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Ilya Rozanov feels like a little kid on Christmas, enthusiastic and full of energy and grateful for the gifts he got, eager to rip them open and play with them.
Shane Hollander has been the best present he could ever ask for – sometimes, he feels like more than Ilya deserves – and every single day he wakes up amazed that they’re married, that they don’t have to limit themselves to rushed hook-ups in hotel rooms and flirtatious texts thousands of miles apart.
So having four versions of his husband is almost too much for Ilya to handle, and simultaneously the best gift he’s ever gotten.
He’s still not convinced he’s dreaming, stuck in a coma somewhere or passed out on the floor with a head injury, but right now he couldn’t give less of a fuck. Let him bleed out; he’s going to soak up every single minute of this.
Ilya had woken up alone, stretching out to find Shane’s side of the bed empty and cold. He knows it’s because, even on a Saturday, he’s already awake, sticking to his usual routine because he’s Shane. The clock on their dresser reads 11:43 AM, so he’s definitely already gone for a run and had breakfast – something Ilya is dying for, by the way his stomach is growling.
He rolls out of bed, not bothering to put on anything more than the boxers he’d slept in, and pads down the hall to the kitchen.
“малыш?” he says, yawning.
“In here,” Shane calls from the living room. Ilya rounds the corner, smiling, and freezes.
He closes his eyes, rubs his eyes with his fists, convinced he’s sleepwalking, opens them again. Nothing changes.
“The fuck?”
Shane is sitting on the couch – but he’s not alone.
Sitting next to him are three other Shanes, who stare at Ilya like he’s an alien instead of the rightful co-owner of said couch.
He feels like he’s high, or drunk, or tripping on shrooms, because there is no way there are four versions of his husband sitting right there, like this is how they always spend their Saturday mornings. He can’t handle this on an empty stomach.
“No,” Ilya says. He turns on his heel and walks into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to scan its contents.
“No?” He hears one of the Shanes say. He ignores them, pulls out the milk and shuts the door with a quiet slam. His brain works on autopilot, reaching for a bowl and spoon, pouring the Cinnamon Toast Crunch in with practiced ease. He leans back against the counter and stares at the floor tiles as he eats, distantly aware of the fact that someone has entered the kitchen and is standing next to him.
His brain is churning as he chews, trying to figure out exactly what is going on. He doesn’t remember fainting, taking a hit, getting into a car accident – nothing that would account for suddenly hallucinating four versions of his husband at once, or that would send him into a deep enough dream state that he could sleepwalk like this, not when it feels so real.
“Ilya?” Shane – his Shane – says. He’s got his hand on Ilya’s waist, grounding and warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and staring at him with an expression Ilya can’t quite describe.
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?”
He doesn’t respond. Part of him wonders how Shane is handling this so calmly, how he’s just rolling with the punches here instead of having a panic attack. Maybe he really is hallucinating, and Shane doesn’t see them.
“Do you see them?” He asks, his mouth half-full. Shane raises an eyebrow.
“The clones of myself sitting on our couch? Yeah, I see them.”
Okay. Okay, maybe he’s not crazy. Or they’ve both completely lost it.
“What do we do with them?”
Shane shrugs. “I have no idea.”
Ilya’s brain unhelpfully supplies a few ideas, ones that involve a lot less clothes and a lot more energy than he has at the moment. He’d even joked about it once, telling Shane he’d only be willing to have a threesome if he had a long-lost identical twin (Shane had punched him in the arm and kissed him to shut him up.) So he’d be lying if he said his dick didn’t twitch at the thought of railing four versions of his husband.
“Where did they come from?” He tilts the bowl up, draining the last of the cinnamon flavored milk. The spoon clatters against the ceramic loudly.
“They just showed up,” Shane says. His thumb is tracing lazy circles on Ilya’s hip bone. “One minute I’m making a smoothie after my run, the next I look up and there they are on our couch, staring at me.”
Ilya turns and deposits the bowl and spoon into the sink.
