Archive of Our Own

Of course it was a fucking insane idea.

You’d known Shane Hollander since you were both in diapers—same daycare, same skinned knees, same stupid inside jokes. You watched him turn from the gangly kid who cried when he lost at street hockey into the stone-faced NHL captain who scared the shit out of everyone on the ice.

You’d been there for every high, every low, every time he let the mask slip just long enough for you to see the real him underneath.

So yeah, you knew exactly what that quiet, tight-jawed look after every Montreal-Ottawa game meant. You knew it wasn’t just rivalry. You knew it was Ilya Rozanov staring at him across the face-off circle like he wanted to eat him alive.

You’d seen it build for years. And last night, after too many shots at that dive bar downtown, after Ilya had shown up unannounced because “I missed you in bed, Hollander”, the truth had finally spilled out of Shane in a slurred, mortified confession.

He’d been dating and sleeping with Ilya Rozanov, his supposed ‘sworn-off enemy’. (You knew Lily was some bullshit from the beginning but you didn’t press).

And then one thing led to another. And you—tipsy, reckless, and maybe a little too invested in your best friend’s sex life—had laughed and said, “God, I’d pay to see that.”

Shane had gone pale even through the alcohol flush. Ilya had raised one eyebrow, silent, and ordered another round.

Now, hours later, sober and trapped in a car hurtling toward a remote cottage, the words you’d thrown out so carelessly last night sat between the three of you like a live wire.

“So… about that idea you had last night—” you started.

Shane's grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. “Absolutely not.” His voice cracked halfway through, betraying the heat creeping up his neck.

From the back seat came a low, amused exhale, barely more than a breath. Ilya stretched his long legs as far as the cramped SUV allowed, arms folded across his chest, eyes flicking between the two of you in the rear-view mirror.

He hadn’t spoken since you’d all piled in at dawn, but you felt him listening.

You turned sideways in your seat, grinning at Ilya’s reflection. “What do you think, Rozanov?”

Ilya’s mouth curved—just a fraction, the faintest hint of a smirk that most people would have missed. But you had known him long enough now.

“I think,” he said at last, “that you’re making Hollander very red right now.”

Shane made a strangled sound. “I’m driving!”

You drummed your fingers on the headrest between them. “Come on, it's just watching. You don’t think I’ve seen porn before?”

The car hit a pothole, jostling you closer to Shane's ear. He flinched away like you'd bitten him.

“We are not—this isn't…” The car swerved slightly as he gestured wildly, his ears now fully crimson. You bit your lip to keep from laughing. The scent of pine and cracked leather mixed with the electric tension thickening the air.

Ilya tilted his head just enough to pin you with those sharp eyes. “You would be quiet?” he asked, as casually as someone inquiring about the weather.

The implication made your pulse jump but you shrugged. “I’m good at being quiet.”

“You are very bold,” Ilya said, his tone neutral. “I like bold.”

Shane made another incoherent sound. “What the fuck? No, that’s not—” His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his jaw working like he was chewing glass. “We’re not having sex in front of my best friend, Ilya!”

Ilya stretched his legs, his knee brushing Shane’s thigh with deliberate slowness. “Could be fun.”

Shane’s head snapped toward the mirror again. “Don’t encourage this, asshole.”

“Bed would be warmer with three,” Ilya said, voice low enough that only you and Shane could hear it, though his face gave nothing away. The way Shane’s breath hitched was almost comical.

You grinned, pressing your palm flat against the back of his seat, feeling the tension coiled in his shoulders through the fabric.

The trees outside blurred into a green smear as Shane accelerated, like he could outrun the conversation.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed to you, “how do you even remember what I said that night? We were so fucking drunk kept calling me Shay on the way back.”

“You were drunk enough to admit you'd thought about it, though,” you teased, voice dipped low and syrupy. “Multiple times, if I remember correctly. Something about Ilya being curious and you having an exhibit—"

“Shut up!” Shane snapped, but it came out breathless, wrecked.

The car sped up again, tires humming against the wet pavement like they were trying to escape too. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, caught Ilya's, and immediately darted away—like looking directly at the sun.

Ilya didn't smile, not quite, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in that way that meant he was enjoying himself far too much. He shifted again, deliberate, the side of his boot nudging Shane's calf this time.

“Is not so bad. Curiosity,” he said, accent thickening just enough to sound dangerous. "We are adults. Cottage has big beds. Fireplace. No neighbors."

Shane's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You're both insane. This is… this is blackmail or something.”

“Blackmail?” You laughed, letting your fingers trail along the edge of his seat until they brushed the sleeve of his jacket. “It's an offer, Shane. You can say no. I know Rozanov doesn't share easily.”

Ilya's gaze slid to you then, slow and heavy, like he was weighing whether you'd just volunteered yourself as tribute or thrown Shane under the bus. Or both.

“Your friend is right,” he said finally. “I do not share. But.” He paused, letting the word hang in the pine-scented air. "You are... exception.”

The silence that followed was so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife.

Shane's hands flexed on the wheel again, white-knuckled. His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “You're serious.”

“Deadly,” Ilya replied, calm as ever.

You watched the muscle in Shane's jaw jump, watched the way his chest rose and fell too fast under his coat. The GPS chimed again—fifty minutes now. Close enough that the tension felt like a living thing, coiled and waiting.

Finally, Shane let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like surrender than humor. “If we do this…” he said, eyes fixed on the darkening road, “we are never speaking of it again after tonight, and you two are buying me so much fucking vodka tomorrow.”

“Works for me,” you leaned back in your seat, satisfied for the moment, watching the trees blur past the window.

Shane’s shaky laugh still echoed in the quiet that followed his half-surrender. The road narrowed, pines crowding closer, the late-afternoon sun slanting gold through the windshield.

You glanced at the GPS—forty-three minutes remaining.

