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Despite what people say about him and his thrice concussed ass, Cliff Marleau is not stupid.
Sure, he’s not writing poetry or getting a PhD any time soon – or, well, never – but what he does have is a perfect 20/20 vision and enough years of fucking around behind him that he doesn’t need to be a genius to realize that Ilya Rozanov might just swing both ways.
Or maybe Cliff is a genius and everyone else is a dumbass because Cliff is pretty sure that he’s the only one in the entire league who has even noticed the signs that Ilya kept putting out.
Well, he wouldn’t exactly call them signs per se, it’s more like a vibe that he’s getting. Maybe it’s because his twin sister is a lesbian so the whole gaydar thing must’ve been in his genes, passed on via the amniotic fluids in the womb or some shit, but there’s just something about Ilya that gave off the vibe of not being entirely straight.
Maybe it was the clothes Ilya wore to clubs, flashy and revealing and trendy in a way that made him look more like a model than a hockey player, his appearance and gait always immaculate in a way that reminded Cliff of the confident stride of a peacock.
Maybe it was the way Ilya held himself, carefree and obnoxious and yet simultaneously charming – and undeniably self-assured. Whenever a gay man made the mistake of trying to approach any of them while they were out celebrating a win all the other Raiders would either get uncomfortable or, in the worst case, grossed out, but Ilya would just grin and gently turn them down with a joke that, at least to Cliff’s ears, always sounded flirty despite the rejection.
In fact, sometimes it didn’t even sound like a rejection, but more of a not now or not here. Cliff could’ve sworn he’d once spotted Ilya leaving the bar at the same time as one of the many guys who’d taken the chance to proposition him. Cliff had been absolutely hammered that night so his aforementioned 20/20 vision couldn’t entirely back him up that time, but he’s still happy to count it as another point for the vibe.
So yeah, maybe his Russian friend indeed didn’t mind sampling over at the guy pond whenever no one was there to witness it, or at the very least didn’t mind humoring the idea of broadening his sexual horizons if he wasn’t already doing it.
It doesn’t bother Cliff. He didn’t give two shits about who anyone on their team was getting their dicks wet with as long as they showed up on the ice and didn’t let their private lives affect their performance, but sometimes he couldn’t help but to wish that he could know for sure what was up with Ilya. For all he knew his gaydar was shit and he was mistaking typical European behavior for something that it wasn’t.
But again, Cliff isn’t stupid. He knows exactly why Ilya has never outright said it or even hinted towards anything that might make him look not straight. He knows how the MLH is, how hockey is, and he’s heard enough of Russia to know how well they would take their beloved star waving around a rainbow flag. He’s seen the hardened look in Ilya’s eyes whenever they’re on the ice and someone on the opposite team throws the word faggot around like it’s a fucking comma or when one of the guys makes a joke about the horror of dropping the soap in the showers. He gets it.
But fuck, Cliff wishes he could just tell Ilya that it’s fine. That he doesn’t care if Ilya wants to flirt with guys in front of him or hook up with someone other than a pretty girl at a club. Cliff has brought up his sister a few times in conversation, hoping that him talking about how cool his lesbian twin sister is would make Ilya clock him as an ally, someone he could trust.
So far that hasn’t worked, at least not to the extent of making Ilya open up. Ilya hardly opened up about anything personal to begin with, not unless alcohol was involved, and even then it wasn’t exactly a common occurrence. Ilya had mentioned his father exactly once – how much of an asshole he was and how impossible it was to please him – and even then he’d been absolutely shitfaced, and either forgot he ever mentioned it, or pretended that he didn’t. Cliff had let him, hoping that the draped arm around Ilya’s shoulder and the gentle squeeze of his bicep had been enough to convey the sympathy he wasn’t capable of showing any other way.
Ilya isn’t shitfaced tonight, but unlike most of the time whenever they went barhopping, it’s just the two of them now. The rest of the Raiders had wanted to stay behind at the previous bar, probably because there had been a group of pretty young women celebrating a bachelorette party and all of them except the future bride had been very single and very eager to mingle, but Ilya had insisted on wanting to change clubs and Cliff had been the only one to tag along.
Cliff isn’t sure why Ilya had been so persistent when he’d clearly enjoyed the attention of those girls just as much as anyone else, but he’d also been staring at his phone throughout most of the evening, so maybe that had something to do with it.
Ilya had been on his phone a lot recently. Texting and smiling at the screen like a lovesick puppy. Cliff couldn’t help but to wonder if it was Montreal Jane – the girl he’d never seen a picture of but caught Ilya texting a few times the past couple of years – or if Ilya had found someone else to pester. He almost wants to ask, but Cliff has a feeling he would never get a straight answer.
Hah, straight.
“What?”
The sound of Ilya’s voice makes Cliff’s attention snap back to the present. The clamor of the bar comes back to him alongside the sight of Ilya’s puzzled expression. Ilya takes a slow gulp of his beer, clearly having paused mid-sip when he’d noticed Cliff phasing out.
Cliff hadn’t even realized he’d laughed out loud at his stupid internal joke. Must be all the fucking tequila Ilya had convinced him to down earlier.
“Nothing, just thought about something funny”, Cliff says, because it’s not like it’s untrue.
“Ah, I see”, Ilya hums thoughtfully. “You are only funny in your own head, yes?”
Cliff shoves at Ilya’s playfully, almost knocking over his glass. “Fuck off, Rozy.”
Ilya grins wide and proud like the little shithead he is. He gives Cliff a mocking salute before downing the rest of his drink, and Cliff proceeds to do the same. He turns around to check if the line to the bar is still as bad as it had been fifteen minutes ago, but before Cliff can ask Ilya whether he wants to keep going with the beer or switch back to shots – as long as it wasn’t fucking tequila – he notices a familiar face hovering in the middle of the crowd.
Cliff has existed in the same spaces as Shane Hollander for years now, but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to just how different Hollander looks off the ice versus on it. On the ice he’s fast and and smart and ruthless to a degree that’s genuinely fucking terrifying, like he’s always two seconds away from burning a hole through the visor of his helmet by sheer force of will alone. Off the ice he’s perfectly polite and matter-of-fact, but he also looked perpetually uncomfortable outside of his hockey gear. Even now he’s wearing the face of a man who would rather be anywhere else but there, his shoulders tight and jaw tense while he’s desperately trying to get the attention of the bartender with little to no success.
“Looks like we stumbled into enemy territory. The Metros got here first”, Cliff jokes to Ilya, who immediately turns to follow Cliff’s eyesight with the speed of a dog that just heard the word walk – or maybe a dog that had just spotted a trespasser in his domain, eyeing Hollander like he’s about to start barking.
“Even Mr. Boring”, Ilya notes. His tone is mild, but carefully so – disinterest concealing something else that Cliff can’t quite decipher, but he can only assume it has something to do with the constant dick-measuring brought on by their rivalry.
“C’mon, Hollander is a nice guy”, Cliff says. “You can lay off the rivalry when we’re off the clock.”
“I never said he was not nice”, Ilya points out. “Only that he is boring.”
“I guess”, Cliff shrugs. The most exciting thing Hollander probably got up to off the ice was doing an ad for a company that sold some high-end protein powder most people had never even heard of. “You could do with a little more boring, though. Maybe you’d chill out a bit.”
Ilya makes an offended noise which doesn’t match the shit-eating grin that immediately takes over. “Excuse me? I am chill! The most chill man you will ever meet.”
“Sure, man. I’ll remember that next time you get into a fist fight over someone scamming you for two dollars.”
Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “That was one time! Besides, he had it coming. Fucking thief.”
Cliff shakes his head to himself, biting down a laugh. Across the bar Hollander seems to finally manage to squeeze through the wall of people and order himself a drink, which by the looks of it is ginger ale so he’s definitely not winning the boring allegations. But then Cliff notices that the girl tending the bar slips Hollander a folded piece of paper with his glass, giving him a sly wink. A startled look flashes across Hollander’s face, but it quickly turns into something sheepish and slightly flustered as he smiles awkwardly at the bartender and pockets the paper – which Cliff could only assume contained a phone number.
Maybe it’s the combined force of tequila shots and beer currently eating away at his few remaining brain cells, but Cliff can’t help but find Hollander’s reaction oddly endearing. There’s just something fucking funny about seeing the ice king himself looking flustered and off-kilter simply because a hot chick decided to flirt with him when Cliff has witnessed him skate away from fights and chirps that were borderline suspension-worthy without even blinking more times than he could count.
