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Ilya and Cliff often engage in something Ilya fondly calls ‘bro time’.
During the time where Shane and Ilya’s relationship was confined to hotel rooms and arena stairways, when Ilya referred to ‘bro time’, Shane assumed that due to Ilya’s track record and fuckboy ways, they were hooking up.
He saw nothing wrong with it; he hardly knew Cliff, didn’t know if he was queer or just an experimenting straight guy, and honestly was just happy that Ilya had someone else with hockey player stamina, someone who could keep up with him while Shane was away.
When they began dating Shane discovered the truth about this bro time; they drink beer and watch Disney Channel musicals. Allegedly, Ilya can quote the entirety of High School Musical, though Shane’s yet to get him to prove it.
And ever since they came out to their friends, Ilya’s been holding these gatherings in his home in Boston, or sometimes in Shane’s Montreal apartment. Once, Ilya had invited Cliff to the cottage during off-season, but he was promptly banned from doing it again when Shane came downstairs the morning after and found a large beer stain on his favourite place on the couch.
So, once a month Shane will close himself in their bedroom with a book and some ginger ale, and will occasionally catch the sound of teen pop drifting up the stairs. He doesn’t mind it in the slightest; it placates the tiny part of him that worries that Ilya’s feeling lonely in the closet. He’s been invited to join once or twice, but he always refuses, not wanting to intrude.
At least Ilya has someone to have fun with, to engage in locker room talk and gossip that Shane has always been so terrible at.
They're at Ilya’s Boston home tonight; Shane doesn't have a game for another two days, which he can fly out for the night before. Ilya and Cliff are downstairs, watching Camp Rock, while Shane’s watching game tape with intensity that Rose has previously likened as akin to a serial killer. He has his notebook open, scribbling notes and drawing out plays, sipping from his second probiotic ginger ale of the night. He’s been up here for around three hours, the evening on the brink of turning into night. He should slip downstairs in a while to grab one of his pre-made dinners, but right now he's content with watching game tape and making notes.
The current video ends, and the next is cued on the screen for him to press play. He yawns, more from reclining for so long than from any kind of tiredness, and he stands up to stretch his legs, maybe go downstairs to get another drink, when he catches a glimpse of the outside from behind the partly closed curtains. He walks over and draws them back, widening his eyes when he sees the outside.
A thick layer of snow covers the driveway, the trees, the cars outside. It’s coming down so heavily that Shane has to squint to see through it, white pouring in a heavy sheet. The dark navy sky has turned a shade brighter, white clouds choking the moonlight. The snowflakes are almost an inch big, and as he stares for a few minutes the layer across the ground triples in size.
“Oh, shit,” He murmurs.
He’d run downstairs to break the news to Ilya and Cliff, the credits of the movie rolling on the screen.
Shane stares out of the large living room windows anxiously, as he’s been doing for the last twenty minutes. Outside the snow is swirling, the wind has picked up and is now crashing against the windows as the polished suburban tree branches are ripping apart in the distance.
“Sit down, Shanya,” Ilya says patiently. “It's not going to calm down just because you are staring.”
“It’s getting much worse,” Shane tells them anxiously, ignoring him.
When he was still upstairs, he’d gone to his phone to check the weather, and instead saw an emergency weather alert in his notifications warning of a heavy blizzard. A storm from Alaska has blown across Canada and down to Boston, and apparently the heavy snowfall was going to stay until tomorrow night.
“Come sit down, Shane,” Ilya tells him again, and Shane sighs before walking to the couch with a lingering glance outside.
“We’re definitely snowed in.”
“Well, is a good thing you went grocery shopping yesterday. Will be fine. Marly, you will stay here tonight,” Ilya says, and Cliff’s eyes light up.
“A Boston bros sleepover? How long has it been since we’ve done that? Dude, this is the best!” He exclaims, slapping Ilya’s arm, and Ilya matches his grin.