“What do you want to do?” He asks, trying to keep his tone neutral. He knows that leaning into the sheer panic and confusion in his brain will only make Shane freak out more. Shane shrugs.
“I mean, they seem normal. Treat them like regular guests, I guess? Maybe that will make them go away.”
Okay, they can do this. This is totally normal, completely usual behavior for them. How do you be a good host to a party where everyone is a clone of your husband?
All three Shanes glance in their direction when they re-enter the living room. One of them – the oldest, judging by the salt-and-pepper of his hair – catches Ilya’s eye and waves awkwardly.
The other two Shanes are talking to each other – it takes Ilya a moment to realize one is exclusively speaking French, and for some reason that sends a zip of arousal down his spine. His mind flickers back to the times he used to watch his post-game interviews half-hard, focused on the pink of lips and remembering how gorgeous they looked wrapped around his cock.
One of them has long hair, pulled back in a messy bun, and he can see the inked edges of a couple tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his shirt. The other – rattling off something Ilya doesn’t know how to translate – looks pretty much identical to his Shane, his body a tad softer around the edges.
“Is this how you feel when I don’t translate?” He asks Shane, tilting his head in French-Speaking-Shane’s direction. “Confused and left out?”
“Sometimes,” Shane admits, moving to perch on the arm of the couch. “But I think my Russian is improving.”
Ilya snorts. “If you say so.”
“Fuck you.”
“In front of our guests? Bold.”
Ilya had meant it as a joke, but it’s hard to miss the way Shane’s eyes widen, like he’s suddenly realizing just how into that he’d be.
“So, uh, do you guys also play hockey?” Shane says too quickly, changing the subject. Only one of the Shane clones nods, the one with the long hair and the tattoos.
“Still playing for Ottawa,” he answers. “We probably have another few under our belts.”
“We’ve been retired for years,” Old Shane cuts in. He’s leaning back against the cushions, stretched out and relaxed.
“I decided to take a step back once we had Sophie,” French-Speaking-Shane says in English. A wide smile stretches across his face. “But it was worth it.”
Ilya frowns, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion.
“Sophie?”
He nods. “Our daughter. I’ve been teaching her French, and Ilya’s been teaching her Russian – this kid is going to be trilingual if it damn near kills me.”
Shane says something, but all Ilya can focus on is the word daughter repeating over and over in his head. Something about the real possibility of him having a child with Shane cracks open the dam in his heart, sending a wave of feelings he’s been preventing himself from acknowledging straight to the center of his brain.
He wants to raise a kid with Shane. The thought hits him like a bullet to the sternum, making his chest cave in until he feels like he can’t breathe. He can almost picture it – Shane holding their baby, smiling so hard it makes his eyes crinkle, their toddler in a tiny hockey jersey, all golden curls and dark eyes and pudgy cheeks, Shane teaching their kid the proper way to hold a hockey stick. All of a sudden, he feels like he’s going to puke.
“I need a drink,” Ilya croaks, speed-walking back into the kitchen. He pours himself half a glass of the good vodka they keep in the freezer and downs it in one go, desperately wishing for the alcohol to take effect. Someone in the living room laughs. The sound makes his stomach turn. He pours another glass and closes his eyes, tries to steel his face into a normal expression.
“ – and then he just gets in his car and drives away!” He hears Shane saying as he leaves the kitchen. “So, yeah, the family dinner we had after that was a trip.”
Ilya leans against the doorframe, hovering as he watches four versions of his husband converse on the couch. This can’t be real.
He tries to shove down the complicated tangle of emotions that sits like a rock in his stomach, thinks about how to fulfill Shane’s suggestion that they treat them like normal guests.
Ilya clears his throat and raises his glass. “So…lunch?”
Ilya is surprised at how comfortable he feels with them, having completely accepted the fact that this is a dream or a hallucination at this point. It’s probably because they’re all Shane, in one way or another, and Shane is his home, safety and comfort and predictability and love. So, if you ask him, that’s definitely the reason why everything that happens next unfolds.