“You are so boring, Hollander. Is… opportunity.” Ilya broke the silence first, voice low and deliberate. He let the word settle, then added, almost gently, “You always say no too fast.”

Shane’s throat worked again. “Because you always push.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, unapologetic. “Someone has to.”

You stayed quiet, watching Shane’s profile, the tight line of his mouth, the way his eyes kept flicking to the mirror even though he clearly didn’t want to meet Ilya’s gaze.

You knew that look. It was the same one he wore before overtime in Game Seven. Terrified, furious, and determined not to back down.

Finally, he exhaled through his teeth. “If we get there and I change my mind—”

“Then we drink by fire and pretend nothing happened,” Ilya finished. “No one dies.”

Shane huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who—” He cut himself off, cheeks darkening again.

You grinned at Shane but he shot you a glare that had no real heat behind it. “Don’t.”

“Who what?” Ilya asked.

“He means you’re not the one who’s gonna get fucked into another state,” you whispered to Ilya. “Shane, baby, if you’re self-conscious about me seeing your hol—"

Shane slammed on the brakes so hard the SUV fishtailed on the wet gravel shoulder, tires screeching as the car jerked to a stop. The seatbelt dug into your chest; bags thudded in the trunk.

Shane yelled your name, his voice cracking, raw and mortified. His face was scarlet, eyes wide when he twisted in his seat to glare at you. “That’s…. that’s not… Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ilya, thrown forward and then back by the sudden stop, let out a low, rolling laugh, the kind he rarely allowed anyone to hear. It filled the car like smoke.

Shane whipped around to him next. “And you, stop laughing! This isn’t funny!”

But Ilya was still laughing, shoulders shaking, one hand braced against the back of Shane’s seat. “Is very funny,” he managed, accent thick with amusement.

Shane made a strangled noise and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel with a thud. “I hate both of you. I hate this. I’m turning the car around. We’re going home.”

“No,” Ilya corrected mildly, leaning forward now, elbows on the backs of your seats. His breath brushed warm against your ear as he spoke, low enough that only you and Shane could hear. “You hate that you like the idea.”

Shane’s jaw clenched so hard you heard it click.

You unbuckled and leaned forward, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Shane. Breathe.”

He didn’t move, just sat there with his face hidden, breathing hard through his nose.

You glanced at Ilya in the mirror. He’d stopped laughing, but his eyes were bright, lips still curved. He gave you the tiniest nod—your turn.

You reached out and rubbed slow circles between Shane’s shoulder blades, the way you had since you were eight and he’d almost lost a tooth in a hockey brawl.

“Hey. Listen to me. Nothing happens that you don’t want. Not one single thing. I was being an asshole just now. I’m sorry. I won’t tease like that again tonight.”

Shane stayed silent for a long beat. Then, muffled against his arms: “You promise?”

“I promise,” you said immediately. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse in whatever corner you put me in. And if at any point you want me gone, I’m gone. Door closed, headphones on, out on the dock staring at the lake. Whatever you need.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes wary. “And you?” He jerked his chin toward the back seat.

Ilya raised both hands in mock surrender. “You say stop, we stop.”

Shane searched Ilya’s face in the mirror, looking for the usual tease, the push. But Ilya just held his gaze, steady and uncharacteristically gentle.

Then Shane shot you a look—half desperation, half something darker. Something that made your thighs press together involuntarily.

 “Okay,” he said finally, exhaling shakily. “Okay. But we’re… we’re taking it slow when we get there. Vodka first. Talking. And if I say no at any point—”

“Then no,” you and Ilya said at the same time.

Shane huffed a surprised laugh, small and startled. He rubbed a hand over his face. “You two are ganging up on me now?”

“Little bit,” Ilya admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching again.

Shane shook his head, put the car back in drive, and eased onto the road. His color was still high, but his shoulders had dropped a fraction.

No one spoke for a while. The drizzle picked up, wipers swishing steadily. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, Shane muttered, “For the record… it’s not the bottoming thing. It’s just—” He swallowed. “It’s you seeing me like that. When I’m not… in control.”

You reached forward again, this time just resting your hand on his arm. “I’ve seen you cry after playoff losses, Shane.”

“I was not cry—”

“Yeah, yeah. Allergic reaction.”

You squeezed his side, right where you knew he was ticklish, and he jerked away with a huff.

“Is cute when you lie, Hollander,” Ilya said. “Eyes get all shiny. Like puppy.”

Shane elbowed him without looking, but there was no force behind it. “Fuck off.”

Ilya didn’t fuck off. He stayed there, crowding Shane’s space in that deliberate way he’d perfected over years of needling him on the ice and, more recently, off it.

“You think too much,” he said quietly. “Always thinking. Tonight, maybe stop.”

Shane cleared his throat. “If anyone laughs at me again, I’m pushing them into the lake.”

Ilya hummed. “Lake is cold. You would miss me after five seconds.”

“Try me.”

You smiled to yourself, watching the mile markers tick down.

When the cottage finally came into view, Shane pulled into the driveway and let the engine idle for a long moment.

No one moved to get out.

Then Ilya reached forward, brushed the back of Shane’s neck with two fingers and said, “Come. Vodka waits.”

Shane blew out a slow breath, killed the engine, and nodded.

You climbed out into the cold air, boots crunching on gravel. The lake smelled metallic and clean, loons calling somewhere out on the black water. Ilya grabbed the bags from the trunk like they weighed nothing,

Shane took the cooler, and you carried the grocery tote with the good coffee and the extra bottle of ginger ale you’d hidden for emergencies.

Inside, the cottage was all exposed beams, worn leather couches, the fireplace already crackling low. Someone (probably Shane’s parents or even Shane himself) had left a stack of logs and a few drinks on the table.