Shane's eyes dart to Cliff in annoyance, and he clears his throat, though he doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest. “I mean, not for you, Hollzy, obviously. But I bet a few of your teammates have been caught in this too. Don’t stress.”
Ignoring him, Shane looks to Ilya and asks, “How am I supposed to explain to my coach why I’m in Boston?”
“Say you had a photoshoot or something, he won’t question it,” Ilya offers, and then smirks. “You do so many, they won’t even get suspicious.”
“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t see that shirtless Seltzer ad! You’ve been all over downtown the last few weeks,” Cliff chimes in.
With another sigh, Shane sinks into the couch beside Ilya. He doesn’t mind Cliff; they’ve actually somewhat become friends since they came out to him, but spending a night around someone he didn’t even plan to see tonight has him a little on edge. He’s also stressed because he has a game in only two days, and tomorrow morning doesn’t seem likely to allow him to go to the gym and perform his day-before pregame rituals.
"You are thinking very loudly," Ilya says, low, while Cliff's distracted rummaging for the remote between the couch cushions. “It will be fine, the storm will be gone by tomorrow.”
“My flight to Montreal is tomorrow evening.”
“Well, the storm will be gone by then,” Ilya shrugs, but takes Shane’s hand in his and places a brief kiss against his knuckles.
“No, the weather forecast says that it—”
“Shanya, relax. You are allowed to miss one game.”
Shane sighs and leans further back, letting the cushions swallow him a little. “Okay,” He whispers.
Ilya grins at him, and then drops his hand and stands up. “Marly, you fucking idiot, the remote is over here.”
They begin bickering, and Shane just watches with a sigh. He crosses his arms and gives one last lingering glance out of the window before he looks away. He can relax for one night, he supposes.
Two hours later, there’s an empty case of beer on the floor and a half-full one on the coffee table. Ilya and Cliff are sprawled across the floor playing Chel on the Xbox, elbowing each other and sloshing their beers over the rim of the cans, more drunk than tipsy.
Shane’s three cans in, he usually doesn’t indulge in beer during the season and as a consequence his tolerance is dangerously low, but it’s been a stressful night and so he’s already just as drunk as the other two and isn’t really concerned about the beer splashing onto Ilya’s tacky tigerprint rug. He’s tuning out the lashing of the snow slush on the windows, watching the men slap the controllers out of each other's hands, focusing on the game on the television with absorbed attention because, well. Video game hockey is still hockey.
“You can’t fucking do that, is cheating!” Ilya cries for maybe the sixteenth time tonight.
“You’re just shit at the game,” Cliff replies, jabbing Ilya in the ribs again.
Ilya kicks him awkwardly from his position half-lying down, like a baby giraffe flailing its legs, but Cliff catches his foot and pulls him across the floor so he lolls his head against Shane’s calf hanging off the couch.
“Shaaane,” Ilya whines, grabbing his ankle with his beer-free hand, having discarded his controller so his avatar is just skating into the wall. “Help me! I am being bullied!”
“You can’t go to your boyfriend for help, ya big baby,” Cliff laughs, pulling at his foot again.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have kicked him,” Shane says, and Ilya grumbles before tugging hard on Shane’s ankle so he slides down from his place on the couch.
“No, I’m not getting involved with this,” He groans, but Ilya keeps trying to pull him off.
Using Ilya’s distraction to his advantage, Cliff grabs his controller and on the screen, he skates right towards the goal and shoots into the top corner. He cheers loudly, and Ilya looks up, scandalised.
“What the fuck! That’s cheating!”
“Nah, I’m just that good,” Cliff replies, grabbing Ilya’s controller and throwing it so it thuds against the rug.
“Marly, you are so dead,” Ilya declares, going to grab his controller and purposefully blocking the screen.
“Oh, now that is cheating!”
"You are one to talk," Ilya says, still planted firmly in front of the screen, arms crossed smugly. "Cheaters can't call me a cheater."