He’s nursing one of the actually pretty good shitty craft beers Shane keeps in the fridge for whenever Pike comes over, picking at the label absent-mindedly, when someone says, “So how good is your Shane at sharing?”
The oldest Shane is sitting across the couch from him, staring him down intensely. At some point during the day, Ilya had started nicknaming them, because having this many Shanes here has started to make his head hurt. French-Speaking-Dad-Shane became Hollander. Long-Hair-Tattoos-Shane was Jane, because he’s pretty like a girl, though that spawned an entire conversation about their early text situationship. He called the oldest Shane Deda (Деда), and laughed when it resulted in a punch to the arm.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Sharing?”
It’s impossible to miss the way his eyes – the same dark brown, with a few more wrinkles around the edges – flicker up and down, checking Ilya out. Subtle.
“He’s awful at it,” Ilya says flatly.
“What am I awful at?” Shane asks, looking up from his seat on the floor. He’s in the middle of kicking Hollander and Jane’s asses on the Playstation, which is apparently much more exciting than playing against losing to Ilya.
“Sharing,” Deda replies.
“No, I’m not. I share things with people all the time! You guys are literally in our house, eating our food right now.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Not what he meant, малыш.”
“I don’t get it.”
Hollander hits pause on the game and leans over to whisper something in Shane’s ear, smirking. Ilya watches him work through it in his head, eyes bouncing back and forth between them as the pieces slowly start to click.
“Oh, fuck that. I’m not sharing you,” he says. The tips of his ears have started to turn red, matching the blush that’s spread over his cheeks. And even though Shane’s protesting, Ilya knows him, knows that even thinking about it is enough to turn him on, try as he might to deny it.
To be fair, the idea of being shared isn’t exactly something he’d say no to. Sex with Shane Hollander has always been mind-blowing – sex with four versions of Shane is almost unfathomable. But he’s only going to agree to it if Shane will, because the last thing he wants is to cause another patented Hollander panic attack.
“Why not?” Ilya asks. Shane rolls his eyes.
“Because that’s weird.”
“And this isn’t?” Jane chimes in, waving a hand at the room. He’s not wrong.
“Don’t you guys have your own Ilyas to fuck? I don’t see why you have to steal mine.”
“Oh my God, you’re jealous,” Ilya realizes, biting back a laugh.
“No, I’m not.”
“He’s totally jealous,” Deda says aloud, like Shane isn’t even in the room.
“I’m not jealous!” Shane yells. His nose is scrunched up in the adorable way it does when he gets angry, like a grumpy beaver.
“Okay then,” Ilya counters, pushing himself off the couch.
He launches himself at Deda, kissing him square on the mouth and fisting a hand in the grey-tinged locks of his hair. He responds eagerly, bringing his hands up to cup Ilya’s ass, sliding a wet tongue along the seam of his lips.
Behind him, he hears Shane squeak, a pathetic little sound that shoots straight to his dick – exactly the reaction he expected. Hollander wolf-whistles and laughs when Shane says, “Shut up,” half-heartedly.
A thin strand of saliva connects their lips when Ilya finally pulls back, panting. “Still not jealous?”
“Nope.” Shane shakes his head, but the tent in his sweatpants says otherwise.
“Liar,” Jane says. “Are we all that bad at lying?”
“Yes,” Ilya responds bluntly. It’s all he manages to say before Deda grabs his chin, turning his face so he can continue kissing him.
“No fair,” Hollander whines, and then the couch cushion next to them dips, sinking as someone flops down inelegantly.
“Wait a minute.”
Ilya freezes, his stomach swooping at the sound of Shane’s voice, reverberating like a thunder clap across the room. He sounds annoyed and a little exasperated, like he’s trying to take back control of the situation.
Ilya pulls back, slowly turns his head to look at Shane, who is already staring at him. He can tell, just from the expression on his face, that Shane isn’t actually angry – his head is slightly tilted, his eyes tracking over them as he formulates a plan, cold and calculated.