Shane set the cooler down, shrugged out of his coat, and went straight for the glasses. You joined him and poured three generous fingers of vodka each, and handed one to him, one to Ilya.

Shane didn’t sit. He stood in front of the fire, staring into it, glass cradled in both hands.

“I’m uh…” he said. “I’m gonna go take a shower upstairs. I’m all gross and sweaty from the drive.”

He disappeared up the stairs without waiting for a response, the bathroom door clicking shut with a soft finality. A second later, the rush of water echoed through the pipes.

You and Ilya stood in the sudden quiet of the living room, the fire popping and hissing behind the screen. The cottage smelled like the faint citrus of whatever cleaner had been used last summer.

Ilya took a slow sip of the vodka, eyes on the hallway Shane had vanished down.

You leaned against the kitchen island. “He’s freaking out in there, isn’t he?”

“Little bit,” Ilya said, mouth quirking. “He will stand under water until it’s cold. Then he will come out pretending everything is normal.” He tilted his head, considering. “Is cute.”

You huffed a laugh. “You keep calling him cute. One day he’s gonna punch you for it.”

Ilya shrugged, unbothered. “He punches like kitten.” His gaze slid to you. “You got quiet suddenly.”

“Just… making sure I don’t push too hard. I already almost sent him into the lake once today.”

Ilya stepped closer, until you could feel the warmth radiating off him. He didn’t crowd you. just stood near enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

“You are good for him,” he said, voice low. His fingers brushed the rim of your glass, not quite touching your hand. “He trusts you more than anyone. Even me.”

You swallowed. “He trusts you too. He just… shows it differently.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “By moaning and turning red?”

“Exactly.”

The shower shut off with a distant groan of pipes. You both glanced toward the hallway.

Ilya drained the rest of his vodka in one smooth motion and set the glass down. “I will make fire bigger,” he said, moving toward the hearth. “He will want warm when he comes out pretending he is not nervous.”

You watched him crouch, adding logs with economical movements, the firelight catching on the sharp lines of his face, the stretch of his shoulders under the thin hoodie.

A minute later, the bathroom door opened. Shane emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing jeans (of course he did) and a sweatshirt that definitely wasn’t his, it almost reached his knees. He paused in the doorway, eyes flicking between you and Ilya like he was checking for landmines.

“Better?” you asked lightly.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough.

“I forgot how cozy this place was,” you said, looking around. “How often do you guys come here?”

“Shane comes a lot,” Ilya smirks. Shane flips him off while pouring more vodka into his glass.

“So I’ve heard,” you chuckled. But now that he’d redirected the conversation…. “What’s his record, by the way?”

Shane choked mid-swallow. He doubled forward, coughing hard enough that his eyes watered, one hand braced on the mantel while the other thumped his own chest.

You patted his back helpfully—maybe a little too hard—grinning into your glass. “Easy there, captain. Don’t drown before the fun starts.”

“Eight, I think, in one day,” Ilya confirmed, voice warm with that low, rolling laugh still lingering. “He begs me to fuck him every time we can. You’ll see later.”

Shane straightened, face flushed from more than just the coughing fit.

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“No,” Ilya smirked. “The other way around.”

Shane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring between the two of you like a cornered animal then padded barefoot across the room, and dropped onto the couch near the fire.

Ilya settled on the opposite end of the couch, leaving deliberate space in the middle. He didn’t look at Shane, just stretched one arm along the back of the couch.

You took the armchair angled toward them, curling your legs under you. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged. Waiting.

Shane finally spoke, eyes still on the fire. “So. Rules.”

You and Ilya both went still, giving him the floor.

“First… no teasing tomorrow. Or ever. This stays here. In this cottage. After we leave, it didn’t happen.”

Ilya nodded once. “Yes.”

Shane exhaled through his nose and then glanced your way. “Second… I don’t want you just… watching from the corner like some creepy stalker.”

You raised an eyebrow, glass paused halfway to your lips. “Okay… so what do you want, then?”

Shane’s gaze flicked to Ilya, then back to the flames, the orange light dancing across his cute freckles. He took a slow sip of vodka, buying time.

“I want you… closer. Not just sitting there.” He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw jumping again. “No touching us in any… private parts. Talking is okay. Just… no taking over. Ilya’s still…” He trailed off, ears going pink.

Ilya’s arm, still draped along the back of the couch, shifted slightly—fingers now brushing the nape of Shane’s neck in a slow, deliberate stroke.

“I am still what?” Ilya prompted, voice low and amused.

Shane shot him a look that was half glare, half plea. “In charge. Like usual.”

Ilya’s fingers kept moving, slow circles at the base of Shane’s skull. “Good boy,” he murmured, so quiet you almost missed it.

Shane’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a second, leaning into the touch.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Ilya’s brows lifted a fraction—the closest he ever came to surprise. He glanced at you, something unreadable passing across his face, then back to Shane. “You are sure?”

Shane swallowed. “I… yeah. I think so.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. You set your glass down and leaned forward to mirror his posture. “Shane. You know I’m not here to push you into anything, right? Last night was mostly drunk bullshit. I’m happy to drink and pass out on the couch if that’s what you need.”

He met your eyes, searching, then gave a small, rueful smile. “I know. But I also know I’ve been thinking about it all day. And not in a this is a terrible idea way. More like…” He huffed a laugh. “A why the hell not way.”

You barked a short laugh. “So… exhibitionism kink is a go?”

Ilya’s smirk was soft around the edges. “It’s a go.”

The fire settled into a steady glow, logs collapsing with soft pops and hisses. The three of you had migrated closer without anyone suggesting it: you on one end of the couch, Ilya in the middle now, Shane still in the armchair but angled toward the heat, and toward the two of you.

Conversation had drifted to safer things for a while. Old playoff stories, dumb chirps from years ago, the bartender from last night who’d definitely deserved your near-spit-take. But every lull felt heavier than the last, like the air itself was waiting for something.