One would think that being so famous would have gotten Hollander used to being constantly propositioned, but the guy looks almost haunted by the prospect of getting a girl’s number as he wobbles back towards his teammates’ table. Maybe having the prettiest face in the entire league is more like a curse rather than a blessing, making him practically drown in requests from a whole legion of girls. Cliff could certainly imagine worse problems to have.
Wait.
The prettiest face?
It hits Cliff like a sack of bricks – but in, like, an enlightening way.
Hollander was pretty, right? Cliff might’ve been the last thing from an expert when it comes to the attractiveness levels of men, but he also has two working eyes and an open enough mind that he could easily agree to an objective fact when he saw one. And if Cliff could see it, then someone who was already attracted to men would surely share the sentiment.
Maybe someone who hadn’t stopped staring at Hollander since Cliff had pointed him out, someone who Cliff was desperate to get to open up? Someone who had somehow missed the point of Cliff constantly bringing up lesbians? Maybe calling out pretty men would do the trick.
Yeah, it could work. Cliff is sure of it. At least 89% sure.
Cliff clears his throat, trying to muster a casual tone as he nods in the direction of Hollander, catching Ilya’s attention.
“Well, Hollander might be boring”, Cliff says. “but he’s like, really pretty, right?”
Cliff doesn’t know what he expected Ilya’s initial reaction to be, but it’s definitely not the look that ends up landing on his face. Ilya gawks at Cliff as if he had just suggested replacing their drinks with a pipe bomb instead, his eyes wide and brows furrowed with bewildered disbelief.
“What?” Ilya blurts out flatly.
“Hollander. He’s pretty”, Cliff reiterates with an easy shrug. “Y’know, for a dude.”
“You think Hollander is pretty?”
Cliff frowns. “I mean, yeah? Don’t you?”
Ilya keeps staring at him, and for a moment Cliff’s stomach drops because fuck, what if he’s wrong? What if his secondhand gaydar has failed him and Ilya has no idea what he’s trying to do here. Ilya certainly wasn’t a homophobe so it’s not like Cliff is worried about that, but Ilya would never let him live shit like this down if he’s actually straight and just, like, European.
But then, only a second before Cliff starts to genuinely consider sprinting out of the bar and never mention any of this ever again, Ilya’s shoulders slack. Cliff hadn’t even realized he’d tensed up so hard. The shock bleeds away from his face, replaced by something indescribable, but quietly pleased all the same. Relieved, almost, though that part sends a painful pang into Cliff’s heart for some reason.
“Sure. He is very pretty”, Ilya says finally. Despite his trademark grin quickly making a reappearance, he actually sounds like he means it. That is, at least, until he keeps going. “You might be too old for him though. He’d take you to a nursing home on the first date.”
Cliff lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It comes out as a breathy laugh as he shoves Ilya again, only making his teasing smile wider.
“Oh c’mon, Roz!” Cliff huffs. “I’m not that old.”
“Not as old as Scott Hunter, maybe”, Ilya says. “But very ancient. Must be an honor to have been part of the Raider’s roster since 1920.”
“Man, fuck you”, Cliff snorts. “At least my ancient ass would have a shot with Hollander. The guy would rather drown himself in maple syrup than let you anywhere near his ass.”
Ilya throws his head back with a laugh. He rubs his hand over his face and mutters something to himself in Russian that Cliff can’t quite catch. Not like he’d understand it anyway, but Ilya definitely looks like he’s having the time of his life, and this is the same motherfucker who had dared to insinuate that Cliff wasn’t funny just five minutes ago.
“You should tell him”, Ilya says all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Hollander. That you think he’s pretty.”
Cliff blinks, confused. Sure, Hollander was pretty even by his straight guy standards, but it’s not like Cliff planned to do anything about it. Hollander had just been the perfect conversation starter due to his prettiness, nothing more.
“No way, man”, Cliff says with a quick shake of his head. It comes out a little too firm, so he makes sure to land it softer just in case he might be coming off as lowkey homophobic for getting defensive about the concept of hitting on a guy. “I mean, all the other guys constantly call him a pretty boy but I don’t think they mean it as a compliment. He’ll think I’m messing with him.”
“I will wing-man for you”, Ilya suggests with an easy smirk. “I am very charming.”
“No offense Roz, but that would definitely make him think we’re messing with him. It’s you we’re talking about”, Cliff sighs. “Just forget about it.”
It’s a vain request because the look on Ilya’s face tells Cliff that he would definitely not be forgetting about it, but at the very least it shuts him up for the rest of the night.
The teasing glint in his eyes, however, never withers.
It’s only after the night at the bar that Cliff realizes his plan had actually worked.
Well, half-worked. Ilya still hasn’t confessed to anything or outright confirmed Cliff’s suspicions, but something about his energy loosens, though just around Cliff.
It’s small things like him openly looking at men whenever they were out on a run or grabbing pizza on their way to their hotel, or offering commentary on other men’s appearance in a way that couldn’t quite pass as an obnoxious joke or the admiration of an envious straight man anymore.
Cliff is happy to humor Ilya’s quest of finding hot guys to stare at, both by joining the rating for the fun of it and pointing out any new candidates himself because hey, he did have eyes and he wasn’t afraid of using them. Besides, it’s just straight-up impossible not to indulge Ilya when he looks so fucking gleeful every time Cliff spots another pretty boy in their vicinity. Those seemed to be Ilya’s type – that, and guys who were just as heavily built as the both of them. It made sense, being an athlete and all. And who didn’t like pretty faces?
His plan might’ve not worked perfectly, but Cliff is still happy with the result. Maybe Ilya just needs a little more time and reassurance to fully come out to him. Or maybe he just doesn’t like labels. Cliff could wait, now that he knows there’s actually something to, well, know. As long as Ilya was happy and comfortable around him, Cliff was happy, too.
And he must have been comfortable, because Ilya even ends up sending him a pornhub link to a threesome with two dudes kissing in the thumbnail. What more proof could Cliff ask for! He responds to Ilya’s text with a “hell yeah, brother!” and includes both the sunglasses emoji and the rainbow one. And sweat drops for good measure.
The porn itself is actually not half-bad, but Cliff ends up watching it mostly just because of the hot chick that valiantly juggles a handjob and a blowjob while the guys make out with each other.
Ilya doesn’t bring up Hollander and Cliff’s awkward first attempt at complimenting another man’s face again until their next game against Montreal. They’re playing in Boston, so the atmosphere in the locker room is thick with anticipation and nerves. Games against Montreal were always intense, but playing on home ice only increased the weight of the combined expectations of both fans and sponsors, as well as the team itself.
Cliff is in the process of putting on his skates when Ilya hops onto the bench next to him, grinning from ear to ear. “Ready to kick some Canadian ass, Marly?”
Cliff grins back and offers Ilya a quick fist-bump, which Ilya accepts with a familiar ease. “Always, brother!”
“Try not to get distracted, yes?” Ilya teases. “By pretty faces.”
It takes a moment for Cliff to realize what Ilya is referring to. He barks out a dry laugh, shaking his head to himself. He had figured Ilya wouldn’t have let that one go, though he’s almost tempted to amend him for his ability to shut up about it for this long. It had been months at this point, so it was truly an uncharacteristic amount of restraint for Ilya.
“Fuck you”, Cliff huffs, but there’s no bite behind it. He spares a quick glance around the locker room to make sure everyone else is loitering at a far enough of a distance or distracted by conversations of their own to pay any heed to theirs. He lowers his voice and adds, “Maybe you should give Hollzy your number at the face-off. That ought to distract him from scoring goals.”
Ilya smirks. “Maybe. You think he would give me a chance if they won, or would he still drown himself in maple syrup?”
Cliff snorts, shaking his head. “Let’s not find out.”
Alas, they do find out. Montreal ends up winning 4-3 thanks to Hollander scoring a goal with two seconds left on the clock because of course he fucking would, being Hollander and all. By the time they line up for the handshake Cliff’s ears are still ringing from the explosion of noise that had emerged as soon as the puck had hit the net, cheers and joyous hollers mixed in with disbelieved groans from Boston’s side.
Losing always left a sour taste in Cliff’s mouth, and tonight is no exception. But once he gets face to face with Hollander, the man of the hour, it suddenly – and unexpectedly – melts into something else.