As much as Ilya loves to push Shane’s buttons – literally and metaphorically – he’ll do whatever he asks, especially if it means keeping his husband safe and happy. He’s half expecting Shane to order their guests out and slam the door in their faces, when he finally speaks.
“You want to share? Fine. But you have to play by my rules.”
It’s the same calm, commanding tone he uses as team captain, projecting authority without being overly demanding. Ilya has always admired it in the locker room, too distracted by the love of the game to be affected by it – but here, in the comfort of their own home, it’s arousing and all consuming, and he can feel himself getting painfully hard already.
“No leaving marks. Safeword is red. And I get to have final dibs on him.” Something predatory flashes over Shane’s face, his eyes glinting brightly. “You okay with that?”
Ilya’s heart flips, thudding painfully in his chest. He nods, eager and excited, that little kid on Christmas again feeling.
“Up,” Shane orders. For once, he does as he’s told without comment, pushing himself off the couch. Shane grabs his hand and leads him in the direction of their bedroom. Hollander, Jane, and Deda follow closely behind.
“On the bed.”
Ilya scrambles onto the bed, grateful he hadn’t bothered to make it when he woke up. The four of them linger around its perimeter, standing there with their eyes on him like he’s a caged animal.
“Do your worst,” Ilya jokes.
He’s never one for regrets, but he eats his words the moment he says them, because the feeling of suddenly having four pairs of hands on him is enough to make him feel dizzy.
“Fuck.”
They work in tandem, coordinated like a hive mind without any words at all. Someone shoves him back, pushing until he’s laying flat in the middle of the bed, and Ilya feels the mattress dip. Shane is sitting at the head of the bed, staring down at him reverently, face half-obscured by the bulge in his sweatpants. Someone else trails a line of kisses down his chest, bringing their hands up to grab at his pecs. Another yanks the boxers off his hips, stripping him bare.
Ilya pushes his head back, nudging Shane with his nose, trying to make him understand what he needs without asking for it. Shane tilts his head, smirking.
“Do you want something?”
His tone is innocent, like he’s asking if Ilya needs a glass of water instead of his dick in his mouth. They don’t switch roles like this often – he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy making Shane cry like a good little bitch – but the fact that Ilya has no power in this situation makes his head swim, fuzzy with submission. It’s infuriating and intoxicating and he really doesn’t understand how they ended up here, but he doesn’t want it to stop.
“I need you,” Ilya admits, his voice quieter and rougher than he’s expecting. He feels vulnerable, like someone has ripped his heart out of his chest and is holding it up for the world to see, but there’s some comfort in knowing Shane – all the versions of Shane – would fight to the death to keep it protected.
“Okay baby,” Shane says, and then he’s shifting, pulling his sweats off and straddling Ilya’s chest so he fuck his face properly. He can’t help but whine when Shane swipes the head of his cock over his lips, hot and heavy and grounding, giving him something to keep him sane while the rest of him fractures into pieces. Slowly, painfully slowly, he pushes inside, feeding Ilya his cock inch by inch until there’s no more to give. Ilya breathes out through his nose, inhales slowly so he doesn’t pass out.
He can smell the body wash they use and the laundry detergent on the sheets and the smell of Shane, musky and masculine in a way that fits him perfectly. Ilya is distantly aware of someone saying something, incomprehensible gibberish he can’t translate. His hips buck of their own accord when someone presses a hot, wet kiss to the base of his dick. Two someones, actually – one on either side, their tongues sliding over each other. Jesus Christ.
When they’d gone to pick out furniture for the apartment, Ilya had insisted on a bedframe made of real, solid wood, something expensive with a headboard that had rails. Shane had laughed and asked if he planned on tying him to the bed as a joke, before realizing that’s exactly what he was intending to do. They’d tested it out a few weeks later.
Here, now, he finds himself grateful for the bedframe as Shane leans forward to use it for leverage, wrapping his strong hands around the rails.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps. Ilya closes his eyes, focuses on breathing as Shane pulls back and fucks his throat. He can feel himself drooling, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth, and swallows hard around Shane’s cock.
