Work Text:
You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?
No, Shane texts back, straight away.
He’s back home, two days later. It’s three in the afternoon and he’s supposed to be working out. Instead he’s thinking about Ilya, which isn’t unusual, and Cliff fucking Marleau, which is.
It sure had escalated quickly. And now Shane can’t shake the memories washing over him, day and night, of being spit-roasted, so full of dick he can’t think about anything else. Fucking heaven.
But now his concentration is shot. Thoughts keep zipping around his brain like iridescent bugs, innumerable, fleeting, interrupting each other, impossible to catch hold of or examine. Some dreadful, some ecstatic. He needs the buzzing cloud to clear.
He goes through the motions of his afternoon routine, drags himself to his home gym, pushes hard. His body feels electric with nervous energy. He runs til he’s sweating, rows til he’s shaking, lifts til his arms and legs burn. And still, he’s only half in his body, feet barely touching the ground. The thoughts keep buzzing and swirling.
He needs Ilya.
And sure, he always needs Ilya when they’re apart, a low hungry hum of background yearning ever since last summer, at his cottage, where everything seemed to fall into place for the first time; but right now Ilya’s back in Boston and Shane really needs him because, front-and-centre, an alarm is going off in his nervous system.
They fucked someone else. They did, together. An impossible fantasy made very real and very hot, starring someone very, very inappropriate. It’s done. They can’t take it back. His sexual CV now contains the entry: gay threesome. And what an entry.
Shane groans and gets back on the treadmill. He’s got jelly legs and black spots in his vision but his thoughts will not quit.
The reality is, Marleau is like a walking talking cartoon of everything Shane always clocks before forcing himself to avert his eyes: brash and loud, ripped and straight, unapologetically physical.
Shane knows he has a weak spot for built jocks with easy laughs and impulsive attitudes - just look at the love of his life. But Ilya approached him. Shane has never had to decipher if physical attraction is present, because with Ilya it hit them both between the eyes like the red string of fate was made of lightning.
But this… he does not know. Shane knows guys joke about how a guy’s mouth can feel pretty much the same as a girl’s, if their eyes are closed—but Marleau’s eyes had been very much open. Wide, dark, intense eyes staring down at Shane as he fucked his mouth without touching him. Not before, or after. Shane had had his dick down his throat and his balls pulsing in his palm, and Marleau hadn’t even sunk a hand into his hair. The only part of Shane that Marleau had touched was his mouth—with his dick.
But maybe that makes sense, because Cliff Marleau is not gay. Even if he is—flexible, Shane guesses? It seems? But even if that’s true now, until this week Shane is ninety-nine percent sure that Marleau would describe himself as straight. Unquestionably. Not just theoretically, or by default, but enthusiastically, with lots and lots of living and breathing examples of how much he loves getting it on with women.
Off the ice, what Marleau’s known for is sleeping around and then chatting shit about it afterward. Right this instant, that feels like two big fucking concerns.
But Ilya swears that Marleau won’t spill this secret. And Shane trusts Ilya. And at least, compared with some random guy, Marleau has just as much to lose if the worst happened and word got out. His career’s also at stake. His reputation. His… identity? Maybe he’s bisexual, like Ilya. Or maybe this was a one-time thing, and the moment their door slammed on his heels he vowed never to leave his safe zone again—either way, he’s not going to want to advertise this particular one-night-stand, Shane’s pretty certain.
But what if…
Shane’s legs give way at last, his brain clouding over with sweet, sweet over-exertion. Blessed mental silence falls. Shane goes to lay out on a mat, breathing hard, his eyes half-closed until his vision clears. His body feels rubbery and shivery-weak and drenched in sweat, a more mundane version of how he sometimes gets after a long session with Ilya.
Fuck. That’s better.
He’s unlatched some crucial panic signal from some other, integral gear in his brain. The useless spinning of his thoughts subsides. He drains his water bottle, coolness flooding his chest, feeling his breathing starting to settle.
