilya breathes into him, until he's unsure where he ends and Ilya begins.

He could spend the rest of his life here, caged underneath the lines of Ilya's body, tucked safe beneath his might. Glossy indulgence saturates Ilya's face, even as sweat rolls down his neck, dropping into the mess smeared across Shane's skin.

"This," Ilya murmurs, looking at him, "is why I'm moving to Ottawa." He rolls his hips, nailing Shane's prostate, a filthy smirk crawling across his face at the involuntary mewl Shane lets slip. "Nowhere else for me to go, hm? Not when my home is here, not when you let me carve a space inside you, when you keep me safe and warm." He laughs, dropping his head, when Shane flutters his tear-slick lashes at him. "Needy."

"Always," Shane pants, arching into him, suddenly desperate for him to cum. "Want you," he says, his mouth curling up as Ilya laughs again, before he leans up to capture Ilya's mouth, drinking down his panting breaths. "Love you, Ilyusha." He shudders again as Ilya scrapes against his raw walls, before whispering, just for the two of them, "Want you to cum for me."

Ilya's whole body stutters, just once, before his jaw flexes, and Shane beams at the feeling of his cock twitching, the warm flood of cum filling him up. For a moment, it's just the two of them, staring at each other, before the shifting bodies of the others catch his attention out of the corner of his eye.

"Thank you, Captain," Shane says, instead of drifting back out to that soft, warm place. He's unused to being so present after sex that good, but he knows the night's not over—they still have to make it back to Ilya's after all this. He smirks up at Ilya, as the Bears start to laugh, the soft, tense atmosphere shattering easily under their warmth. "Just what I wanted."

Ilya shakes his head, leaning down to nip at his nose before pulling back. "Menace."

"Your menace," Shane shoots back, wincing as he pulls out.

Ilya grins at him, bright and devious, love suffusing his whole face. "Mine," he agrees, and Shane soaks in the sight of him on his knees, his friends around around him, triumph lining his whole body.

Perfection, Shane thinks, and doesn't even try to fight it, when the rest of the Bears drag him into the conversation, gratefully sinking into Ilya's open arms.

"Holy shit—"

"—always like that? Because—"

"Oh, so you're in love, in love—"

"—so unfair to just get that all the time."

"Jesus, Hollzy," Marleau says, gently patting at him with a damp towel, grinning when Shane flushes at his wink. "I mean, I knew Roz was gonna be in good hands, but you have, like, seriously good hands."

The rest of them murmur vague agreements, their faces all full of fondness when Shane glances around at them, his cheeks heating up even more at the blatant appreciation in all of their expressions.

Shane clears his throat, unable to stop smiling, as Ilya drops a kiss to the top of his head. "Yeah, well," he says, glancing up at him, and leaning in even closer, eager to soak in more of his touch. While he might be somewhat sated with orgasm, he'll never be overrun with Ilya's love; he always wants to soak up more and more and more. "He's worth it, you know?"

Connors snorts, leaning in, all earlier sharpness stripped away, a broad grin on his face, as he gently knocks their heads together as if they're on the ice. "Trust me, Hollzy, we know. And after that, we know you know too."

Shane grins back at him when he pulls away, hazy contentment filling him, and lets his eyes drift shut as the rest of them murmur around them, soaking in the sanguinity. And if, in the back of his mind, new ideas are starting to percolate, that's fine—there's always next time.