“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, white-knuckling the bedframe when he feels the muscles of Ilya’s throat constrict.
Ilya is hazily aware of the two Shanes currently sucking his dick, startling when one of them sinks all the way down until their nose is pressed against his stomach. It feels like sinking into a too-hot bubble bath, a delicious warmth that settles into his bones almost painfully, sending him rocketing towards the edge. It feels incredible, but it’s not enough – he needs friction, and they aren’t moving.
Shane abruptly pulls out, hovering over his face as he strokes himself hard and fast, and then he’s coming, painting Ilya’s cheeks and nose white.
“Holy shit,” someone murmurs. Shane leans down and runs a finger across his cheekbone, spreading the cum into his skin.
“Gorgeous,” he praises. Ilya feels suddenly empty as Shane clambers off the bed, the grounding weight of him gone.
He cracks one eye open, glances down to see Jane warming his cock, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Ilya reaches down and threads his fingers through the long strands of his hair, pulling slightly until their eyes meet.
“Move,” Ilya says, half-ordering, half-pleading. Jane’s eyes shift, looking at the side of the bed. It takes him a moment to realize he’s staring at Shane – waiting for permission, submissive to his core in every form. Fuck. Hollander and Deda are watching them from the foot of the bed intensely, open-mouthed in awe.
The moment Shane nods, Jane springs to life, like someone hits the play button on a movie. He hollows his cheeks, pulling back until Ilya’s cock almost slips out, then starts to bob his head up and down, eyes slipping closed in concentration. The sounds he makes are obscene, needy little whimpers just barely audible above the wet sounds of him choking around Ilya’s dick. It’s fucking incredible, and all of a sudden he feels like he’s seconds from soaring over the edge.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya moans.
A hand yanks his head back roughly.
“No.”
His blood runs cold, freezing in his veins like ice. He stares up at Shane, taking in the way his pupils are blown wide with arousal.
“You come when I say you can,” Shane commands. Ilya bites back a whine. Jane hums, and the vibrations of it make Ilya’s toes curl with pleasure.
“Not fair,” he manages to choke out. Shane raises an eyebrow, the question clear on his face: are you going to safeword out?
And he knows everything would stop right here, right now, if he did – he’d be able to cum, and this would be over – but he can’t. Ilya Rozanov does not back down from a challenge, especially not when they’ve just barely started.
Ilya tightens his grip on Jane’s hair, yanking him off inelegantly. He yelps painfully.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya murmurs, letting go and smoothing a hand over the top of his head. Jane coughs, then glances up at him.
“It’s okay,” he says, his voice sounding wrecked. Then, suddenly, he’s in Ilya’s lap, crawling up the bed until they’re face to face. He barely has time to think about the fact that Shane’s cum is currently drying on his skin before Jane leans forward and runs his tongue over his cheekbone, licking the skin there clean.
“Gross,” Ilya says, wrinkling his nose. Jane chuckles and presses their mouths together. He can taste the salt of Shane’s cum on his tongue, familiar and heady.
Someone coughs, clearing their throat impatiently.
“Feeling left out?” Jane teases, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Deda grumbles, one hand wrapped around his cock.
“Poor baby,” Hollander says with mock pity. He’s perched at the end of the bed, already naked. And then he’s reaching up and yanking Deda forward, surging up to kiss him.
“Holy shit.”
Ilya had never really considered what watching Shane kiss himself would look like, but he feels like the luckiest man on Earth being able to witness it. One Shane Hollander is hot; two Shane Hollanders, making out with their tongues in each other’s mouths, is fucking insane. His dick twitches, hyper-sensitive and eager to cum.
A hand grabs his face, turning it back in Jane’s direction.
“Fuck me?” he asks, his big brown eyes pleading and watery. How could he ever say no to that, especially when he asks so sweetly?
Ilya reaches up and wraps his arms around Jane’s waist, flipping them over in one smooth motion. Hovering over him like this, he can see the entire gallery of his tattoos, the dark ink striking against the tan expanse of his skin. On his left bicep, above a snake that wraps around the hinge of his elbow, is a line drawing of a lily. He traces it gently with one finger and feels his heart skip a beat.