With it comes a surge of honesty: it’s not Marleau’s straightness or loudness that’s bothering him. It’s how fucking hot it was. How Shane might lose his mind if he doesn’t get to go another round. With touching.
He lies flat on his back, exhausted, and gives in to the direction his thoughts are determined to go.
It had been so, so hot.
Shane had already been pretty gone. Pretty wound up and desperate, even before Ilya paused in the middle of fucking him and started showing him pictures of his ass, showing him how stretched he looked, how deep Ilya could get.
And then Ilya had said, “I bet Marly blow his top, seeing you like this,” and Shane had come so hard he’d ripped a pillowcase with his clawing fingers.
“Jesus,” Ilya said, surveying the damage with a smile as Shane shifted blindly away from the wet spot, vision filled only with stars. “You like that idea, huh?”
Ilya snapped a couple more pics, fucking Shane’s ass lazily now, enjoying himself, making Shane whimper.
“Tell me how much you like that idea.”
“‘S’ hot,” Shane mumbled, spreading his legs and sighing with bliss as Ilya gave him his full length, slow and regular. “Fuck, that feels amazing.”
It could be like this, sometimes, after Shane came. Like his whole body was attuned to Ilya’s every touch, glowing all over. He felt like he could float here for hours, letting Ilya use him as long and slow as he liked.
“Maybe I send him this one.”
Another pic, closely cropped and so fucking obscene Shane felt dizzy. It could be anyone. It could be a screen grab from a porn site. There was no way anyone could pin that on him. Even Ilya probably couldn’t pick his hole out of a lineup; even with his own dick buried starkly, deeply inside.
Ilya was clearly joking but—
“Yeah, do it,” Shane said.
They’d talked and speculated, earlier, about how Marleau had seemed extremely fucking interested in what Ilya had to say about Shane’s performance in bed. The blaring horror of getting caught had gradually settled into warm embarrassment; had then melded with what Ilya knew about Marleau; and all at once it morphed into an itch that Shane needed to scratch.
“You are kidding,” Ilya said.
Shane grinned. “No, send it,” he said rashly, and then gasped when Ilya snapped his hips, filling him completely. “Fuck!”
“You want me to show your hole to Marly,” Ilya said, with the airy breathy note in his voice that meant Shane had both impressed him and turned him on to an almost unbearable degree. “You want to give him heart attack!”
“No!” Shane huffed out, the idea catching hold. Ilya was so deep inside him now, grinding into him, heavy and possessive. He imagined someone else witnessing this – specifically, Cliff Marleau watching this, with that stormy expression he got on the ice, intimidating bordering on murderous, and squirmed back on Ilya’s cock, getting rapidly aroused again. “But it would be so hot, right? Just a glimpse—set it to like, three seconds before it disappears. With no proof it’s definitely me.”
“Oh, he would know,” Ilya said tightly. “He’s seen my dick.”
Shane knew something of those nights that Ilya had had with Marleau, which Ilya had always hand-waved as vodka-soaked and yet also recalled in suspicious levels of detail.
“But you guys didn’t… do stuff,” Shane said, making it a question, to see if the story had changed again.
“Not stuff together,” Ilya said quickly. “Not really. Just watched. But… he definitely liked to watch. And it was not girls he was looking at.”
Shane dragged in a slow breath, riding the wave of mingled desire and possessiveness that statement generated.
The thought of Ilya and Marleau, both jacked, both performing, both technically hooking up with a girl but locked on to each other instead, drove him all sorts of crazy. He wanted to get in the path of that laser beam of hungry focus, let it take him out.
It was also true that if Ilya was looking at any other male friend like that, even if it was ancient history, then Shane wanted to be in the room for a whole bunch of reasons.
He looked over his shoulder, briefly biting his bottom lip, just as he knew Ilya liked. “Make him want to come over here, check us out for himself.”