Shane finished another glass and set the empty glass on the table with a quiet clink. He didn’t reach for the bottle again. Instead he leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes fixed on the flames.

Ilya watched him openly. Not subtle about it. He’d turned sideways on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, the other resting on his own thigh. Every time Shane’s gaze flicked toward him, Ilya didn’t look away. Just held it, calm and unhurried

Shane shifted in the chair, uncrossing his arms. His knee bounced once, twice. “You’re staring.”

“Yes,” Ilya said simply.

Shane’s mouth twitched. “Creep.”

Ilya’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You like when I stare.”

Shane didn’t answer right away. He glanced at you, like he needed to make sure you were still okay with the shift in the air. You gave him a small, easy smile, lifted your glass in a lazy salute. This is fine. This is good. Have fun.

He exhaled through his nose, looked back at Ilya. “Maybe.”

That single word seemed to pull the last thread loose.

Ilya moved slowly, deliberate, like he had all night. He leaned forward, closing the small distance between couch and chair, and rested his elbows on his knees. Close enough now that Shane had to tip his head slightly to hold his gaze.

“Maybe is good start,” Ilya murmured. His voice had dropped lower, that faint rasp that always came out when he was focused. “Better than no.”

He reached out, not fast, giving Shane every chance to pull away. His hand settled lightly on Shane’s knee, thumb brushing once over denim. Shane’s breath caught, audible in the quiet room, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Ilya’s fingers slid higher, along the inside seam of Shane’s jeans. Not grabbing. Just mapping. Claiming space inch by inch.

Shane’s eyes fluttered half-closed. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Ilya agreed.

Then Shane leaned in.

It wasn’t tentative. Once he decided, it was all in—Shane surged forward the last few inches and kissed Ilya like he’d been thinking about it for hours. Maybe years. Mouth open, hungry, a low sound in his throat that went straight to the pit of your stomach.

Ilya made a quiet, approving noise and met him halfway, one hand coming up to cup the back of Shane’s neck, fingers threading into the short hair there.

You stayed where you were, glass cradled loosely in your hands, pulse thudding slow and heavy. They were beautiful together—Shane’s lean intensity against Ilya’s broader strength, the way Ilya angled his head to take control without forcing it.

You’d always thought they were both stupidly attractive (objectively, obviously, your best friend was super gay and his boyfriend would rather pull his teeth out than date someone other than him), but watching them like this felt different. Private. Electric.

And yeah, so fucking hot. But not in a way that made you want to insert yourself. This was theirs. You were just lucky enough to be in the room while it happened.

Ilya pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing Shane’s with every word. “Still good?”

Shane chased his mouth, nodding, breathless. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”

Ilya didn’t. He stood, pulling Shane up with him in one smooth motion. Shane went willingly, hands fisting in Ilya’s hoodie, kissing him again as Ilya walked him backward toward the couch. They stopped just short of it, bodies pressed close.

Ilya’s hands moved to the hem of Shane’s thermal. He paused, eyes on Shane’s face. Asking.

Shane answered by lifting his arms.

Ilya peeled the shirt up and off in one motion, tossing it aside. Firelight slid over Shane’s skin—lean muscle, faint scars from years of hockey. He shivered, but not from cold.

Ilya’s gaze dragged down, slow and appreciative, then back up. “Beautiful,” he said.

Shane huffed a shaky laugh, an adorable flush decorating his freckles. “Shut up.”

“No.” Ilya stepped in again, mouth finding Shane’s throat, kissing along the tendon there as his hands went to the button of Shane’s jeans. He popped it open, eased the zipper down tooth by tooth. Shane’s breath stuttered.

Ilya sank to his knees.

Shane’s hands hovered, unsure where to land, before settling lightly in Ilya’s hair. His eyes flicked to you again, wide, a little overwhelmed.

You’ve got this, you mouthed at him.

Ilya looked up at Shane, hands resting on his hips. “Still good?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. Really good.”

Ilya’s mouth curved, just a little, before he leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss just above the waistband of Shane’s boxers.

Shane’s head fell back, a quiet groan pulling from his chest.

Ilya’s hands settled on Shane’s hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp bones there with possessive certainty. He looked up the length of Shane’s body—firelight gilding every tense, flushed inch—and his voice came out coarse, unmistakably in charge.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, accent thick with heat. “Standing here half-naked, cock already hard for me. You want this bad, don’t you, Hollander?”

Shane’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened in Ilya’s hair, not pushing, just anchoring. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Fuck. Yes.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked to you on the couch, dark and deliberate. “You see? How pretty he gets when he finally stops pretending he doesn’t need it?”

You swallowed, heat pooling low in your stomach, but you kept your voice steady. “I see it. He’s gorgeous.”

Shane made a strangled sound, half-embarrassed, half-turned on. His eyes darted to you, then back down to Ilya.

Ilya smirked. “Hear that? Your friend thinks you’re gorgeous.” He leaned in, mouth brushing the skin just above Shane’s boxers. “I think you’re fucking delicious.”

Without warning, he dragged his tongue in one slow, wet stripe up Shane’s abs, stopping to circle a nipple with the flat of his tongue. Shane jolted, a gasp punching out of him.

“Ilya—”

Ilya pinched the other nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it slowly, firmly.

“He’s so sensitive here,” he told you conversationally, like he was demonstrating. He twisted the nipple he held just enough to make Shane’s hips jerk forward. “Watch how fast he goes desperate.”

He switched sides, mouth closing hot and wet around the neglected nipple, sucking hard while his fingers kept working the other. Shane’s breathing turned ragged, broken little sounds spilling out of him with every pull of Ilya’s mouth.

You shifted on the couch, pressing your thighs together, but you didn’t move closer.