“My Ilya has a matching one,” Jane says softly, his voice fond. “That was the first one I ever got.”
From Shane’s side of the bed, Ilya can hear a quiet gasp, like someone’s punched him in the stomach. Interesting. Ilya makes a mental note to revisit the thought of his Shane getting a tattoo later, when he’s less distracted.
“Beautiful,” Ilya remarks truthfully. He stretches out his left hand, expecting Shane to hand him the bottle of lube they keep stashed in the bedside drawer, and jumps when he feels something hot and wet close around his fingers instead.
Shane is kneeling on the carpet with his mouth wrapped around Ilya’s hand, practically drooling as he coats his digits in spit. Ilya groans, pressing down on his tongue until he gags.
“Good boy,” he rasps. Shane hums. Dutifully, he throws the lube on the bed when Ilya withdraws his hand, knowing it probably won’t be enough on its own.
Jane is already waiting, knees pulled up to his chest obediently. A loon in flight stares up at Ilya from his right thigh, and for a moment he wonders how many of this Shane’s tattoos are related to them, how many he’s inspired. The thought makes his heart clench, painfully fond.
Jane whines when he finally runs his hands down the length of his thigh, petting over the pucker of his hole softly. He wriggles his hips impatiently when Ilya slips one finger inside, slowly stretching him out.
“You won’t break me,” Jane mutters, his tone biting. Shane snorts – he knows better than to challenge Ilya unless he’s purposefully trying to be punished.
“Want to bet?” Ilya says.
He pops the cap on the bottle of lube, pours enough into his hand to get himself nice and slick, and lines himself up, bullying his way past the tight ring of muscle until he bottoms out. Jane flails, his hands twisting in the sheets as he tries to escape the feeling of being filled without mercy or prep. Ilya takes pity on him, lets him breathe for a moment until he finally relaxes.
That’s all the reprieve he gets, and then Ilya pulls back and slams his hips forward, setting a vigorous pace. Jane wails as he jackhammers into him, pressing his hips down into the mattress so hard they’ll probably bruise. The bedframe squeaks underneath them with each forceful thrust, but Ilya knows it’ll hold – they’ve tested its integrity in plenty of creative ways.
Pleasure coils white-hot in his gut, burning him alive from the inside out, but he knows he can’t cum yet, not like this. He shifts, switches tactics, angling his hips until Jane sobs. Bingo. Ilya slows down and focuses on hitting his prostate with each thrust, revelling in the gorgeous way Jane is flushed and crying for it.
“Fuck, I’m gonna –”
“Come on,” Ilya says. “Cum for me.”
Jane screams, shaking as he cums untouched, constricting around Ilya so hard he sees stars. He grips the base of his cock as he pulls out, squeezing hard enough to hurt so he doesn’t topple over the edge. Shane leans over and kisses Jane on the forehead, murmuring something Ilya can’t quite hear. Whatever it is, it seems to soothe him, steadies the heaving of his chest as he comes down from the high.
Ilya sits back on his heels, trying to calm his own beating heart. Someone taps him on the shoulder.
“One down, three to go,” Deda says with a grin. Ilya groans.
“I’m going to die.”
“Drama queen,” Shane remarks. He helps Jane slowly sit up, guides him off the bed on wobbly, unsteady legs. It’s a little confusing and remarkably endearing, watching him care for himself like this.
“At least you’ll die happy,” Hollander chimes in. “Now lay down, it’s my turn.”
Ilya does as he’s told, turning and sliding backwards until his head is resting on the pillows.
Hollander smirks, straddling him and sinking down in one smooth motion. Somehow, without even touching the lube, he’s gushing with slick, wet enough to slide right in without resistance. He’s fucking tight, squeezing Ilya just enough to make him feel like the breath has been punched from his lungs. He wants to cum so badly he feels like crying, although he’s sure that even the sight of that wouldn’t make them relent at this point. Sadistic bastards.