Hollander is buzzing with excitement just like the rest of his team, but the smile on his face is not callous, which could not be said of some of the other Metros. The energy coming off him is nothing but sincere as he regards Cliff with a court nod, and extends his hand.
“Good game!” Hollander says cheerfully. There’s not even a hint of smugness in it despite the fact that he’d just done something insanely impressive and humiliated his rival team in their own fucking city. He just looks happy, his cheeks red and eyes bright with joy. Cliff definitely shouldn’t feel endeared by it, especially not after losing and double-so after losing on home ice. But Hollander was, like everyone in the league knew, impossible to hate. Even if he played for the fucking Metros.
Cliff musters up a smile that he hopes comes off as genuine, and finally accepts the handshake. “Yeah, good game, Hollzy. You’re fucking crazy”, Cliff huffs with a disapproving shake of his head. “We’ll get you next time, though.”
Cliff drives his playful threat home with a quick wink.
Hollander blinks, looking startled. His hair is sticking to his sweat-slick face just like Cliff’s, but the familiar freckles splattered across his cheeks are almost hidden by the deep flush of exertion. Hollander still seems out of breath too, which isn’t a surprise considering how hard he’d been playing.
Hollander clears his throat, suddenly looking just as awkward as he had at that club months ago. He nods stiffly, and quickly skates forward to shake the next person, avoiding Cliff’s eyes.
Cliff frowns, wondering if what he’d said had come off as sarcastic instead of benevolent. Maybe the wink was too much?
The atmosphere in the locker room is very different than it was before the game. Disappointment and shared frustration makes the air reek more than their sweat-caked equipment. Ilya does a good job of trying to cheer up the guys, slapping their backs and joining their chorus of cursing the entire bloodline on every member of the Metros, and watching him manage to pull tentative grins out of their defeated brethren invites a smile on Cliff’s face, too.
As Cliff exits the showers with his towel loosely wrapped around his waist he overhears Connors and St-Simon planning to go out for drinks despite the loss – or rather because of it, because as Connor puts it; “There is no better way to drown your sorrows than booze.” What follows is a wave of agreeing noises from the rest of the guys, though a few decline the invitation, declaring their griefs too deep to drown.
Cliff walks to Ilya’s stall and peers down at him. “Roz? You gonna get wasted too?”
Ilya shakes his head without looking up. “No, I have other plans.”
He’s smiling, and holding his phone in his hand. It doesn’t take much for Cliff to put two and two together. Certain someone must’ve been in town.
“Montrel Jane?”
“Maybe”, Ilya says enigmatically. “You want in?”
Cliff blinks. “What?”
Ilya raises his head and arches his brow at Cliff. “You want in?” he repeats. “Jane likes big buff hockey players. Two is better than one, no?”
Cliff gapes at Ilya, completely gobsmacked. He’s half-expecting Ilya to start laughing and tease him about falling for some bullshit scheme of his, but Ilya’s stare is expectant. Cautious, even, like he’s not sure how Cliff is going to take it.
“You’re serious?”
Ilya shrugs, like they’re just shooting the shit or talking about the weather. “Yes. We have talked about it. Jane is down”, he says. Then he adds, very pointedly and with a quick smile; “You can say no. Just thought it might be fun. We’re friends, yes? Friends can have fun together.”
They were friends. Probably best friends. Cliff is not a stranger to the concept of having a threesome, but he has never considered one with a friend, or a guy, before. That being said he has already seen Ilya’s dick more times than he cares to count, and he didn’t mind seeing guys in the porn that he watched – as long as there was a girl in there somewhere in the mix – so having a guy in the same room while actually having sex was basically the same thing, right?
And Jane must’ve been a beauty considering how long Ilya had been hounding her at this point, so Cliff definitely wouldn’t have to worry about not being attracted to her despite having no clue what she looked like.
Yeah. Might as well.
“Fuck it, let’s do it”, Cliff says, clasping Ilya by his shoulder. “Been dying to meet this mysterious Jane of yours anyway.”
Ilya grins happily, reaching out to fist-bump Cliff just like he had done before the game. “Is your lucky day, Marleau”, he says. “Jane is going to blow your mind.”
“What is she doing in Boston, anyway? Did she come to see the game?”
“Mm. Yes and no.”
Cliff huffs out a confused laugh. “What does that even mean?”
Ilya waves his hand dismissively, though he might’ve also been subtly gesturing at the other people in the locker room. Cliff can’t quite tell.
“I will tell you later”, Ilya says. “Now chop chop. I will text Jane, let him know you are coming.”
Cliff doesn’t register the pronoun shift until he’s already walking back to his own stall to get dressed, but since Ilya still mixed up some words in English on occasion he doesn’t think too much of it.
In hindsight, he probably should’ve.
The drive to Ilya’s place is quiet. Cliff has made himself comfortable in the front seat as he scrolls lazily through one of the hockey subreddits he follows, catching up on some recent drama. There’s always drama amongst the fans and the MLH as a whole, so Cliff has seen it all by now. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to check, though.
Ilya has been tapping his fingers against the wheel ever since they left the rink. He’s happily offered snarky commentary whenever Cliff chooses to read the comment section out loud, but beyond that his demeanour has shifted from the locker room, his playful energy mellowed into something more reserved. Not drastically enough to cause Cliff to worry, but enough for him to take note of it.
“So, Marly”, Ilya says then. “Have you ever done this before?”
Cliff puts his phone down and nods. “Had a threesome? Yeah. Didn’t I tell you about those two girls in Toronto last year?”
“No, you did. Is not what I meant”, Ilya says, smiling lightly. “Have you had sex with men?”
Cliff pauses, blinking.
“No?” he says slowly, frowning. Why the hell was Ilya asking him about gay sex all of a sudden?
Ilya nods his head in consideration, somehow missing Cliff’s perplexed expression. “Is okay. Hollander will go easy on you. Or maybe not. I think he’s been dying to suck your dick ever since we talked about it.”
This time the cogs in Cliff’s brain stutter completely. It takes him a few seconds to remember how to speak again.
“Hollander?” Cliff sputters. “I– what the fuck are you talking about, Roz?”
The shrug that Ilya gives him is far too fucking casual for what he had just said. “I wanted to surprise you, but Hollander told me to tell you first so you don’t get a heart attack or something. Would have been funny, though.”
“I thought we were meeting Jane?” Cliff croaks. He has no idea what the fuck is going on, and why Hollander is suddenly the subject of their conversation again. Then he thinks back to the joke he’d shot in the locker room, realization quickly dawning on him. “Fuck, did you actually ask for Hollander’s number at the face-off?”
“Well I could not just ask if you wanted to fuck him in the locker room”, Ilya says, like it’s obvious. “And I already had Hollander’s number.”
Ilya’s flippant confession only makes Cliff gape at him even harder. The car slows down as Ilya stops at a red light. He turns to look at Cliff with a strange expression on his face.
“What is the matter? You told me Hollander was pretty. Is he not pretty enough for you?” Ilya frowns, like the mere suggestion somehow offended him. “Wow, Marleau. How does a meathead like you get such high standards?”
Then, finally, it hits Cliff – not like a sack of bricks, but a whole fucking factory’s worth of them.
Ilya hadn’t invited him to a threesome with his secret girlfriend. Ilya had invited him to a threesome with Shane Hollander. Because Cliff had told him that Hollander was pretty. And, apparently, because Hollander had actually agreed beforehand. Hollander, who by the sound of it, had been Montreal Jane this entire time.
Not that Cliff has any time to digest that piece of information because y’know, Ilya had invited him to a threesome with Shane fucking Hollander.
“That’s not what I– fuck”, Cliff groans, completely mortified. “Oh my god, this is so fucking embarrassing.”
“What?”
Cliff breathes out a loud sigh. He has no idea how to even begin to explain himself.
“When I said Hollander was pretty, I was just trying to let you know I was like, an ally”, Cliff tries. “I had a feeling that maybe you were into guys, and I didn’t want you to think that I was a homophobe or anything. But I’m not gay.”
The lights finally change, but Ilya is too busy gaping at Cliff to pay attention – not until the driver behind them begins to impatiently punch their horn. Ilya quickly takes a turn to the right, heading down the road that would eventually lead them to his house.
“What?” Ilya says again. Both his expression and tone has shifted into something completely incredulous, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to have a panic attack or treat this as the funniest shit he’s ever heard in his life. “You’ve been talking about hot guys with me for months, Marleau.”