Cliff lunges for him, trying to shove him out of the way, and Ilya immediately engages, dropping to the floor and half-heartedly grabbing for him with no malice behind it. Cliff immediately swings back, and soon they’re wrestling on the carpet, the game forgotten.
Shane watches from the couch, one leg still hanging off where Ilya left it, rather amused and not planning on intervening. "You're going to break something," He comments.
Now having reminded Ilya that he’s there, the blonde immediately reaches for him.
“No, no, don’t involve me in this,” Shane groans, but Ilya pulls him down onto the floor anyway with a hard yank, and Shane falls onto the carpet next to him.
Cliff cackles at this development and goes to grab Ilya’s discarded beer can that’s miraculously still upright, pretending like he’s about to tip it onto him.
“Leave Hollzy alone! He’s the only one whose legs work on the Metros, you can’t damage him!” He chirps, and Shane’s too used to it to do anything other than roll his eyes.
“Not in my hair, Marly! Mine is the only one whose hair looks good on the Bears! Don’t ruin it!” Ilya cries, but it makes him let go of Shane’s ankle to cover his curls.
“That’s a lie! Look at my hair!” Cliff exclaims indignantly, and places the can down to begin wrestling again.
Shane’s sitting there and reaches for a fourth can, grinning like a maniac. It’s nice to see Ilya with his friend, it’s not as uncomfortable as he’d thought, and he blames the alcohol for the mushy feeling in his stomach.
They’re kicking and shoving at each other, but with the ease of two people who match strength, rolling around on the floor as they’ve probably done many times before in the locker room.
“Say it! Say I have the best hair!” Ilya’s shouting, and Cliff flails as Ilya tries to pin him.
“I would never tell a lie like that!”
Suddenly, the room goes dark. The noise of the game cuts out, and Ilya and Cliff stop chirping each other, going silent, the only sound their heavy breathing.
“Blyat,” Ilya sighs.
Shane scours the house for every candle that they own with his phone flashlight. It's probably not a great idea to have three drunk men surrounded by fire, but he doesn’t even consider the risk, more concerned with being able to see more than two feet in front of him.
“Looks like the whole street’s out,” Ilya comments as he and Cliff peer out the window from the floor, having stopped wrestling.
“Probably the whole city, the way the snow’s comin’ down,” Cliff replies, and they both sigh.
Shane places each candle around the room and lights them as he goes, and soon the room is filled with soft golden light flickering across their faces.
The house has gotten much colder, the heated floors turned off from the power cut, and Shane shivers slightly in his shorts as he lights the final few.
Ilya must be cold too, because he suggests casually, “Maybe we should cuddle for warmth.”
Shane and Cliff both look to Ilya with matching expressions, and he looks between them. “Penguins do it. I saw in Shane’s nature documentary.”
Shane’s about to suggest the much smarter, more common-sense alternative of getting sweaters and probably going up to bed, before Cliff chimes in.
“If penguins do it, people can do it,” He shrugs.
Shane’s eyebrows shoot up. He can't believe how the minds of the pair work, and a sudden memory surfaces of being out at dinner with Svetlana, when she called them both himbos. He almost laughs at the reminder, almost.
Instead, he realises that they were fully serious as he watches Ilya settle his back against the foot of the sofa and drag the large fluffy blanket from it, still warm from the body heat of when Shane was using it, and pulls it over himself. He then looks to Shane.
“Well? Come here.”
He lights the last candle with an exaggerated sigh before he sets the lighter down and makes his way to Ilya's side. Ilya tucks the blanket over them, and places an arm around his back.
“Come on Marly, there's room for three,” He beckons, and Cliff rolls towards them and climbs under the blanket on Shane’s side.
It does stretch over them all, but all three of them are built out of two hundred plus pounds of muscle each and are at a combined height of approximately eighteen feet, and so there's very little space between them when they're curled under the blanket.
Ilya's weight is pressing into his left side, Cliff's on his right, and he leans a bit further into Ilya, breathing in his scent on the shoulder of his t-shirt.