“And do what?”
“Help you finish what you started,” Shane said, and clenched deliberately, feeling Ilya twitch inside him.
“I’ll fucking do it,” Ilya warned, grinning but his eyes were glinting. Shane was reminded Ilya hadn’t come yet; was probably on a threshold of horny that bordered on reckless.
“Good,” Shane said deliberately. “I want you to.”
“You are serious.”
“Ilya. Fucking send the picture.”
“Shane,” Ilya shot back, “he’s probably asleep. Or in bar. Or fucking some girl.”
Shane scowled, even as a frisson went through him at Ilya sending that photo and it reaching Marleau while he was doing something similar with some girl. “Then first check he’s not?”
Ilya tapped something with his thumb, then showed Shane the screen.
You alone?
As Shane watched, the pulsating dots of a reply flicked up.
“Holy shit,” Shane said, adrenaline flashing through him, “he’s seen it.”
Ilya swiftly took back the phone. “He is alone,” he read out, and looked Shane in the eye. “And awake. And probably curious as fuck now. You really want?”
Shane shivered under a ripple of renewed arousal. “Yeah,” he whispered. They were really fucking doing this. He felt wild. “Do it.”
“I need new pic,” Ilya said, sounding breathless himself. “Fuck, he is going to be so jealous.” He pulled half out, making Shane moan softly. “Look at you, fuck. He is going to come in his pants. So fucking hot.”
It wasn’t clear which aspect Ilya thought was hot, but Shane guessed it was both the sight in front of him and the thought of getting Marleau aggressively turned on.
Shane tilted his hips helpfully. He knew what he looked like.
Ilya groaned. “Aw, fuck,” he said, sounding aggrieved. “You are going to make me come before he even get here.” He looked like this was true.
“He could… slide in right after,” Shane said, his cock filling relentlessly again. Fuck that was a dirty idea. He loved it.
“Ah, no,” Ilya said immediately. “I am not letting him have your ass.”
Shane couldn’t help it; he made a disappointed noise.
“Not tonight,” Ilya amended. “He has to earn it.” And then, guttural: “Holy shit, Shane – he’s replied – it’s on.”
By the time Marleau actually reached them, Shane had gotten so aroused and desperate that the plug had seemed like a good idea. Every aspect of this was so wrong, so hot, so forbidden. What if Marleau freaked, or told someone else, or lost his mind and like, tried to beat them up?
That last one Shane was pretty sure they could handle. But the others… this was so risky. And yet he trusted Ilya, and Ilya trusted Marleau, and the idea of being watched by him was unbelievably fucking tempting.
He squeezed down on the plug as Ilya played with it, both of them groaning.
“Fuck me,” Shane begged, and Ilya made a dark noise in his chest.
“Not yet. You are too hot like this—I will not last.”
“Please.”
“Niet.”
Shane whined and Ilya rewarded him with a twist of the plug, making fire zip up and down his spine.
“Anyway, don’t you want him to find you like this? Ready and waiting?”
“Oh god, I—“ Shane tried to collect himself, tried not to squirm hard enough to make himself whimper, “—yeah, yeah. Okay. That’s what I want.”
The thought of Marleau seeing him like this, stretched and needy around the toy they’d had to use because he could not wait, made him breathless with frustration. He moved restlessly, grinding his cock against the sheets and shuddering as Ilya fucked him with it, far too gently.
Shane was so turned on it almost didn’t feel real. His long had it been, Ilya toying with him while they waited? Stroking Shane’s sweaty flanks and kissing his neck, getting him to new cusps of pleasure before stopping, always stopping, such a fucking asshole tease, now Shane was losing his goddamn mind. He had a fleeting thought that maybe Ilya hadn’t texted Marleau at all, that this was all some elaborate hoax because Shane had mentioned trying edging that one time—and then someone was knocking at the door.
Fuck.