“I just wanted to be supportive of my best bro! Not like I was lying either, I can be objective.”
“You watched the fucking threesome I sent you.”
“Well, yeah! The girl in it was hot.”
“I sent it because I thought you found men hot too!"
Cliff rubs his eyes and wonders if he had, unbeknownst to himself, suffered a fourth concussion at some point because there’s just no way he had misread the situation this abysmally if some form of brain damage wasn’t involved.
“Sorry, man”, Cliff says miserably. “I wanted to show you that I have your back, y’know. No matter who you’re into. Fuck what anyone else says.”
A strange look flashes across Ilya’s face, startled and grateful at the same time – like he’s genuinely touched by Cliff’s willingness to go above and beyond to be supportive, and surprised by the fact that he had bothered, or even wanted to. It makes Cliff feel a little sad.
Ilya lets out a long exhale. His fingers flex against the wheel as he keeps driving. Silence sets, long enough to turn the air around them awkward. Cliff wants to sink through the seat and roll down the road until he ends up in the nearest ditch. Maybe get a fifth concussion while he’s at it. Not like it could hurt.
“I’m not gay either”, Ilya says eventually. “I am bisexual.”
Cliff blinks. Well, there it is – his question finally answered, once and for all. The Cliff from a few months ago would’ve reveled in his success of finding out the truth. Now he just feels kinda bad, considering the circumstances.
“Oh, right. That makes sense”, he says. “And that’s cool, by the way. I don’t mind that stuff, my sister is–”
“– a lesbian, yes, I know. You have told me many times”, Ilya huffs. “This is why you have talked about her so much? Because you wanted to be… an ally?”
“Maybe”, Cliff mumbles. “Fuck. Yeah, it is. I tried, man.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Marleau”, Ilya sighs, but he doesn’t sound angry, only a little weary. Cliff catches him glancing at his phone, which Ilya had deposited in one of the cup holders of the center console, looking conflicted.
Ilya is quiet for a while before he speaks up again. “So you’ve never actually thought about it? Sex with men?”
Cliff opens his mouth, and then closes it. He’s vaguely aware of the car slowing down to a stop, not at a light, but at Ilya’s driveway. The engine shuts down, but neither of them get out.
The thing is, Cliff should’ve said no. It should’ve been automatic, because he hadn’t. Not really. Not before tonight, not before Ilya had blurted out Hollander’s name and suddenly some strange, hidden part of Cliff had started to wonder how someone like Hollander – stiff and awkward and yet an absolute beast in his field – might behave in bed. They say curiosity killed the cat but maybe the cat has a good reason to be curious when it’s Shane Hollander. Shane fucking Hollander, who apparently was just as interested in Cliff’s sex life because why else would he have agreed to this?
Did Hollander think Cliff was hot?
Ilya picks up on Cliff’s silence like a shark smelling blood in the water. He shifts in his seat, angling himself towards Cliff as he patiently waits for him to answer, his interest now palpable.
The tension in the air no longer feels like panic, but quiet anticipation.
“I mean, I guess I’ve never been with a guy so it’s not like I can know for sure what I’m into, right?” Cliff manages then. “Isn’t that how it works?”
“Not really”, Ilya snorts. “But it could. If you still want.”
He makes it sound so simple. And fuck, maybe it is.
What the fuck is my life, Cliff thinks deliriously as the instinctual no that had tentatively shifted into a maybe begins to melt into something concrete and undeniable – and most of all, inevitable. Ilya is still watching him closely, but his open attention doesn’t feel pressuring.
It feels like permission.
Cliff drags a hand over his face, breathing out a sigh of defeat – or perhaps, in-part, relief.
“Friends have fun, right?” Cliff murmurs then, almost to himself. He glances at Ilya, meeting his eyes, hoping it would be enough.
And, thank fuck, it is.
The corner of Ilya’s mouth curls, delight and surprise softening his expression into a very specific flavor of joy Cliff has never witnessed on his face before. Before Cliff knows it he’s matching Ilya’s energy with a breathless laugh and a grin so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. He feels a little crazy, but he figures he could always have a mental breakdown about all of it later.
“Yes”, Ilya agrees. “So let’s have fun.”
The time for fun passes slowly, like it’s covered in molasses, because Hollander doesn’t actually arrive until nearly two hours later. By then Cliff’s clarity has morphed into a strange part-nervous part-feverish energy which the movie Ilya had put on – some generic action flick Cliff couldn’t recall the name of – does very little to soothe.
Cliff hasn’t felt this jittery at the notion of sex since he’d lost his virginity at fifteen. Ilya seems far more relaxed, enough so to frequently comment on the shitty CGI of the film and the actors’ terrible acting choices, but even he seems distracted by the quiet anticipation that looms over the entire room as the clock ticks forward.
Cliff nearly jumps out of his body when Ilya’s doorbell finally goes off.
Ilya hops off the couch immediately and makes his way towards the entryway. Cliff fumbles for the remote and turns off the TV, casting the house in silence that somehow feels loud. Cliff hears Ilya’s front door open and close, and the sound is followed by the quiet murmur of a familiar voice.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I, um– sorry I took so long. The guys almost didn’t let me leave.”
“Is fine. Captain duties, yes?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Two pairs of footsteps quickly draw near in tandem with the voices that belong to them before Hollander steps into the lounge with Ilya on his heels. He looks around the house in quiet awe as if seeing it for the first time, his thumbs awkwardly shoved into the pockets of his jeans while his eyes rake over the layout of the room, observing the furniture and every piece of clutter scattered around – which Ilya seems very amused by.
“Already planning to rob my house, Mr. Landlord?”
“Shut up”, Hollander snorts. He considers the wooden frame behind the TV with an appreciative look. “This place is nice. How much did it cost? Did you buy it or did you have it built?”
Ilya shakes his head with a sigh that almost sounds fond. “You want to talk about real estate now, Hollander?”
As if on cue Hollander’s eyes finally land on Cliff. His posture immediately shifts; his shoulders tense and his throat bobs nervously, but he still manages to offer Cliff a careful smile. “Guess not. Hi, Marleau.”
Cliff gives Hollander a little wave. “Hey, man.”
For a moment they both just stare at each other, quiet in their shared disbelief for actually being there – for wanting to be there. It’s Ilya who breaks the tension by making a show of striding behind Hollander and placing a hand on his hip.
The touch seems to ground Hollander in an instant. His body curves towards the presence behind him with the ease of a man who’d done this a dozen times, the shift driven by pure instinct. It doesn’t wipe off the nervous expression from his face, but it does make Hollander exhale quietly, like he’s bracing himself for what is about to come.
Ilya tucks himself closer, his chin resting on Hollander’s shoulder. He angles himself in a way that makes his lips brush against Hollander’s arched throat when he speaks, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
“You should tell him now, Marleau”, Ilya murmurs. He plants a wet kiss on Hollander’s neck, and then another, completely shameless as he keeps their eyes locked, his brow raised expectantly. Hollander conveys a similar expression, anticipation and desire colliding as he slacks against Ilya’s broad chest, waiting for Cliff to make the next move.
Cliff swallows, his mouth suddenly dry when his brain finally catches up. His limbs move by themselves, enticed by the spectacle in front of him – the sight he never thought he’d see, never thought to even fucking imagine. Ilya being practically glued to Hollander, mouthing his neck and coaxing a look of pure hunger on Hollander’s face should’ve looked out of place but somehow, it works. It fits.
How long had they been doing this?
Cliff stops in front of Hollander and watches how easily Ilya’s hand curls around Hollander’s jaw, forcing him to raise his head and meet Cliff’s uncertain eyes.
A pink flush is already blooming across the freckles on Hollander’s face, making them pop up like constellations in the night-sky. His eyes are wide and wet, pleading and nervous and so fucking eager. Ilya’s thumb digs into Hollander’s lower lip, adding just enough pressure to make them part. He looks nothing like the awkward guy dodging phone numbers in bars or the absolute beast of a player on the ice, but something else entirely – something fucking wild and irresistible.
And just like that, something inside Cliff snaps.
“Fuck, Hollander”, Cliff hisses quietly. “You’re so fucking pretty, you know that?”