Ilya pulled off with a wet pop, blowing cool air over the glistening peak. Shane shuddered violently.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised, voice gravel-rough. “Look at you, already leaking for me.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s boxers and dragged them down in one slow motion.

Your breath caught audibly. You hadn’t moved from your spot on the couch yet, but now you shifted forward to the edge of the cushion, whiskey forgotten.

You’d seen Shane in boxers a thousand times, but never like this. Never fully naked, cock hard and wet, body trembling under someone else’s hands.

He was… stunning. More than you’d let yourself imagine in fleeting, guilty moments. The narrow waist flaring into strong thighs, the slight trail of hair leading down from his navel, the way his chest rose and fell in short, desperate breaths.

“Shane,” you said, voice quieter than you meant, “you’re fucking gorgeous. I mean—Jesus. I knew you were hot, but seeing you like this…” You let out a shaky laugh. “It’s a lot.”

Shane’s eyes snapped to you, hazy and dark, pupils blown wide. A fresh wave of color flooded his cheeks and down his neck. “Don’t—don’t say that,” he muttered, but the way his cock jerked in Ilya’s hand betrayed how much he liked it.

Ilya chuckled, low and filthy. “He loves it. Look how hard he gets when you talk.” He leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the head, gathering that bead of precome with deliberate slowness.

“Ilya, please—”

“Please what?” Ilya asked, pulling back just enough that Shane chased his mouth. “Tell me. Tell both of us.”

Shane’s eyes squeezed shut for a second, then opened, glassy and wrecked. “Want your mouth on me. Want you to suck me. Please.”

Ilya hummed approval. “Good boy. Asking so pretty.”

He didn’t tease anymore. He sank down, taking Shane in deep on the first pass, throat relaxing around him until his nose brushed Shane’s stomach. Shane cried out, fingers tightening in Ilya’s hair, back arching.

Ilya pulled back almost all the way, lips sealed tight, then slid down again, setting a steady, devastating rhythm. Wet sounds filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and Shane’s broken moans.

Every few strokes, Ilya pulled off just long enough to talk—filthy, possessive praise aimed at both of you.

“Taste so fucking good. Look at your friend, tell them how it feels.”

Shane could barely form words, but he tried, voice cracking. “Feels… fuck… so good. So fucking good.”

Ilya turned his head just enough to catch your eye, that wicked half-smile curling. “Come closer if you want better view.”

You couldn’t look away. The sight of Ilya still fully clothed, hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, on his knees worshipping Shane’s body was almost too much.

Ilya’s free hand slid up Shane’s thigh, fingers digging in possessively, then higher to roll one nipple again, tugging until it stood dark and stiff. Shane’s whole body jerked, thighs spreading wider without thinking.

“Such sensitive little tits,” Ilya murmured against his skin, moving to the other nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make Shane gasp. “Get them wet and he falls apart. Watch.”

He latched on, sucking hard while his hand pumped Shane’s cock in steady, slick strokes. Shane’s head dropped forward, watching Ilya through half-lidded eyes, mouth open on silent pleas.

Ilya pulled off the nipple with a wet sound and looked at you again. “Tell him. Tell him how good he looks with my mouth on him.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “You… look incredible, Shane. Like you were made for this. It’s… really fucking hot.”

Shane whimpered, hips rocking forward into Ilya’s fist. “Fuck—keep talking, please—”

Ilya’s grin was pure sin. “Greedy boy.” He took Shane deep again in one smooth glide, throat opening around him, nose pressed to the trim hair at the base. Shane’s cry echoed off the cabin beams.

You sat forward, elbows on knees, pulse pounding in your ears. You weren’t jealous, not when they kept pulling you into it with every glance, every filthy check-in. But fuck… the sight of Shane completely bare and undone for the first time was branded into you now.

Ilya didn’t let Shane come.

He worked him right to the edge—hollowed cheeks, expert tongue, one hand stroking the base in perfect rhythm—until Shane was shaking, thighs trembling, broken pleas spilling from his lips. Then he pulled off entirely, lips shiny, and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s hip instead.

Shane let out a wrecked, frustrated whine, hips chasing air. “Ilya—fuck—please—”

“Not yet,” Ilya said. He stood slowly, towering over Shane again, and cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over Shane’s swollen bottom lip. “Want to taste all of you tonight.”

Shane’s eyes were glassy. He looked completely undone, flushed from collarbones to ears, cock twitching against his stomach. He glanced at you again, quick and desperate.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. “You look fucking pretty like this.”

Another whimper slipped out of him at your words, and he leaned into Ilya’s hand like he couldn’t help it.

Ilya’s gaze flicked to you, dark and approving, before settling back on Shane. “Couch,” he said simply. “Sit.”

Shane obeyed instantly, legs unsteady as he dropped onto the wide leather couch, back against the cushions. His cock bobbed against his stomach, leaving a wet streak on his skin. He looked dazed, overwhelmed, but didn’t try to cover himself.

Ilya followed, kneeling between Shane’s spread thighs. He gripped Shane’s knees and pushed them wider, opening him up completely. Shane’s breath hitched, hands gripping the cushions on either side.

Ilya’s hands slid up the backs of Shane’s thighs, pushing them higher, folding him open. Shane’s head fell back against the couch with a soft thud, eyes squeezing shut.

“Relax, baby,” Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of one trembling thigh. “Let us see you.”

His thighs trembled under Ilya’s hands, but he didn’t fight it. He let Ilya spread him wider, knees bent and pushed toward his chest, completely exposed to your gazes.

Holy damn.

Listen, you don’t usually think there’s anything attractive about assholes but Shane’s was… cute. Fuck, it really was. Small and pink, a bit darker than the rest of him, tightly furled and twitching just slightly under the attention. And the way it clenched involuntarily when Ilya kissed near it…God, it made your insides fuzzy.

You couldn’t help the exhale that slipped out of you. “Jesus, Shane.”