“блядь,” Ilya wheezes, groaning when Hollander starts to move, bouncing up and down like he’s been doing it his whole life. Every single drag of his walls around his cock is molten velvet, hot and slick, sending sparks up Ilya’s spine.
He’s gorgeous like this, nearly identical to his Shane but a bit softer around the edges, probably from taking time off hockey. It suits him, makes him look comfortable and taken care of in a way Ilya rarely gets to see.
“It’s not enough,” Hollander whines. Ilya frowns.
“Not enough?”
Hollander blindly feels behind him, grasping at air until Deda steps closer.
“Fuck, I - I need…” Hollander stammers, trailing off into a moan. Ilya grabs his hips firmly, holds him in place.
“Use your words,” he orders. Hollander squirms, a blush spreading over his cheeks and down the front of his chest.
“I need both,” he finally chokes out, hands grabbing at Deda’s chest. It takes Ilya a second to realize what he means. He glances up, makes eye contact with Deda over Hollander’s shoulder, and tries to communicate what he’s thinking without words.
“Okay,” Deda says, his tone calm and collected. “Okay, we’ve got you.” If he has any qualms about being the peg here, he certainly doesn’t show it.
Ilya can tell he’s thinking by the way he tilts his head, mental gears whirring as he formulates a plan. Hollander doesn’t stop moving, wriggling his hips in an attempt to get more friction.
“вынимать,” Deda says finally. Ilya’s eyes widen, but he does as instructed, lifting Hollander up and off his cock despite his whines of protest. Deda climbs off the bed and crosses over to the far wall, leaning back against it.
“идите сюда,” he commands, pointing to the carpet in front of him. Someone’s had time to practice their Russian during retirement. Hollander glances at Ilya, who pushes him off the bed in Deda’s direction. He stumbles a little, cock-drunk and unsteady, falling easily into Deda’s arms.
He smirks as he turns him around, pressing Hollander’s back to his chest, and hooks both hands under his knees, lifting him with ease. He lets gravity do the work, sinking Hollander onto his cock until he bottoms out, gliding easily with how slick he is. Ilya stares at them for a moment, dick throbbing at how fucking hot it is to watch two versions of his husband fuck each other, and then remembers he’s supposed to be participating.
Hollander is babbling, half-French, half-English, pathetic and crying like a bitch. He jerks when Ilya presses against him from the front, gasping as he slowly lines himself up and presses inside.
“Merde,” he swears, groaning. The stretch of taking both of them finally scratches the itch bubbling under his skin, toeing the line of pleasure and pain.
Ilya swears he can feel Deda’s pulse in his dick, rubbing up against his own. It’s new and strange and ridiculously arousing. He tries to match his rhythm as Deda uses Hollander like a toy, bouncing him up and down as they fuck him. Hollander melts, malleable and sweet, reduced to nothing but helpless, punched-out little moans. Ilya feels himself barrelling towards his own orgasm, the coil of pleasure in his gut tightening almost painfully.
“Shane,” he says breathlessly, craning his head to try and see him. Shane is sitting on the bed, lazily stroking his own cock as he watches them. “I can’t do this. I need to cum.”
“Yes, you can,” Shane says lowly, his voice a deep rumble. “You can and you will.”
Fuck.
He grits his teeth and focuses all his energy on holding back the floodgates. Deda speeds up, grunting as he approaches his own orgasm. Ilya reaches down to snake a hand between them, jerking Hollander off fast and hard.
“Fuck, fuck –”
Ilya can feel Deda cum, hot and wet around him as he fills Hollander up, and that is what finally sends Hollander over the edge, covering his stomach in ropes of white as he cries. His spine bows backwards, his body seizing with the force of it, before he collapses onto Ilya’s chest, breathing heavily. They stand there for a minute, maybe two, trying to collect themselves.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane says. Ilya can tell he’s already halfway there by the way his hands are shaking.