Hollander’s eyes flutter at the praise. Ilya hums in agreement, kissing a path across Hollander’s throat to his jaw, and then up to his ear. He snatches it between his teeth, tugging playfully. A quiet noise tumbles from Hollander’s throat – breathy and sharp, and it crushes the last remaining morsel of Cliff’s resolve like the ocean floor would a can of coke.
Cliff leans down, capturing Hollander’s awaiting mouth. For some reason he expects it to feel drastically different than kissing a woman, but it doesn’t. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Hollander’s lips are plump and soft, and they part so sweetly when Cliff demands it. He tastes like ginger ale and mint-flavored chewing gum. A moan drowns into the kiss as it deepens, startled and hot and so distinctively masculine that it, if anything, should’ve given Cliff’s brain a pause, but all it does is make his dick throb.
Fuck, maybe it really is that simple.
A strand of spit clings to their parting lips. Cliff breaks it with a swipe of his tongue, which coaxes Hollander to grasp him by the back of his neck and pull him back down. The second kiss is longer and somehow even better than the first as their shared uncertainty bleeds away to make room for desire alone. Hollander drags his left hand down from Cliff’s nape to paw at his shirt, as if silently demanding him to take it off.
“Woah, Hollander”, Ilya laughs, arousal masking the amusement he’s trying to convey. He presses a kiss on Hollander’s smooth cheek, the sound of it obnoxiously wet. “So eager.”
Hollander pulls away, craning his neck enough to glare at Ilya from over his shoulder. “Shut up”, he huffs without any bite, and meets Ilya’s smiling mouth halfway. Cliff watches them devour each other, mesmerised by the sight of Ilya licking greedily into Hollander’s mouth like he’s determined to sample the lingering taste of his friend.
The thought burrows deep into Cliff’s belly, sending another surge of arousal straight to his dick with a force that nearly makes him stumble over. Cliff steadies himself by grabbing onto Hollander’s hips and sliding his hand under his shirt. Hollander’s skin feels smooth under the weight of his palm, but underneath it Cliff finds only hardened muscle and strength that probably matched his own, not the soft angles and a significantly smaller stature he’s used to from sleeping with women. Much like Ilya, Hollander is a few inches shorter than him but it hardly matters when he’s built like a fucking wrestler, his body composition robust and familiar in a way that feels personal.
Perhaps spending well over a decade playing a very physical sport has already desensitized Cliff to the act of looking and touching other men and their bodies – even if in the past it’s been nothing beyond shamelessly embracing teammates after a win or smacking an obnoxious kiss on their helmet mid-game – because the difference doesn’t feel strange or wrong, just new.
Hollander takes Cliff’s touch as a cue to lift his arms, allowing Cliff to yank his shirt off while Ilya does the same to his own, though his movements are less hurried, almost playfully leisure. Hollander’s hands dive straight for Cliff’s belt, his fingers quick and determined. All Cliff can do is gape at him as Hollander sinks to his knees in one fluid movement like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Holy shit, Hollzy”, Cliff croaks, voice quiet with awe. His hand lands instinctively on the top of Hollander’s head as Hollander nuzzles his face against Cliff’s clothed crotch, mouthing over the now-stretched denim.
Ilya, now shirtless, leans down to grasp Hollander by his nape. He adds just enough pressure to force Hollander’s face further into Cliff, eliciting a muffled, needy sound from him.
“Mm, Hollander loves sucking cock”, Ilya coos. He ruffles Hollander’s hair in a way that’s both fond and a little condescending, like he’s petting a dog. His fingers graze against Cliff’s, half-entwining before pulling away. “I told you he has been thinking about this.”
“Yeah?” Cliff murmurs breathlessly. He frames Hollander’s face like it’s something sacred, biting down a hiss when Hollander proceeds to wordlessly yank his jeans down to his ankles and press his wet mouth on his bulge like he’s fucking starving for it. Cliff feels delirious as he peers down at Hollander, stroking his thumbs over his flushed cheeks. “You have, huh?”
Hollander looks up. He nods shyly, his fingertips inching under the waistband of Cliff’s boxers, eager to dive in. “Yeah. Can I…?”
Before Cliff can tell Hollander that he could have whatever the fuck he wanted and more, Ilya cuts in.
“You should tell him”, Ilya says pointedly. “exactly what you want.”
Hollander flushes even harder, but he still heeds Ilya’s command with a dizzying speed, visibly surprising himself – and Cliff, too.
“Please, Marleau”, Hollander whispers. “Please let me suck your cock.”
Never in Cliff’s wildest dreams could he have imaged something like that coming out of Hollander’s mouth, but fuck if it doesn’t turn him on like crazy.
“Fuck. Whatever you want, baby”, Cliff groans.
The pet name slips out by accident. The girls he’d slept with in the past had liked being called that and his brain doesn’t know any other script to follow, but before Cliff can regret his slip he notices the quick stutter of Hollander’s chest and the blissed look on his face, and deliriously assumes that he likes it, too.
Hollander doesn’t waste any time. Cliff lets out a startled moan, his fingers instinctively flexing against Hollander’s jaw when Hollander fishes his cock out and immediately steers it into his mouth. Cliff watches, mouth agape, as Hollander swallows him down, taking far more than Cliff thought he would, barely leaving space at the base for his fingers to curl around and hold the rest.
“Holy– fuck”, Cliff huffs breathlessly. Hollander begins to bob his head with the confidence and skill that could only be that of a seasoned cock-sucking veteran, because he’s good – better than good. He barely even chokes when he allows Cliff to slip to the back of his throat, keeping him there for a few blissful seconds before coming up and slobbering all over the tip of his cock, hungry for the beads of pre-cum already forming.
Cliff turns to look at Ilya with a delirious laugh. “Guess you weren’t kidding, huh?”
Cliff’s laughter dies down when he realizes that Ilya has moved closer to him, almost close enough to touch. There’s a smile on his face – no longer teasing, but straight-up ravenous. His hand has disappeared into his jeans, and his wrist moves in a steady pace as he watches Hollander’s mouth work around Cliff.
Then Ilya reaches towards Cliff and curls his free hand around Cliff’s nape.
Ilya’s eyes bounce between Cliff’s and his mouth, silently seeking approval, testing the waters. Cliff swallows thickly, suddenly breathless from want, and a hint of panic. Hollander was one thing, but Ilya–
Fuck.
“We’re still friends, right?” Cliff blurts out, which is stupid, because the space between them is getting smaller and smaller and he’s not doing anything to stop it. If anything he’s partly to blame for it.
Ilya chuckles, low and fond. “Of course”, he says, and leans in to kiss Cliff – because friends did have fun after all.
Ilya is, as Cliff quickly finds, certainly a fun person to kiss. He’s good at it, which isn’t a surprise considering how many people he has probably slept with at this point. He doesn’t beat around the bush or shy away from kissing Cliff just like he would kiss anyone else, and that somehow makes Cliff relax into it immediately. If the slow, wet motion of Ilya’s mouth had felt unsure it would’ve bled into Cliff too, but it’s the complete opposite.
It’s easy. So easy that it should probably worry Cliff, if only he had any remaining brain cells to actually form a coherent thought.
Cliff’s eyes are closed, but he can feel Ilya’s hand still moving, soft gasps of pleasure drowning between their lips as he slowly jerks himself off. It’s difficult to keep up with kissing him when half of his brain is paralyzed by the idea of reaching out and replacing Ilya’s hand with his own, and the other is melting into putty due to the tantalizing heat of Hollander’s mouth taking him apart.
Ilya, perhaps sensing Cliff’s quickly deteriorating sanity, severs their kiss with a wet smack. At first Cliff thinks it’s out of mercy, but then Ilya’s lips curve dangerously as he glances down at Hollander in consideration, and Cliff can only dazedly follow his lead. Hollander immediately preens at the attention and slows down to bask in it, his cheeks hollowed out around the weight on his tongue.
Ilya cups Hollander’s face affectionately, his fingertips grazing along the outline of Cliff’s cock.
“You want me to get on my knees too, Marleau?” Ilya purrs then.
Cliff lets out a breathless sound of pure disbelief that immediately melts into a moan. Hollander pulls off his cock just in time to see it visibly twitch at the idea, which makes Ilya look infuriatingly smug.
“No, because I’ll cum too fucking fast if either of you keep going”, Cliff manages. At this point just the feeling of Hollander’s hot mouth hovering next to his dick might make him lose his mind which is a little embarrassing, but who could blame him when Hollander looked so goddamn pretty on his knees with his plump lips slightly swollen from sucking Cliff off.