The twenty minutes that followed were something out of Shane’s worst, best fantasies. Ilya, displaying him, narrating for him. Providing the scaffolding and the script, enabling Shane to melt into a place of uninhibited hunger, thoughtless need. There were two of them, and they were big and strong and horny enough that this was going to happen, now, regardless of the consequences. Shane just had to ride it out. He was just a vessel for their dicks, serving them, worshipping them, feeling them synchronize inside him.
Ilya’s hands were all over him, moving Shane to meet his thrusts, glorying in Shane’s body, in a stark contrast to Marleau’s hands-off approach. Yet something in that contrast of active and passive was firing Shane up even more. Marleau’s dick was incontestably solid in his mouth, tasting familiar and different at once, and Shane was trying to show off his skills but Ilya was fucking him hard enough that that was impossible—so all Shane could do was open for him, open for them both, let the reverberations of Ilya’s thrusts reach Marleau through Shane’s tongue. He sucked and moaned, more when Marleau’s hips coordinated with Ilya’s, and almost lost it at the first deep thrust from both of them, Ilya’s balls crushed against his ass, Marleau’s balls pushing against his chin.
Fuck, fuck, Shane couldn’t breathe, couldn’t back off in either direction, so full, it was perfect. The moment stretched, pressure building, before they both started moving again, and Shane gasped and melted into it, ascending hard. They were both so strong, and huge, and using him for their own satisfaction, and he was taking it, whimpering for it, whatever they wanted, fuck…
The charge when Marleau came in his mouth seemed to set off a chain reaction inside Shane’s body, every foreign jolt triggering a crescendoing pulse of pleasure. Shane clamped down on Ilya’s dick as he came seconds later, and felt the charge race on through to Ilya, and then he was coming, hammering it out with a force that reasserted his overall dominance; filling Shane up, claiming him and sharing him simultaneously.
Fucking incredible.
After – floating in the stratosphere once more – Shane thought hazily that the only thing he would change is how quickly Marleau had then disappeared.
And—and maybe the touching thing.
“Hey,” he said to Ilya, when they were back in bed, topless, propped up and leaning against each other; needing to be close, “so is it just me or did he, like, flee the scene?”
Ilya tilted his head. “Probably, yes. Marly is, deep down, massive coward.”
Shane snorted. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Maybe not,” Ilya allowed, and kissed the top of Shane’s head. “But we can be very scary. Especially you.”
Shane yawned and snuggled closer against Ilya’s bare chest. “Sure.”
“No, look,” Ilya said, lifting his phone to take a picture of them, inclining their heads together. “So intimidating.”
Shane gazed into the camera with a faint smile, enjoying this rare framing of them, so obviously together. Somehow a more scandalous image than any of the porn shots Ilya had shown him earlier.
Ilya matched his expression and took the picture, and Shane felt a momentary pang for how impossible it still was to keep this sort of thing on either of their phones.
He had a few Polaroids in the safe at the cottage, just dumb stuff from last summer that added up to such an unacceptable body of evidence that it had to be kept under lock and key.
More recently, he’d opened an email account with no identifying marks, which they both occasionally sent pictures to, before doggedly deleting all evidence from phones, sent messages, and the ‘deleted’ folder. Shane never logged into the account, keen to avoid developing an electronic paper trail, but he liked that it existed, a repository for exactly this sort of moment. A tiny step in the direction of one day sharing a lot more together.
“Nice shot,” Shane said.
Wordlessly Ilya sent it to the email address. He had it on favourites, Shane realised. Fuck, that was sweet.
Then Ilya’s thumb hovered over delete, hesitated.
A rebellious impulse flared. “You could send that to Marleau,” Shane said, testing how the words felt in his mouth. Fuck, someone else actually knew about them. Not someone supportive or wholesome. Someone else who might find it hot.
“Wish you were here,” Ilya intoned, gently mocking. But he still didn’t hit delete.