Cliff shuffles further under the blanket, and so his leg is pressed against Shane's. Shane jolts a little at the contact, and prays neither of the men noticed.
The morning after, Shane justifies it as an alcohol-induced misstep.
He leans backwards slightly, not enough to pull off Ilya’s shoulder, but enough to feel Cliff's weight against him with what little space there is between them.
Cliff, probably subconsciously, possibly not, leans into Shane as well, and soon he's comfortably crushed between the two.
“Ah, this is cozy,” Ilya sighs, squeezing Shane’s arm from behind him before reaching over him slightly to pat Cliff's arm, officially squashing Shane between them. It makes him have to close his eyes, a little bit overwhelmed.
“You are sleepier than I thought, Shanya.”
“Mmm,” He just agrees, not wanting to explain his humiliating situation.
“Let’s all sleep,” Cliff announces, and pulls the blanket over all of them.
Shane takes it as a mercy, and lets his eyes close, tucking himself further into Ilya’s side.
He wakes up with his face stuffed in Ilya’s shoulder, and with a sleepy pang of heat rising in his stomach. There's a hardness rubbing against his hip, and he half-consciously leans into it. He closes his eyes to enjoy it, the steady rocking against him, rubbing his face lower onto Ilya’s bicep.
Ilya.
Shane’s eyes shoot open. Ilya’s here, in front of him, snoozing away with his cheek resting on top of Shane’s head. So who the fuck is behind him?
The night before abruptly comes to mind: the drinks, the game, snuggling under the fucking blanket with Ilya and Cliff, still snuggling under the damn blanket right now. So that means that Cliff is…
A groan comes from behind him as the weight keeps rocking. A clot of anxiety rises in Shane’s throat. He isn’t sure if Cliff is awake, but the muffled noises coming from his mouth point to the opposite. If he wakes Cliff, it would be humiliating for both of them, and Cliff would have to escape the house and brave the snowstorm, which is still lashing against the windows. If he stays, he risks Ilya waking and getting angry; his jealousy has always been intense, and it would certainly ruin their friendship if Ilya finds out. Shane deliberates, mind racing a mile a minute, what the fuck is he supposed to do in this situation? What the fuck—
Oh. Cliff's hardness slips down, and slips between Shane’s ass. Shane gasps quietly, his eyes rolling slightly at the feeling, and he pushes his face further into Ilya’s pecs. Oh fuck.
The mix of scented candles leaves a combination of pleasant scent in the air, flowers and vanilla, and Shane inhales it to ground himself.
Shane just melts closer into Ilya, feeling Cliff’s hardness against his ass. It feels… good. Obviously, it feels good, but they haven’t discussed this, he and Ilya are exclusive, but there was no explicit talk about it. Shame rises in him.
Just then, Cliff’s tip catches against his hole, assisted by the wetness of his cock, and a moan punches out of Shane’s stomach. He presses closer to Ilya, and he can feel his shorts begin to strain as blood rushes down his body. Fuck, no, no. Ilya’s going to be so fucking angry.
But it’s really good, and his hips stutter forward, only a little, but enough to be pressing his hard length into Ilya’s bare thigh. Fuck, did they all really have to wear shorts tonight? He can feel himself leaking through his, probably leaving a mess on Ilya’s skin. The slide continues, Cliff’s unconscious rhythm making him slip into Shane every few strokes, making the sanity quickly drain from him.
Shane lets another moan leave his lips, and on the fifth slide of the head sinking in and out, he feels Ilya stir, moving his arm and leg. The problem is, his thigh presses even closer to Shane, a steady pressure against his cock, and soon he doesn’t know what feeling to press into more. His hips jerk backwards and forwards and his eyes roll even more.
A hum comes from Ilya’s lips, and Shane lifts his head just enough to keep his lower face still in his shoulder, but enough to watch Ilya’s blue eyes slowly blink open.
He must feel the movement, because he turns his head, and Shane watches with bated breath as his eyebrows raise. He lifts his chin slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Then, a wolfish grin grows on his face.