Ilya laughs, and even Hollander’s expression turns smug. Cliff ushers him to get up, which Hollander does with an endearing amount of reluctance as if parting from a blowjob was some kind of big sacrifice he’s making. Cliff is quick to kiss the playful frown off his face and then allow Ilya to do the same while he kicks his pants off and removes the rest of his clothes.
The journey to Ilya’s bedroom is quick, and by the time they get to his bed all three of them are bare from head to toe – except for Hollander’s socks, but Cliff is far too distracted by the sight of his massive thighs and ass to comment on it. Cliff has seen the ad Hollander did for Calvin Klein so it’s not like his body is a shock to him, but witnessing it in the flesh is quite different than glancing at a billboard while stuck in traffic.
Hollander definitely wasn’t on his knees and crawling on top of his rival in the ad either.
Cliff joins them on the bed, dazedly watching Hollander grind against Ilya’s body while they lose themselves in another kiss. Eventually Ilya flips them around, Hollander’s back facing Cliff, their legs still tangled in a mindless rut. Cliff moves closer and trails his hand down Hollander’s flank while he covers his nape and shoulders in kisses and little bites that don’t quite leave a mark, but still leave Hollander whining in pleasure all the same.
Hollander reaches behind himself, blindly grasping at Cliff’s waist, wordlessly urging him closer. Cliff obliges, carefully slotting himself completely against Hollander’s body. He’s at a perfect angle for his cock to slip right into the crease of Hollander’s ass, and the reaction he gets is immediate. Hollander arches against Cliff with a needy moan, severing himself from Ilya who is quick to latch his mouth on Hollander’s exposed throat instead, mouthing it like a starved man.
Cliff grabs Hollander by his thigh, squeezing tightly as Hollander begins to rub himself against Cliff’s cock, the motion of his hips deliriously frantic, all shame and uncertainty forgotten. Cliff groans low against Hollander’s ear, catching in between his teeth while he drags his hand lower until it slips between Hollander’s legs.
Cliff’s fingertips brush tentatively against the puckered hole nestled between Hollander’s cheeks, feeling it pulse with need.
“You want?” Cliff asks roughly. He’s had anal before so he knows the drill, but he’s never slept with anyone who has reacted to the suggestion of it with the amount of needy urgency that Hollander instantly displays.
“Yeah. Yes”, Hollander hisses. He cranes his neck in an invitation for Cliff to lean over his shoulder and capture his mouth in a sloppy kiss. “Yes, please–”
Cliff glances at Ilya mid-kiss, finding him watching them, his eyes hungry and mouth slightly agape. He gives Cliff the barest nod of his head, urging him to give Hollander what he needs.
Cliff doesn’t need to be told twice.
“Okay”, Cliff murmurs. “We got you, baby.”
Ilya’s lips stretch into a delighted grin before he quickly rolls over to pick up lube and condoms from the nightstand. Hollander’s head turns at the sound of Ilya popping the cap, immediately alert. Cliff slips his hand under Hollander’s thigh and lifts it to an angle where he would be the most exposed while Ilya slicks his fingers with the lube.
Hollander’s body jolts against Cliff’s when Ilya enters him, more out of pleasure than surprise. Ilya leans in to swallow the needy noise that immediately spills from Hollander’s lips, much to Cliff’s turmoil – although the muffled little gasps and moans aren’t that bad to listen to either. Cliff continues to pepper kisses along Hollander’s upper body, nuzzling against his nape as he licks the sweat off his skin and leaves a trail of spit in his wake while Ilya gets to work.
The motion of Ilya’s wrist is steady and practiced, and it quickly becomes very clear that he knows exactly how fast to go and which angle to aim for to leave Hollander trembling with want. It’s not long until Ilya is already adding another finger, and Cliff knows exactly when the third slips in – Hollander’s head falls back with a low keen, colliding with Cliff’s shoulder while Ilya hums smugly, and picks up the pace.
Cliff paws at Hollander’s thigh with a low curse, raising it even higher, opening him up further. Cliff can’t see much from the position that he’s in, but just the sight of Ilya’s bicep twitching under the strain of keeping a consistent pace is something Cliff knows he’ll never forget, and neither will his dick.
“Rozanov, stop”, Hollander suddenly grits out, his voice sweet and lust-drunk. “Stop, or I’ll–!”
Hollander’s cock is hardly doing any better than Cliff’s – flushed bright red and twitching against his stomach, smearing pre-cum all over his smooth skin. Ilya pauses, still knuckle-deep inside Hollander.
“What is it?” Ilya coos, mouthing Hollander’s jaw. “Need something bigger, hmm?”
Hollander nods frantically. Cliff runs a soothing palm across Hollander’s heaving chest and belly, feeling the tremors under his skin. Hollander relaxes into it like a lovesick cat, and Cliff is once again hit with that strange sense of endearment he’d felt twice already.
Ilya hums thoughtfully. His eyes dart to Cliff and then back to Hollander, his mouth stretching into a devilish smirk. “Who do you want?” he purrs. “My cock, or his?”
Hollander makes a choked noise that sounds almost distressed, like he couldn’t bring himself to actually make a choice – like he wanted both just as much.
“Both”, Hollander gasps then, his cheeks flushed bright pink. “I want both.”
“So greedy”, Ilya tuts playfully, as if it’s not the answer both he and Cliff had been dying to hear. “Should I warm him up for you, Marly? Show you how he likes to be fucked? Make him all wet and loose for you?”
“As long as you hurry the fuck up”, Hollander huffs impatiently, startling a quiet snort out Cliff. “Stop teasing, asshole.”
Ilya laughs, finally pulling his fingers away. “So bossy! Someone should teach you some manners.”
Hollander rolls his eyes, but his disapproving pout is quickly kissed away with a few quick pecks from Ilya that are, in Cliff’s opinion, far more affectionate than he expected anything between these two to be. But before Cliff has the chance to question the familiar tenderness between the biggest rivals in the MLH, Ilya leans back and nods towards the bed.
“Get on your knees.”
Hollander complies with a heady speed, settling on all fours, his legs spread wide and his arms braced against the bed. He looks a little overwhelmed – impatient and horny and maybe a little mortified for being put on display like this, but turned on by it just the same. His cock hangs heavily between his legs, pre-cum already gathering at the flushed tip. A singular drop lands obscenely onto the duvet as Ilya settles behind Hollander and strokes a soothing palm over his hip, massaging the perfect mound of his ass, pulling him apart.
“Yes, that’s it, Hollander”, Ilya sighs dreamily as he rolls a condom on his cock and lines it up with Hollander’s ass. “Let him see how pretty you really are.”
Cliff thanks every deity that humanity has ever made up that Hollander’s face is turned towards him when Ilya enters him, because the look on his face is the hottest thing Cliff has ever witnessed in his entire fucking life.
Hollander’s eyes flutter, his plump lips parting around a voiceless cry that then breaks into a sweet moan of relief when Ilya’s groin makes contact with his ass, already buried as deep as he could possibly go. Hollander’s chest heaves, flushed and glistening with sweat as he turns to look at Ilya over his shoulder, his face twisting with urgency and need. His silent plea is immediately heard when Ilya places a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing his back to arch into the perfect angle to fuck into, and in doing so tearing another angelic sound out of Hollander’s mouth.
Cliff can’t look away. A meteorite could hit the building and wipe off the entire block and he’d still be staring at Hollander’s arched back and the way his muscular thighs jiggle on every thrust. Ilya shows him no mercy, his pace already rough and fast, but Cliff has a feeling it’s exactly what Hollander wants – his expression is that of pure fucking bliss, his eyes half-lidded, occasionally squeezing shut completely, his pretty freckles almost completely swallowed by the blush that covers his just-as-pretty face.
“So good for us”, Ilya murmurs then, voice low with lust and awe. “Isn’t he good, Marleau?”
Cliff barely manages to nod. He sneaks a hand between his legs, grabbing his cock. It’s fucking risky because he’s already so hard it hurts and with this view he probably won’t need much to tip over the edge, but he just can’t help himself.
“Fuck, yeah”, Cliff groans. He strokes himself slowly, leaning back to watch the quick snap of Ilya’s hips, unable to stop imagining himself in his place. “So fucking good, Hollzy.”