“No, shut up,” Shane said quickly. He tried to think of something that didn’t sound lame. Or presumptuous. Fuck, maybe they should just delete it.
“What happens in Tampa stays in Tampa,” Ilya suggested, smirking now.
Shane laughed. “No!”
Ilya looked at him thoughtfully. “Okay. You want to send it for you, or for him?”
Shane felt his cheeks go warm. It was too late at night for that kind of introspection. “Forget it.”
“No,” Ilya said, and kissed him on the mouth, properly. Slow, and dreamy, with one warm hand on his face.
When he drew back, Shane’s head was more clear. “I guess both,” he said, answering Ilya’s earlier question. “I want to signal to him that we don’t, like, regret it, and I’ve got a few more ideas for stuff we could do… and I guess I like the idea of showing us off. But I don’t wanna weird him out.”
Ilya contemplated him for a moment, then turned back to his phone, tapped something out.
Had another idea.
Shane read it, then nodded. “Yeah. Send it.”
A dart of excitement went through his belly as Ilya complied. He pressed his face against Ilya’s chest. “Fuck. I can’t believe we did that.”
“Send it?”
“No, I mean - all of it,” Shane said, with a breath of laughter.
Ilya turned Shane’s face to look up at him, eyebrows slightly lifted. “You regret?”
“No.”
“Good. Because we send wrong signal just now if you do.”
Shane shivered, burrowed closer. “‘M sleepy. Did he reply?”
“Not yet.” Ilya sounded unconcerned. “He might be asleep also, or… oh.”
There was an interesting depth to his voice on that last word. Slightly strangled.
Shane sat up a bit, craning to peer at the phone in Ilya’s hand. And… huh.
Hit me, it said.
The picture Marleau had sent to them was technically no more incriminating than theirs. He was bare chested, visibly in bed, like they were—but Shane hadn’t seen this much of his skin earlier. This tanned, topless expanse felt obscene. The frame cut off midway down Marleau’s highly defined, lightly hairy pecs, catching against the tiniest dark swell of one nipple; was that intentional? His collarbones ran into deep grooves around his shoulders, his bulging delts and traps, the swell of all that overworked muscle making Shane’s mouth go dry. He wondered distantly what Marleau could bench press. Entire cars, possibly.
But the glimpse of what Marleau’d kept hidden under his clothes, that wasn’t the most arresting part of the picture. Shane’s gaze travelled up his thick throat, looking all the more angled with its dark shading of stubble, the blunt line of his jaw… and yeah, fuck. It was Marleau’s sultry expression that had the back of Shane’s neck suddenly sweating.
He looked so confident, so casually available. His head was tilted to one side, his dark brows drawn just slightly together, and he was staring straight into the lens, heavy-lidded, lips parted, almost questioning.
As they stared, the picture vanished again.
“God,” Shane said, swallowing. “That’s, uh… wow.”
“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, slamming the phone down on the bed and twisting to face Shane. Slightly wide-eyed. “I have seen this expression, oh, a thousand times.”
“You have?”
“Is, how do you say? His game face.”
Shane wet his lips. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Ilya ground out, half-smiling, half deadly serious, “we are target now. Like… future conquest, in his sights.”
“Really?” Shane was aware his kneejerk reaction to that word conquest was confusingly positive. “Wow. Um, are you going to reply?”
“Fuck. Yes.” Ilya grabbed his phone again and quickly tapped, Tomorrow.
Totally, Marleau replied, just as quick.
Ilya tossed the phone aside and then just stared at the ceiling for a moment, jaw tight, cheeks tinged pink.
Shane felt a disbelieving smile growing on his face. Marleau had thrown Ilya a curveball here. Shane didn’t know what Ilya had been expecting, but that picture wasn’t it. And that made him rise in Shane’s estimation even more.