“Ah, my pretty Shane, good choice, Marly.” He says, and Shane’s eyes widen slightly at how casual it sounds.
They widen even more when Cliff hums in affirmation and murmurs, “I thought so, too.”
Fuck, Cliff was awake the entire time. The entire time he looked at Shane and decided to hump him. Shane feels so humiliated at the thought of Cliff seeing Shane push into it and enjoy it, and digs his face into the plush of the blanket, hips still rutting slowly.
Ilya laughs at him. “Don’t be embarrassed, malysh, it just means that you’re so pretty,” He purrs, and presses his thigh between Shane’s leg so anytime he rocks forward, he humps right into Ilya.
The sensation is intoxicating, and soon enough he’s mindlessly moaning at every movement, humiliation now a tiny thought at the back of his mind, feeling himself spill pre-come and soaking through his shorts.
“Come on, Shane, show Marly how good you are,” Ilya prompts, and grabs his hips to guide him. Shane feels like a rag doll, being pushed and pulled forward and back, feeling Cliff’s tip slipping into him through his boxers.
“You are, Shane, you’re so good,” Cliff praises, and it sounds like it takes considerable effort, clearly almost as worked up as Shane is. “So pretty, so tight.”
Shane moans at the words, the heat building in his stomach so unbearable, he can’t help but go limp into Ilya’s arms, letting himself be used. He feels so floaty, no doubt dropping into subspace, something he and Ilya have been exploring lately. He feels it now, definitely, and wants to curse himself for falling into it so easily, but he can’t help but try to melt further into that fuzzy mindset. What the fuck is happening to him?
Cliff’s leaning into him, his chest resting against his back, and Ilya’s on his side now, pressing Shane between them like a weighted blanket. Crowded between them, he doesn’t know what warmth to lean into. He just knows that it feels good, moans desperately escaping his lips now, endlessly.
Suddenly, he feels a thumb press lightly against his tip whenever his cock slides against Ilya’s thigh, and he can’t hold it back.
He comes with a long moan, pressing closer into Ilya’s chest as he does, hips stuttering as Cliff continues and he paints Ilya’s skin with ropes of white spurts. He lets himself go limp as Cliff grunts, when Shane makes himself tighten around the head of his cock.
“Oh, fuck, Hollzy, holy shit,” Cliff groans, his voice deep and rumbling in his chest. He slides in once, twice, one last time, before he pushes his hips forwards and deeper, another inch slipping in as he shoots his hot load into him with a groan.
Shane lets his eyes shut, catching his breath. He feels Cliff’s warmth pull away, and the lack of contact almost forces a whine from his mouth.
A moment passes, and Shane must be dropping quicker than he thought because the next moment Cliff is standing, peeling off his soaked boxers with a grin and dropping them to the floor. The blanket is wrecked, no doubt, but it doesn’t even register in Shane’s mind to worry about it.
“So good, my Shanya,” Ilya whispers into his ear, stroking a hand through his hair.
He turns his head back, so he doesn’t have to keep being so observed, the overwhelm draining from his body.
“You want to fuck him properly, Marly?” Ilya asks, as if Shane’s not even there.
“I think you know the answer to that, Roz.”
There are a few moments before Shane’s manhandled into Ilya’s arms, gathered up and placed on top of the couch gently, his stomach against the fabric.
He doesn’t know how long he lies there, mind still floating, but Ilya must’ve gotten the lube from the drawer right at the bottom of the coffee table, because he feels wet familiar fingers pressing against his hole. He’d gotten soft after his orgasm, but he can feel himself growing hard again at the sensation.
A finger breaches him, and he whines, rubbing his face into the fabric below him.
“Shh,” Ilya whispers, and presses right up to his knuckle.
He slips it in and out, making quick work of it as always, always too eager to fill him up. A second finger slips in, and Ilya’s fingers scissor in and out of him, occasionally pressing against the spot that makes him preen, arching his back like a cat as stars burst behind his eyelids.