Hollander’s eyes land back to Cliff. He looks wild – his pupils completely blown, hair sticking to his face. The praise makes the arch in his spine deeper, his legs spreading wider – like he wants to show just how good he is, how good he could be. Cliff curses, and squeezes at the base of his cock to stop himself from stroking it faster.
“I think he likes to be watched”, Ilya observes. “You like showing Marleau how much you love being fucked, yes? How much you love cock?”
Hollander lets out a low keen that might as well have been a yes. He keeps looking at Cliff, both shy and wanting and just a touch complacent, making it abundantly clear just how much he did like being watched – and in turn watching Cliff slowly lose his mind from the insanity that is Shane goddamn Hollander being stuffed full of his rival’s cock.
It’s so much better than any porn vid Ilya could ever have shared with him, that’s for damn sure.
“Maybe next time you can have both of us at the same time”, Ilya coos. “Ruin this sweet hole of yours so nothing else can satisfy it.”
Hollander’s entire body shudders. He buries his face against the bed, hiding himself from both of them, but he can’t hide the way his dick sputters another fat trail of pre-cum all over the duvet, clearly more than intrigued by the idea.
Ilya makes a curious sound, his fingertips digging deep into the meat of Hollander’s ass.
“You like that? You want both of us to fuck you?” Ilya asks. There’s a hitch in his breath, just as delighted as it is delirious, mirroring the absolute gut-punch of arousal Cliff feels in his own belly. Ilya fucks deep into Hollander, claiming every inch of the hole he wants to ruin. “You love cock so much, Hollander. Do you think you could take two?”
Cliff has no idea if something like that would even be possible, but any concern for realism does very little to stop his brain from latching onto the fantasy.
Cliff imagines Hollander between them, writhing and screaming in pleasure, filled to the absolute brim, and somehow still begging for more. He thinks about the insanity of what it would feel like, slipping inside Hollander’s pulsing heat with Ilya’s cock slotted against his own, claiming the same space. He thinks about spilling inside Hollander, filling him up, and how Ilya would immediately follow, the sound of their thrusts obscenely wet. They would make Hollander come too, over and over again, until he could only shake and sob in their arms.
Hollander never answers to Ilya’s – mostly? – rhetorical question, but he gets louder, frantically pushing back to meet Ilya’s thrusts in the middle, clearly just as lost in their shared fantasy, just as hungry for it. Ilya keeps talking, slipping back and forth from English to Russian, every word dripping with filth and promise. Cliff’s dick throbs in his hand, his jaw clenched to a painful degree in a desperate attempt to stave off the orgasm that looms far too close for his liking.
Hollander’s must have been looming too, only his seems inevitable; crashing down onto him with a force that is intoxicating to witness.
“Fuck, I’m so close”, Hollander whines. His body trashes, his fingers twisting around the duvet and his knees buckling, desperate for release and just as distressed that he was heading there, like he’s already mourning the loss of the pleasure that was Ilya’s relentless pace. “Oh my God, Rozanov. Please don’t stop, don’t stop. Fuck, fuck, fuck–”
Ilya gives it to him, ruthless and devout, his face twisted in concentration like in that moment nothing mattered more to him than witnessing Hollander succumb to his ruin. And succumb he does, with a breathless moan and a sweet chorus of Ilya’s name as his cock bursts and spills, covering the ruined duvet in white.
Ilya curses loudly, the last morsel of control snapping. He pulls out and quickly discards his condom as he coaxes Hollander to lay on his back, clearly positioning himself so he could jerk off and come all over Hollander’s body.
Before Cliff’s brain even registers what’s happening he’s already leaping forward and curling his fingers around Ilya’s cock before Ilya gets the chance to. Ilya lets out a startled grunt that instantly echoes in Cliff’s chest, surprise and lust melding into an inseparable force.
“Fuck, Marleau”, Ilya huffs. He wraps his arm around Cliff’s shoulders, bringing him closer until they’re practically sharing air. It doesn’t seem to matter that Cliff has never touched any other dick than his own because Ilya only needs a few strokes before he’s coming all over Hollander’s heaving chest and stomach. Their lips crush together, only partially muffling the choked moan that punches out of Ilya’s throat, the sound of it so fucking sweet Cliff can’t help but to lick into Ilya’s mouth to taste it.
Once the aftershocks of pleasure become too much Ilya gently swats Cliff’s hand away. With his fingers sticky from the ropes of cum that hadn’t made it to their designated spot on Hollander’s body Cliff is half-expecting his brain to finally start panicking because he’d just jerked off his best friend and landed his cumshot all over his rival, and yet the singular thought that his cells are capable of producing is just how fucking hot all of it had been.
Well, that and how desperately he needs to come about it too. Cliff’s dick is throbbing between his legs, aching for relief, and the sight of Hollander laying on his back with his legs spread and his upper body covered in Ilya’s release certainly doesn’t help. He looks like a fucking porn star, his lips bitten red and wet with spit as his chest heaves under the strain of each breath he takes, completely spent.
Ilya, just as bewitched by Hollander’s figure as Cliff finds himself to be, leans down to kiss the stunned expression from his face. Hollander sighs contently, immediately curling his arm around Ilya’s shoulders to pull him closer.
“Okay?” Cliff hears Ilya ask, his voice quiet and warm, meant for just Hollander.
Hollander nods, happy to accept every press of lips and the soothing motion of Ilya’s hands traveling up and down his flank. When they break apart the expression on Hollander’s face has softened, affection bleeding through the haze of pleasure. Cliff sees the same tenderness reflected in Ilya’s hooded eyes and easy smile. It makes him feel like an intruder.
Cliff clears his throat. “You, uh– you have tissues?” he asks, motioning at his hand.
Whatever tender moment Cliff had just witnessed shatters, startling both Ilya and Hollander out of it. They share a look, a wordless question passing between them before Ilya’s familiar glee makes a quick comeback in the form of a teasing smirk.
Ilya beckons Cliff to come closer, but instead of handing him a box of tissues he grabs Cliff by the wrist and steers his hand to Hollander’s mouth instead.
“Oh”, Cliff says stupidly. Hollander parts his lips and swallows down two of his fingers without question, his warm tongue instantly wrapping around them. “Fuck.”
Hollander hums, looking very pleased with himself. There’s an almost lazy energy to him now – his body is soft like candlewax, loosened by his orgasm. Hollander sucks on Cliff’s fingers greedily, licking the lingering taste of Ilya like he’s hungry for every morsel. Ilya pets his hair and encourages him with little coos in Russian that somehow sound affectionate and filthy at the same time.
Hollander releases Cliff’s fingers with a wet pop, the sluggish warmth in his eyes quickly turning into heat again. He reaches for Cliff’s cock, his touch feather-light. His fingertips trail across the length of it, as if studying it – mapping each inch and vein into memory. Cliff groans and bucks against Hollander’s hand, urging him to keep going. Hollander pushes into him, coaxing Cliff to roll on his back. Ilya makes himself useful by handing Cliff a condom, which Cliff manages to slide on just a second before Hollander crawls into his lap.
Hollander’s muscular thighs cage Cliff in his place, his hands braced on Cliff’s chest for support. Cliff hisses when Ilya leans in to squirt a hefty glob of lube on his cock, but that hiss quickly breaks into a moan when Hollander sinks down on him in one fluid motion, taking everything Cliff has to give like it’s fucking nothing. There’s barely any resistance, his hole fucked out and warm for him, just like Ilya had promised.
Cliff grabs onto Hollander’s waist, keeping him steady. Hollander’s thighs tremble from the strain of overstimulation, but whatever discomfort he may have felt pales next to the cock-drunk look in his eyes when he rolls his hips in a circular motion, chasing the increased stretch and the pleasure-pain it brought.
Cliff lets out a breathless noise of wonder. “Holy shit, Hollzy.”
Hollander smiles at him, looking a little dazed. Cliff braces his feet against the bed and begins to thrust up into Hollander, careful at first, and then faster when Hollander immediately mirrors his movements, meeting him in the middle.
Hollander’s cock bobs obscenely in the air as they rock into each other. He’s half-hard again, or maybe he never even went soft in the first place. Each thrust perks him up more and more, the hisses of overstimulation slowly melting into noises of true pleasure. Cliff wonders, deliriously, if he might see Hollander come a second time, and immediately re-doubles his efforts, determined to get him there.
“You like that, baby?” Cliff groans. “Does it feel good?”