The next day, amidst the hasty packing and subterfuge involved in making it look like they hadn’t shared a room, Shane noticed Ilya didn’t look at his phone once. Any further banter seemed to have been set aside; overshadowed by them parting again, Ilya back to Boston, Shane back to Montreal. It was the old charade, bare nods and stolen glances in exchange for the farewell they both would have chosen were the eyes of the world not on them.
Thoughts about Marleau didn’t get a look in.
Until later, when Shane realised they actually hadn’t replied. Hadn’t continued… the thing. Whatever it was.
He texted Ilya; Marleau hadn’t texted him either. Which was fine, obviously. Expected, even.
Maybe that’s all there was to this? One crazy weekend. Wild - and now, in the past. Sure, there was a loose end dangling, but no burning need to tie it up. Everything could go back to normal.
It sat uncomfortably with him.
Shane returned to his place in Montreal and tried not to think about it, without success.
Reminders were everywhere. Initially he was jolted back to those memories by every twinge of his sore ass and aching jaw, but as those physical symptoms resolved his mind took over. Thoughts of Ilya led inevitably to thoughts of sex, which now in turn led to thoughts of Marleau; memories filling Shane’s mind of taking Marleau’s thick cock into his mouth, basking in the heat of Marleau’s attention, sucking him messily as Ilya drove into his ass from behind, everyone hungrily watching each other. Every waking moment stuffed as full as… well, yeah.
Fuck, what had they done?
Shane tried to distract himself by doubling down on his usual routines, his usual life, but it was no good.
A new obsession with Cliff Marleau was taking over his goddamn mind.
Until—this. Now. Lying on his back, on the mat in his gym, watching the sun sink lower outside the window, unable to stop thinking about the strange absence of contact with Marleau and how much of a difference a few casual touches might have made.
He’s fairly sure that Ilya hadn’t explored him either. But maybe at the door… Maybe…
Abruptly, Shane really needs to know.
He locates his phone and calls Ilya.
Ilya picks up on the first ring, which makes Shane smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You alone?” Shane hopes, hopes. Always.
“Yes. My apartment.”
Good.
“Did you kiss him goodbye?” Shane asks, without preamble.
Ilya snorts. “No. Is not that type.”
Shane feels a lightning flicker of excitement that they can just talk about this. Both of them instantly raring to go. “No?”
“No. Marly is led by dick, not heart. Or head.”
“As opposed to you…”
Ilya makes a wounded noise, but Shane can hear he’s grinning.
Shane leans in, making his voice thoughtful. “Do you think his dick might lead him back to us?”
“Maybe. If he doesn’t freak.”
“What does a Cliff Marleau freak-out look like?”
“Probably he will bang lot of girls this week.”
“Oh.”
Ilya laughs. “You are jealous? Of these girls?”
“No!” Shane rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I just don’t like the idea of him having to, like, take the taste away. Of us.”
“You want him to come have another taste?”
“Don’t you?” Shane can hear his own voice go rough, remembering the heavy hot way Ilya had looked at Marleau, asking if he could touch his dick. The way Ilya had looked after receiving that sultry picture - hot and bothered.
“Mm. Are you alone?”
“Of course.” Shane never calls Ilya unless he’s safely alone.
“Hard?”
“Not yet…”
“You want to tell me your daydream about this man?”
“I’m not daydreaming about him!”
“Sure.”
“Just I guess… I’ve been thinking… what might be hot…”
“Tell me.”
It’s weird not seeing Ilya’s face. He can’t tell what he’s thinking, how turned on he might be – or not. He thinks about FaceTiming him, but there’s also something hot about just his voice, this bright afternoon, falling apart.
Shane tests the water. “Well, if he’s up for it, it would be hot to watch you guys kiss. And like. Your hands all over him. You’re both so big… I think I’d really like to watch that.”
“Very sweet.”
“Wouldn’t you want to do that?”
Ilya hums; Shane can’t tell if he’s messing with him or not. “Maybe. Put on maybe pile.”