He hears a soft chuckle, and then Ilya says, “Come help me, Marly.”
Suddenly, two more fingers are pressing in alongside Ilya’s, and Shane moans at the sensation. Holy shit, it feels so incredible, so full, he can’t do anything but writhe and moan.
“Shh, patience, sweetheart.”
He tries, he does, keeping his hips as still as he can while the fingers slip in and out of him. He stutters into the couch a few times, chasing all the stimulation he can get, but soon enough, two of the fingers slip out of him and he can hear the click of the lube again. A pillow is placed under his hips, and he humps into it subconsciously and delicately, still a little sensitive.
The blunt head of Cliff’s cock presses against him, and it slides over his ass a few times.
“Fuck, Hollzy, your ass is so fat.”
The tip catches on his rim, and they both groan at the feeling, and Cliff pushes it in and out a few times before he slowly pushes further in.
He’s huge, Shane didn’t notice it when he was humping him, but now he does. Just as huge as Ilya, and he stretches around him, pushing back into him with muscle memory.
Cliff starts with shallow thrusts, but it’s enough to drive Shane a bit crazy, preening as his back arches. He lifts Shane’s hips, and the angle has him hitting Shane’s spot with every push. He’s definitely hard now, he can feel his heavy cock hanging, the head brushing on the cushion.
There’s a harder thrust and he tightens, forcing a groan out of Cliff from behind him. “Fuck, so tight. I see why you're– you're leaving Boston for him, Roz,” He grunts.
The hockey nicknames add a level to it that Shane hadn't anticipated, and he makes a noise he knows he'll be embarrassed about later.
Cliff laughs at him, a low rumble. “You alright, Hollzy?”
Shane just turns his head further into the couch.
“You’re so pretty, baby,” Ilya purrs in his ear. He can feel warm hands firmly holding his waist, and they stay when another hand reaches up to sweep his sweaty bangs from his forehead, when his chin is grabbed and turned sideways, away from the pillow. He can see Ilya, with his piercing blue eyes and his other hand slowly palming his length.
Another hard thrust, and Shane arches his back slightly, his eyes closing. Ilya jerks his chin. “Eyes open please, malysh.”
He opens them, half-lidded as he looks into Ilya’s eyes, standing above him with a wolfish look. Shane’s cock is rubbing deliciously against the cushion, and at a particularly hard thrust that drives his hips down into it, he moans.
With his brain melting out of his ears, Shane reaches a shaky hand up to replace Ilya’s one pressing into his boxers. He feels his length, wonders how long he’s been hard. Since he woke up and saw him and Cliff, probably.
“Hm,” Ilya groans at the press of Shane’s palm, looking down at him with blown pupils. “You want to suck me, sweetheart?”
Shane nods, so desperate for it that he’s basically gagging, he didn’t realise how much he needed it until he was asked. Cliff slows his thrusts while staying deep inside, grabbing his hips and pulling him up so he slides down the couch, making space for Ilya to sit in front of him and pull his length out of his boxers.
“Please,” Shane whispers, the first word he’s been able to say since this whole thing began.
Ilya just smiles and strokes himself a few times before he grabs Shane’s jaw and taps his tip on his lips, smearing pre-come over them.
He pushes in, just the tip, but Shane instantly leans forwards, tilting his head down so he can slip Ilya’s cock all the way in. He licks at it, tasting the clean salt on his tongue. Cliff starts thrusting again, and Shane’s being pushed forward and pulled back, the feeling of being so full thrumming through his veins.
A groan escapes Ilya’s lips when his tip hits the back of his throat and Shane moans, feeling so stuffed, like pre-come is trying to leak out of his ears.
“I told you, my котенок is so good,” Ilya says, and Cliff grunts in agreement.
“He’s so good, so pretty, lets us do whatever we want,” Cliff praises, and punctuates it with a hard thrust right into Shane’s prostate.