Shane’s eyes snapped open at your voice. His face went scarlet, color flooding from his cheeks down his chest. He tried to close his legs on reflex, but Ilya’s shoulders kept them pinned wide.

“No,” Ilya said firmly, hands gripping Shane’s thighs harder, spreading him even more. “You stay open. Let them see what’s mine tonight.”

Shane whimpered, turning his face into his own bicep, mortified. “Ilya—this is…fuck, it’s too much—”

“You’re clenching like you want something inside you already.” Ilya traced one thumb in a slow circle around Shane’s rim, not pressing in, just teasing the tight muscle. Shane jolted, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

Ilya looked at you again, eyes dark and hungry. “Look how pretty he is. He’s embarrassed… but he loves it. Don’t you, baby?”

Shane’s answer was a strangled moan, hips trying to rock down despite himself.

Ilya didn’t wait for more words.

He leaned in and licked one long, wet stripe from Shane’s balls all the way up over his hole. Shane cried out, back bowing off the couch, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cushions.

Ilya didn’t stop. He dove in like he was starving. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and perfect, mingling with Shane’s increasingly desperate moans.

“Fuck...more, Ilya,” Shane’s voice cracked, legs shaking over Ilya’s shoulders.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, leaning closer without thinking. You could see everything now, the way Shane’s hole fluttered and clenched under the wet attention, pink and slick, opening just slightly before tightening again. “He’s so responsive.”

Ilya’s mouth curved against Shane’s skin. “He is.” He did it again, pressing the tip of his tongue right against the center, pushing just enough to feel the resistance before easing off. Shane’s entire body tensed, a broken moan ripping out of him.

“Please! Fuck! Ilya, please—”

“Please what, baby?” Ilya asked, voice low and filthy. He pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the wet skin, making Shane shudder violently. “Want my tongue inside you? Want me to open you up slow so your friend can watch every second?”

Shane nodded frantically, words failing him, hips rocking helplessly.

Ilya didn’t make him wait long. He licked back in, tongue circling the rim again and again before pressing inside, breaching him with steady pressure. Shane’s moan turned into something wrecked and continuous, thighs falling open even wider, surrendering completely.

You went up to Shane without thinking and reached out, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, locking onto yours.

“This okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, breathless.

Ilya pulled back just long enough to speak, lips shiny, voice rough. “Tell them how it feels, Shane.”

Shane’s face burned darker, but he didn’t look away from you. “Fuck, it feels… so deep,”

Ilya rewarded him by pushing back in, tongue fucking him slow and steady, one hand sliding up to stroke Shane’s leaking cock in time. Shane’s moans climbed higher, body writhing between the two of you.

This time there was no teasing. Ilya pushed his tongue deep and stayed there—fucking hard and fast, nose buried, hand pumping Shane’s cock in tight, twisting strokes. The other hand slid lower, two fingers pressing alongside his tongue, stretching Shane open carefully, scissoring just enough to make him feel it.

Shane’s back arched clear off the couch arm, toes curling hard against Ilya’s back. Tears tracked down his temples into his hair.

“I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” Ilya pulled off just long enough to command, voice rough. “You hold. Want you shake more first.”

He dove back in, fingers crooking inside alongside his tongue now, stroking that spot relentlessly while his mouth sucked at the rim.

Shane sobbed outright, body writhing, completely lost. His cock throbbed in Ilya’s fist, leaking steadily, balls drawn up so tight they looked painful.

You leaned forward without thinking, close enough now to see every detail—the way Shane’s hole stretched around Ilya’s fingers, the shine of spit and sweat, the tremor in his thighs.

Ilya didn’t let up. He kept going until Shane was shaking violently, until his pleas dissolved into wordless gasps, until his entire body was one live wire of pleasure.

Only then did Ilya slow, easing his fingers out gently, pressing short kisses to the inside of Shane’s thigh, then higher, soothing.

Shane lay limp, chest heaving, legs still draped heavy and trembling over Ilya’s shoulders.

Ilya lifted his head at last, lips and chin wet, eyes blazing.

“Now,” he said quietly, voice hoarse, “we move to bed. I am not finished with you yet.”

He reached down, threading one arm under Shane’s knees and the other behind his back, and lifted him effortlessly. Shane made a startled sound, arms looping instinctively around Ilya’s neck as he was carried the short distance to the bedroom.

You followed without being asked.

The bedroom felt warmer somehow. You turned on the nightstand lamp as Ilya laid Shane down in the center of the bed, then stepped back to strip off the rest of his clothes.

The hoodie came first, peeled up and off in one fluid motion, revealing the heavy breadth of his chest. Firelight licked over every ridge and hollow, turning him golden. Then he shoved off his jeans. And he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Ilya naked was… overwhelming.

Tall and heavily muscled, he looked carved from years of explosive power on the ice—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs cut deep and flexing with every breath.

His thighs were massive, thick, the kind that could drive forward with unstoppable force. And his ass—Jesus Christ, how was it real?—was perfect, high and round, firm muscle clenching as he shifted his weight, dimples flashing at the base of his spine.

And when he turned just a bit, your gaze snagged lower, inescapably, on his cock.

Thick and hard, flushed dark, curving slightly upward with arousal, the head already slick and shining. It jutted heavy from a trim nest of hair, long and impossibly thick, veins tracing along the shaft. It bobbed once as he moved, and you felt heat flood your face at how openly you stared.

Ilya caught your eye, one brow lifting in faint amusement while he climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Shane’s eyes tracked him, wide and hungry, lips parted

Ilya settled between Shane’s thighs again, nudging them apart gently. “You okay?” he asked, voice rough with want but careful.

Shane nodded fast. “Yeah. Really okay. Just… don’t stop.”