“Oh my god. Okay,” Shane says. Spirited now, he skips three imaginary steps. “I want to stroke your dicks together and see if I can fit them both in my mouth at once.”
Ilya makes a much more approving noise. “This I would like to see.”
Shane warms to his theme. “And if I can’t,” he says, “I’d want to blow you one at a time, but like, alternate between you. Get you both really close. And then,” he finds himself visualising it with sudden shocking clarity, “I’d get you to come all over his cock, and I’d lick it off, and then I’d deep-throat him with the taste of you filling my mouth as well.”
“Shane,” Ilya growls softly, almost a warning. “Now you are hard.”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Very fucking hard, hearing your little plan. On your knees, feasting on our dicks, this is paradise for you, huh?”
“…Yeah.”
“Get your dick out. I want you stroking it while you tell me how hard you will try to fit us both in your mouth at once.”
Shane’s dick is in his hand already. “I’ll try really hard,” he promises. “I’ll uh, I’d stroke you both, hold you tight together—I think you’d get off on feeling how hard he is as well.”
Ilya made an indistinct noise confirming that.
“I’d definitely be able to lick and suck you both at once,” Shane says, “but I don’t know how much I could fit in. I’d find it hot though, lowering my mouth over you, feeling your dicks slide against each other.”
“Mmm,” Ilya says, a low hum of agreement.
“But if you start moving a lot, like trying to get off, I probably can’t manage that,” Shane says, possibly being too honest but it turns him on, being able to say exactly what he’s thinking to Ilya. “And if I had to go back to taking one at a time, I’d start with you—I fucking love your cock.” He hears his voice deepen. “I love your hands in my hair when you fuck my mouth. You know how I like it.”
“Yeah…”
Shane thinks back. “Marleau didn’t even touch me,” he complains. It’s bothering him even more, but he can’t exactly pinpoint why. “I need you to show him what to do.”
“Show him how you want it,” Ilya echoes, husky now. He’s stroking himself too, Shane can hear it in his breathing.
“Yeah, and you can pull my hair, maybe even… slap my face?” Shane’s own voice is thready with urgency. “I don’t want you to go easy on me in front of him.” He can’t explain why he needs Ilya to know this. “Show him I can, uh—take it.”
“Mm. I will show him. You will not break in rough hands.”
“No.”
“You are not weak.”
“No,” Shane says, squeezing hard over the head of his cock, throbbing. Fuck, that’s it, that’s it exactly. Ilya always knows.
“Just because you take it on your knees, just because you moan like whore for our dicks, does not make you any less man – you want him to see this?”
“Y-yeah,” Shane gasps, stroking himself harder, leaning into the familiar confidence of Ilya’s low drawl. He’s fucking magic, unfailingly managing to dig out whatever discomforting splinter is bothering Shane, soothing any sore area after.
“You are so strong, so perfect,” Ilya murmurs, steady and rich, his certainty filling Shane with filthy peace, “all man, and if Marly dare think otherwise I will ruin him.”
“On the ice?”
“I will not wait that long.”
“Ilya, fuck—“
“Are you gonna come?”
“Uh huh.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Yeah—yeah,” Shane groans, as his own hand gets him there, and he spends into his fist with Ilya making soft, appreciative noises. “I fucking love you,” Shane mutters, unsteady now.
“Yes—Shane,” Ilya says, and it sounds like he’s coming as well because his breathing goes chaotic then silent for a while. Then eventually, deep, choked, Ilya adds, “I love you, Shane.”
Shane pauses halfway through clean-up to grin stupidly at the ceiling. “Fuck, I miss you already.”
“Same.”
“Come when you can.”
“Definitely.”
“Super hot teammates optional,” Shane jokes, and Ilya makes a low, satisfied snarling noise in his throat.
“I think you want me to bring him back,” he says, and the sound of it electrifies Shane, makes him shudder in delicious aftershocks.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Yeah,” Ilya says gruffly. “Well – I will.”