He has such a hair trigger right now that he’s sure he’ll lose it the second Shane touches him – but he’s done so good, listened so patiently, and all he wants is to finally cum. He pulls out, flopping backwards onto the bed and covering his face with his hands.
“пожалуйста,” Ilya begs, mentally cursing how desperate he sounds. He feels like he’s been flayed alive, cut open for all of them to see, raw and intimate and helpless.
“I’ve got you,” Shane murmurs. He feels the mattress dip, and then Shane’s kissing him, warm and familiar and tasting like home. It takes Ilya a second to realize he’s crying, but he can’t even bring himself to care.
Shane presses a kiss to his cheek, trailing his way down Ilya’s body. He flinches when he feels Shane’s warm breath skate over the head of his cock, leaking onto his stomach, overstimulated.
Shane knows exactly how to take him apart like this – he always has, even since the first time in his hotel room a lifetime ago, eager to please and a fast learner. He runs his tongue over the frenulum, tracing the sensitive vein along the underside the way he knows will drive Ilya insane. It’s torture, and all Ilya wants to do is grab his hair and pull him down, fuck his throat until he can’t take it anymore. It takes every ounce of his energy to refrain.
Shane must notice the way his thighs are shaking, trembling with the effort of holding back, because he reaches up and brings Ilya’s hand to the back of his head, silently giving him permission.
That’s what finally makes him break.
Ilya grabs his hair with both hands and shoves his cock down Shane’s throat, ignoring the way he gags around it, eyes wide and watery. They both know Shane will tap his leg three times if he needs a break. He can hear the slap of his balls against Shane’s chin, the squelch of his mouth as he thrusts in and out haphazardly, fast and hard and using him like a toy. Shane blinks up at him, teary and flushed, the perfect picture of debauchery. It’s too much.
“Shane,” Ilya warns, flames licking up his bones as he nears the end. “Can I – ?”
Shane pulls off with a wet pop, just long enough to rasp, “Cum for me.”
Ilya groans and shoves his dick into Shane’s open mouth, thrusts once, twice, and then holds him there as he rockets over the edge, his orgasm hitting him like a goddamn freight train. Someone almost screams – it takes Ilya a moment to realize the sound is coming from him. He feels like he’s floating out of his body, watching himself from afar as waves of pleasure crash over him, shooting his cum down Shane’s throat. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision, threatening to take over as he slumps back onto the bed, boneless.
He’s not sure how long he lays there like that, floating and fuzzy, dimly aware of the other four bodies in the room. He can feel them crawling onto the bed with him, cuddling him from all angles. Someone runs a hand along his back, soothing, and a gentle kiss is pressed to his forehead.
“Rest,” someone says, right before he slides into comfortable unconsciousness.
When he wakes, it’s early morning, a pale blue sky peeking around the edges of their bedroom curtains. Shane is out cold next to him, flat on his back with one arm flung over his head, snoring quietly. It feels like a normal morning, like every other morning they have together.
Was the whole thing a dream?
Ilya rolls over and picks up his phone, squinting at the bright screen in the darkness. It’s Sunday, the phone confirms – so either he lost an entire day of memory, or it had to be real.
He doesn’t see anyone else – the room is spotless, just the way it had been when they’d fallen asleep Friday night. He slips out of bed and walks down the hall, half-expecting a Shane clone to pop out of nowhere. But he’s alone: there are no Shane doppelgangers, no signs of guests at all in the living room, tidy and pristine. It really does feel like a hallucination.
It isn’t until he walks into the kitchen that he sees it: something stuck to the fridge, trapped under a cheesy Canada magnet Ilya had gotten Shane as a gag gift. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and steps closer.
It’s a photograph, a small wallet-sized one, of them. Ilya and Shane are smiling at the camera, grinning widely, unguarded. Sitting on Shane’s lap is a little girl, no older than four, gap-toothed and freckled with dark curls and hazel eyes. Ilya gasps, dropping it like he’s been burned. Something is scribbled on the back in neat handwriting nearly identical to Shane’s.
Don’t give up hope for the future. It’s worth it.