Ilya leaned down, kissing him slow and deep—tongue sliding in, sharing the taste of Shane himself. Shane moaned into it, hands coming up to grip Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

When Ilya pulled back, his eyes flicked to you standing in the doorway. “Come sit. Close. Want you see everything.”

You moved without hesitation, settling into the wide armchair in the corner, close enough to feel the heat, to see every detail, but still giving them space.

Ilya turned his attention back to Shane, hands sliding up his thighs, spreading him again. Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya reached for the lube on the nightstand, warming it between his fingers first, always careful.

“Gonna open you slow,” Ilya said against Shane’s hip, pressing a kiss there. “Want you ready. Want you beg for my cock.”

Shane swallowed hard. “Already want it.”

From your spot in the armchair, you had a perfect side view: Ilya on his knees between Shane’s thighs, broad back flexing, that perfect ass tightening as he settled his weight.

Ilya started opening Shane with the same deliberate patience as before—one finger, then two, then three—curling them slow and deep until Shane was writhing again, moaning into Ilya’s mouth.

Midway through, Shane’s head turned toward you, eyes glassy and desperate. His hand reached out to you. You just stared at his hand, not quite understanding but then he made a mewling sound when Ilya did something and his hand beckoned you closer.

Oh.

You walked by his side and sat by the edge of the bed, his fingers immediately brushed your thigh, then gripped your wrist.

You shifted closer immediately, sliding one hand into his damp hair, the other lacing fingers with his. He clutched tight, knuckles white.

Ilya glanced at the contact, something warm flashing in his eyes, then leaned down to lick a stripe up Shane’s cock before doing something with his fingers that made Shane sob, turning his face into your side.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, then his cheek, tasting salt and heat. “I’ve got you,” you whispered.

He whined, high and broken, squeezing your hand harder.

Ilya eased his fingers out, rolled on the condom, slicked himself generously. That thick cock gleamed in the firelight as he settled between Shane’s legs again, lifting them to wrap high around his waist, heels digging into the small of Ilya’s back.

“Look at me,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane’s eyes opened, locking on Ilya’s, then flicking to you, pleading.

Ilya pushed in—slow, relentless. You kinda wanted to look as Shane’s hole stretched around the thick head, taking him inch by inch, but he needed you right now. Shane’s breath stuttered, mouth falling open on a silent gasp, fingers crushing yours.

You kissed his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Breathe, Shane. You’re doing so good.”

Ilya paused halfway, thumb stroking Shane’s hip. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Taking me perfect.”

Shane exhaled shakily, nodding, and Ilya sank the rest of the way in. They both groaned.

Then Ilya started to move.

Slow at first, with long, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in, bottoming out with a wet, filthy sound that made Shane’s breath hitch every single time. The slap of skin on skin was quiet, but it built fast.

Shane’s head was thrown back against the pillows, throat exposed. His free hand clawed at the sheets, the other still locked tight around yours, knuckles white. His cock was trapped between their stomachs, smearing precome over both of them with every grind.

“Fuck, Ilya, harder!” Shane gasped, voice wrecked, raw from all the noise he’d already made. “Please, need it harder.”

Ilya’s rhythm faltered for half a second, eyes flashing dark. He shifted his grip, hooking Shane’s knees over his elbows instead, folding him nearly in half. The new angle opened Shane completely, thighs spread wide, ass tilted up to take every punishing thrust.

“Yeah?” Ilya growled. He snapped his hips forward once, hard, burying himself to the root. Shane cried out, back bowing off the bed. “Like that, baby? Want me to fuck you open so deep your friend can hear how sloppy you get for my cock?”

Shane sobbed, nodding frantically, tears tracking fresh paths down his temples. “Yes, fuck, yes—”

Ilya didn’t hold back anymore. He fucked into Shane with a brutal, steady force, balls slapping wetly against Shane’s ass on every thrust. The bed creaked under you, headboard knocking the wall in a relentless rhythm.

You couldn’t look away now. You slid away from the just a bit, just so you could see everything: the way Shane’s hole clung to Ilya’s shaft on every pull-out, the obscene slide of that massive cock disappearing again and again into Shane’s body.

He shifted again, planting one hand beside Shane’s head, the other sliding down to grip Shane’s hip hard enough to bruise. The angle changed just enough—his cock dragging over that spot inside Shane on every thrust now, relentless.

Shane shattered.

His whole body seized, mouth open on a silent scream before sound rushed back in—a raw, desperate wail. “Ilya, fuck, I’m… gonna come, please—”

“Not yet,” Ilya snarled, slowing just enough to keep him on the edge. “Hold it. Want you crying for it first.”

Shane sobbed outright, tears spilling faster, hips jerking helplessly. “Can’t. Please…need to come…please—”

Ilya looked at you then, eyes wild, sweat-slick hair falling into his face. “Touch him,” he ordered, voice rough. “Make him wait longer. Want him shaking.”

You hesitated for only a heartbeat, pulse hammering in your throat, but the raw command in Ilya’s voice and the desperate, pleading look in Shane’s eyes pulled you forward like gravity.

You shifted onto the edge of the bed, close enough now that the heat rolling off their bodies washed over you. Shane’s hand was still clamped around yours, slick with sweat, trembling. You brought your free hand up slowly, letting him see it, letting him feel you weren’t rushing.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead again. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and wrecked, locked on you like you were the only steady thing in the room.

You trailed your fingers down his chest, slow, reverent—over the rise and fall of his ribs, the flushed skin, the tight, pebbled nipples Ilya had tormented earlier. Shane’s breath stuttered when you circled one gently, then pinched just hard enough to make his back arch.

“Please,” he whimpered, the word cracking. “I can’t—fuck—I need—”

“Shh,” you soothed, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing so good. Look at you, taking him so perfectly.”

Ilya’s hips slowed to a deep, grinding roll, dragging a broken moan from Shane’s throat. His eyes were dark, almost black, watching every place you touched Shane like he was memorizing it.