Hollander nods, his nails digging into Cliff’s hairy chest. “Yeah”, he moans brokenly. Another shudder runs down his spine as he drops down, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, you’re so fucking big.”
“Bigger than me?” Ilya pipes up. He’s kneeling next to them, shamelessly ogling at the show in front of him. “I’m hurt, Hollander.”
Cliff snorts. “It’s simple math, Roz.”
Hollander laughs breathlessly. His head tilts back in a playful manner as he turns to look at Ilya; a touch smug. The next noise that tumbles from his throat is louder than the rest, like he’s purposefully egging Ilya on by pretending he likes Cliff’s dick more than his. Or maybe he actually does, because he’s rocking onto Cliff like his performance might make him win the fucking cup, his legs spread wide to make sure he gets every single inch Cliff has to give.
Any notion of Hollander Cliff had before is gone. Reduced to fucking atoms. The only version of him Cliff will ever see now is this – flushed and wanting, the golden boy of hockey turned insatiable sex-fiend, getting split open on Cliff’s cock and still managing to rage-bait his rival while he’s at it.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Goddamn, Hollzy”, Cliff groans, unable to help himself. Any remaining sliver of self-control evaporates as he kneads Hollander’s ass between his hands and helps him bounce. His mouth keeps running, melting into the mindless babble of a man about to experience the best orgasm of his life. “Fuck, you’re so fucking crazy, Hollander. You feel so fucking good. So good. C’mon, c’mon–”
Hollander’s muscles clench around Cliff’s cock like a vice. His voice breaks into a deep, guttural whine as his legs finally give out, his body half-hunched over Cliff. Hollander’s hand sneaks around his cock, starting a frantic pace while Cliff fucks into him faster, now completely in charge of the pace.
Ilya is still watching them, jaw clenched and eyes dark. He moves behind Hollander in a quick flash, placing a hand on his hip, just above Cliff’s. The other swats Hollander’s hand off his cock so Ilya could replace it with his own. Hollander’s mouth opens around a voiceless cry – his back arches like a bow-string yanked too far, his body torn between thrusting into Ilya’s fist and back down onto Cliff’s cock.
“That’s it, Hollander”, Ilya murmurs. Their eyes meet over Hollander’s shoulder, sending a bolt of electricity down Cliff’s sweaty spine. Ilya kisses Hollander’s nape sloppily, his teeth bared. “Be a good boy and show Marleau just how much you love his cock."
The rapid speed of Ilya’s wrist paired with his demand is enough to send Hollander over the edge, his body shuddering and spasming with the force of his second orgasm. He comes messily all over Cliff’s chest, and Cliff is helpless to do anything else except immediately follow, his will broken by Hollander’s pulsing heat and the lust-sweetened wail that might have included his name. Cliff rides the wave of his own climax by dragging Hollander’s face to kissing distance, letting him swallow the moans that crawl from his throat.
For an unknown time – whether it’s seconds or minutes, Cliff has no idea – they rock into each other, chasing the last sparks of pleasure before it becomes too much. Hollander eases off Cliff’s cock with a hiss before he collapses onto him, completely spent and exhausted.
Ilya leans over Hollander’s back and kisses the scar on his shoulder in a way that’s almost reverent. He stays there, mouth pressed against Hollander’s skin, his palm traveling up and down his sweaty spine in a soothing motion. Hollander practically purrs like a cat, pleased and lazy. Cliff follows Ilya’s example and tentatively cups the back of Hollander’s head, massaging his scalp. Hollander melts between them completely, happy to bask in a well-deserved pampering as all three of them take a moment to gather themselves.
Eventually, while staring at the ceiling with his fingers still tangled around Hollander’s sweaty hair, his chest sticky with the combination of both Hollander’s and Ilya’s cum now melding together by the press of their bodies, it finally dawns on him. The inevitable reality that should’ve made a home in his thrice concussed skull the very second Hollander had stepped into Ilya’s house and looked at Cliff with those big brown eyes of his, so full of curiosity and anxiety and want. Maybe even in the car, once Ilya had dropped the bombshell of information that was hey, me and Hollander want to fuck you, are you in?
Holy fucking shit.
“I think I might be bisexual”, Cliff blurts out.
Ilya snorts loudly. He offers one last kiss on Hollander’s shoulder before he flops down to lay next to Cliff, his mouth stretching into a victorious grin. “Nice one, Marly.”
Hollander raises his head from the crook of Cliff’s neck and blinks at him in confusion. “You didn’t know before?” Hollander glances at Ilya, frowning. “I thought you guys talked about it?”
“I thought so too, but there was… misunderstandings”, Ilya explains. “Poor Marly thought he was straight and about to hook up with a pretty girl called Jane. Then he had a– what do you call it? Life emergency in the car, when I told him who Jane was.”
“Existential crisis?” Hollander offers.
“Yes, that.”
“Hey! Can you blame me?” Cliff huffs. “I thought people figured this shit out when they’re young. I’m too fucking old to be having a sexuality crisis.”
Man, his sister was going to have a fucking field-day with this shit. Cliff could already hear her disbelieved shriek in his head. She’d never let him hear the end of it.
“Is okay”, Ilya says. “Senior citizens can be bisexual too.”
Cliff smacks Ilya on the head, which only makes his smirk grow tenfold.
“You seem to be taking it well, though”, Hollander says then, with a tone that’s oddly contemplative. “I mean– not everyone does.”
“Yeah”, Cliff sighs. “I mean, who cares, right? I’m just a little confused. Like I said, thought I’d known sooner. Didn’t even know there was something to, y’know, know.”
“Hollander’s face is too powerful”, Ilya declares. “So pretty that it might turn even the straightest man bisexual.”
Cliff shrugs, looking at Hollander. “You are really pretty.”
Hollander scoffs quietly, looking away. His cheeks immediately get more pink which makes him look even prettier, but there’s a little crease in his forehead that causes Cliff to remember what he’d told Ilya at that bar months ago about being pretty not always being meant as a compliment.
“I don’t mean it in a weird way, y’know”, Cliff hurries to add. “Nothing wrong with being a pretty guy. Honestly, I’m fucking jealous. All I get is more wrinkles. My face could use some prettiness.”
Hollander is quick to placate Cliff’s overthinking brain with a quiet laugh and a look that comes off as endearingly sheepish – which is an observation that Ilya must’ve shared, considering how quickly his shit-eating grin softens into something completely enamoured instead.
“Your face is fine, Marleau”, Hollander says. “You know, like… rugged. Some people are into that.”
Cliff hums, flashing a teasing look at Hollander. “Some people?”
Hollander ducks his head down with a shy smile. “Some people”, he concurs, his voice warm. Cliff wants to lean in and kiss him and never stop kissing him, but he settles with ruffling Hollander’s hair instead, lest he find himself in a predicament he’d have no way of escaping.
As mild as his existential crisis had turned out to be, he’s not quite ready for that kind of commitment yet.
“Aww, you two are getting along”, Ilya coos then. “Should I leave?”
Hollander rolls his eyes while Cliff shakes his head with a snort.
“Shut up, Roz.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.”
Ilya grins, practically beaming with mischievous energy. Like a goddamn puppy eager to gnaw on some slippers. “This is very bad for me, you know”, he laments. “Can’t have my rival and my trusty enforcer teaming up. I will be outnumbered.”
Hollander shrugs. “Well, his dick is bigger than yours, so…”
Cliff nearly chokes on his own spit.
Ilya sputters, completely aghast. “Slander! In my own house! I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite.”
Incredulous shrieking aside, it’s pretty easy to tell that Ilya is only acting offended. It’s not like he had a reason to feel insecure about his dick. As far as dicks went, his was pretty fucking sweet.
Not that Cliff was an expert or anything. Although after tonight he might as well be.
Hollander must have been able to read Ilya’s performance just as easily, because his only response is a laugh, playful and victorious. Then he slides off Cliff’s lap, settling to lay between him and Ilya. Ilya pouts at him, but he still lets Hollander squeeze against his side all the same. His expression immediately softens at the contact, his feigned ire barely held in place.
It’s cute. Strange, but cute.
“Like I said”, Cliff pipes up, unable to help himself. “Simple math.”
Hollander snorts, burying his face against Ilya’s shoulder.
“I changed my mind”, Ilya groans, but Cliff can tell he’s fighting off a smile. “Friends should never have fun together. Biggest mistake of my life.”
“Too late, man.”