He purrs at the praise, at the warm hands exploring the muscles of his back. It feels so fucking good; he feels so used, just a toy for their pleasure. The thought makes him moan, and the combination of his tip rutting into the couch, the cock down his throat and the one buried in his ass makes him spurt pre-come.
Cliff’s hand leaves his waist and reaches down to rub at Shane’s cock, tugging at his balls a few times before he begins to stroke him. At the same time, Ilya starts thrusting into his mouth, and Shane’s mind goes blank.
Muffled moans leave his lips, and Ilya’s hand fists his hair, pulling him up and down, up and down, like a rag doll. Cliff’s fucking into him at the same time that he jerks him off, so tight, and Shane can’t do anything but whine as his second orgasm builds in his tummy.
Ilya moans, sounding absolutely wrecked. His cock slips over Shane's tongue, the salty taste bursting across his taste buds, both of them moaning whenever the tip hits the back of Shane’s throat. It's addictive, Shane wants to stay in this sensation forever. He's stuffed so full, sparks of pleasure crackling up his spine.
“So good, so fucking good, malysh,” Ilya groans, the praise spilling from his lips.
The words send Shane over the edge, and he comes like a supernova, his hips twitching desperately into Cliff’s fist, spurting ropes over his fingers and into the cushion under his hips. He moans loudly, and it bounces around the room. He doesn’t feel present anymore, sent into a different dimension as his cock dribbles through the growing sensitivity.
“Ah, fuck,” Cliff grunts, hands moving to Shane's hips and lifting him closer, his hips melting into Shane’s ass like puzzle pieces slotting together. Shane can feel himself going so tight, trying to drain Cliff’s balls. “‘M not gonna last, fuck.”
Ilya moans, still thrusting hard into Shane’s throat. “Fuck, me neither.”
“Ah, shit, fuck, Hollzy,” Cliff groans, coming first, spilling deep inside Shane’s hole, filling every inch of him.
Ilya follows quickly after, his hips jerking up and pushing Shane’s head as far down as it’ll go, painting his throat.
“Holy shit,” Cliff grunts, as he pulls out and falls back against the armrest. Shane's pulled off of Ilya's cock and he can see him looming above, thighs wide and softening cock in his big hand. Cliff’s in a similar position, but Ilya recovers after a few minutes, wiping the sweat from his face before he stands up, pulling his boxers back up his legs.
“Let’s put котенок to bed, hm? I think he needs it,” Ilya says, and Cliff nods and stands up, ignoring his still-soaked boxers and just pulling on his shorts.
Cliff leaves the room, and a weak whine leaves Shane's mouth as Ilya strokes a hand through his hair and rubs circles on his back. Then, there's a warm, damp cloth being stroked along his ass, and gently over his cock to avoid him getting oversensitive.
With his face smushed into the pillow, he can't tell whose hands are whose, calloused fingertips and warm stable weight the only thing he can decipher, stroking so softly along his waist, his back, cupping the back of his neck.
Then, he’s lifted up, curled into Ilya’s chest, the warmth of his cologne such a comforting smell that he can’t help but melt. Ilya carries him upstairs, Cliff not far behind him as he walks into their bedroom and places him on the soft mattress, Cliff drawing back the duvet.
He’s melting into the bed, their soft pillow morphing to cup his face. His brain feels like it’s melting out of his ears, and the soothing aftercare of a cuddle and the warm cloth scrubbing along his limbs has made him lean the weight of his entire body into the bed, completely boneless.
He doesn’t need to open his eyes, doesn’t even need to move; the two men rearrange his body accordingly, re-dressing him and manhandling him under the covers. He sighs blissfully, and he feels more than hears Ilya chuckle and kiss his cheek.
Weight on the mattress rocks him slightly, and the warmth of both men appears at his sides, curling against him, arms and legs strewn across him as he’s held delicately, like he’s made of glass.
He thinks of nothing else as sleep overcomes him, except for the soft sound of the snow outside and the feeling of skin upon skin.