“Keep him there,” Ilya said, voice gravel-rough, sweat dripping from his temple onto Shane’s chest. “Want him crying harder.”

You nodded, throat dry. Your hand slid lower, over the trembling plane of Shane’s stomach, stopping just short of where his cock bobbed against his abs. You’re not touching him there, that was a line you’re not crossing. You traced the V of his hips instead, teasing the sensitive skin there, feeling him jerk and clench around Ilya with every light touch.

Shane sobbed, head thrashing against the pillow. “Please, touch me, need to come so bad—”

“Not yet, baby,” Ilya growled, snapping his hips forward once, hard, making Shane cry out. “You come when I say.”

You leaned closer, lips brushing Shane’s ear, voice low and steady. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, Shane. Completely gone for him. I’ve never seen you let go like this.”

Shane’s whole body shuddered, a fresh wave of tears spilling. His grip on your hand was almost painful now. “Fuck, don’t stop talking!”

You didn’t. You kept praising him, how gorgeous he looked split open on Ilya’s cock, how perfect his sounds were, how proud you were of him for taking everything they gave him.

Ilya’s rhythm built again, relentless, hips snapping forward with bruising force. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and perfect. Shane’s thighs trembled over Ilya’s forearms, toes curling hard against his back.

He leaned down, capturing Shane’s mouth in a messy, bruising kiss, while his hips kept that punishing pace.

Shane pulled back from the kiss. “Close,” he whispered, voice barely there.

Ilya looked at you again, something almost desperate in his gaze now. “Tell him,” he rasped. “Tell him he’s allowed.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You leaned in, close enough that your forehead nearly touched Shane’s, close enough to feel his ragged breaths against your lips.

“You’ve been so good,” you whispered, voice shaking just a little. “So fucking perfect. Come for him, Shane. Let go.”

Shane completely shattered.

His back bowed clear off the bed, a wrecked cry tearing from his throat as he came untouched, thick ropes of come striping his chest and stomach, some hitting his chin.

Ilya groaned, hips stuttering as he followed seconds later, grinding through his own release with a low, possessive growl against Shane’s neck.

You kept stroking Shane’s hair, murmuring nonsense, grounding him as the aftershocks rolled through him. His chest heaved, eyes fluttering, completely boneless.

Ilya eased out slowly, carefully, tying off the condom and dropping it aside before collapsing half on top of Shane, kissing his jaw, his temple, his damp hair.

Shane turned his face into Ilya’s neck, arms coming up weakly to cling, still trembling.

You stayed close, hand still tangled with his, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

After a long, quiet moment, Shane’s voice came out small and hoarse, muffled against Ilya’s skin.

“…never speaking of this again, right?”

Ilya huffed, pressing another kiss to his hair. “Da. Never.”

You stayed tangled with them for a few minutes longer. Ilya’s big hand stroked lazy circles along Shane’s spine, murmuring low Russian words you didn’t understand but that made Shane relax deeper into him.

“Well, that's another one off my bucket list,” you chuckled. “I’m gonna… leave now. Let you to do the… cuddly aftercare thing without me hovering like a creep.”

Shane made a small, protesting sound, turning his head just enough to look at you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to go,” he rasped, voice hoarse from all the shouting and crying and begging.

You smiled, brushing his hair back again. “I know. But I want to. You two need this part alone.”

Ilya lifted his head from the pillow, eyes gentle in a way you rarely saw. He gave you a small nod, gratitude and something like respect flickering there.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You leaned over Shane to press a quick, chaste kiss to Ilya’s temple too—because fuck it, the lines were already blurred tonight. Ilya just smirked at you and went back to whisper in Shane’s ear.

“Oh, wait!” you told them. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, the cottage floor cool under your feet. You grabbed the ginger ale you’d stashed earlier. Poured a glass over ice, added a bendy straw because you knew Shane secretly loved those and would never admit it sober.

On impulse, you also grabbed a clean washcloth, ran it under warm water, and snagged the little tin of arnica balm from the bathroom cabinet. Sore muscles tomorrow were basically guaranteed.

When you came back to the bedroom doorway, you paused.

They hadn’t moved much. Ilya had rolled them onto their sides, Shane tucked against his chest, long legs tangled. Ilya’s hand was still stroking Shane’s back in slow, soothing passes

“Brought you something,” you said, stepping in just far enough to set the ginger ale on the nightstand within Shane’s reach. You placed the folded warm washcloth and balm beside it. “For your throat. And… everything else.”

Shane’s mouth curved in a small, tired smile. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice scratchy.

“Yeah, yeah. Drink that slow. It’ll help.” You hesitated. “I’m gonna crash on the couch, probably watch some TV. Holler if you need anything.”

Ilya’s voice was low, rough from disuse. “You can stay. Bed is big.”

You shook your head, smiling. “Nah. You two need the bubble tonight. And also… the bed is completely soaked in sweat and… other fluids, dudes. Yuck.”

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh into Shane’s hair. “My fault.”

You felt the tug in your chest again—affection, amusement, something tender you didn’t have a name for. You pushed off the frame.

“Night, idiots. Try not to break the bed frame round two.”

Shane flipped you off without lifting his head. Ilya just smirked, slow and satisfied, and pulled the blanket higher over Shane’s shoulders.

You closed the door quietly behind you.

The cottage was quiet except for the wind in the pines outside and the occasional creak of the old beams settling. You could hear the low murmur of Ilya’s voice through the walls, too faint to make out words.

You padded back to the living room, and curled up on the wide leather couch with the thick wool blanket you’d claimed earlier.

Tomorrow there would be coffee and hangovers and probably a lot of awkward glances over breakfast. Ilya would smirk and wink at you like nothing happened. And Shane… well, knowing him, he was going to be mortified.

And also probably walking funny.