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if you need it (ilya rozanov x shane hollander x fem!reader) (part three)

summary: shane and ilya drop by bunny’s place to offer apologies and promise friendship—but they quickly tumble back into the benefits, too.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ if you want it (part one)

♡ if you still want it (part two)

♡ you can have it (part four—finale)

♡ the shane & ilya collection

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, bunny is horny asf Shane is desperate as hell and Ilya needs to chill, oral (f!receiving), choking, biting, hair pulling, call it as it is this is dom!Ilya, overstimulation, cum swallowing/swapping Jesus this is filthy, rough rough, rough!

note: it helps to have the context of The Long Game when reading this. in my mind, this takes place kind of at the beginning of The Long Game, when Shane & Ilya are very much in a committed relationship but still hiding it from the world. ilya is ready to come out to the world at any minute but shane is still fearful and worried.

toronto, canada. february.

“Are you almost done with machine?”

“There’s another one over there, use that one.”

“I want this one.”

“Ilya—“

“Shane.”

Shane puffs out a breath, letting the leg press slam back into place with a metallic clank. Ilya stands over him on the mat, hands on the slivers of his hipbones peeking out from beneath a dangerously cropped muscle shirt. An old Raiders tee, torn and ripped on a hot summer day at the beach. Ilya was so tan that summer. They were so in love.

And not that they’re not in love anymore—but things have been off. The cold winter days of training and playing and practicing were not as sunny and playful as those summers at the cottage.

Certainly not after what happened with Bunny.

Though not much has been said about the incident, Shane knew Ilya was upset for the way he acted.

“Is rude, Hollander. You left her—you had just fucked her. How would you feel?”

“I know! I know, okay, I’m sorry. I just freaked out.”

“I understand. But you should have talked.”

“I know.”

“She deserves apology.”

“…I know.”

Not much came after that. Shane planned the call to Bunny on various occasions the week after that night at his condo. He prepared texts in his notes app, tapping and deleting and starting all over again, only to delete the draft altogether without ever sending one. He watched her Instagram stories (dick move, he knows), tried to peek at the texts between her and Ilya.

But he knew those had grown scarce, too. She pulled away from even Ilya, who had done nothing wrong at all.

So yeah. Things were strange these days. There was an odd, tense ball in Shane’s chest at all times, and an odd, tense distance between him and Ilya most of the time.

Shane slides the lock on the leg press into place and swings free from the machine, pushing to stand with a grunt. His legs are deliciously sore, thighs on fire from what had already been an hour and a half at the gym. Ilya’s spent most of it between the treadmill and the bench press. He always manages to make hundreds of pounds look like light weight.

Ilya slides into the seat of the leg press and pushes the lock open, the Adidas sneakers on his feet pure white under the fluorescents.

It’s Shane’s turn to stand there with his hands on his hips while Ilya adjusts the weight and gets his legs moving. He glances at his boyfriend in his periphery, panting and sweating and a light shade of pink.

“What?”

“Are you almost done?”

Ilya grunts as he extends his legs. “I just got here.”

“No, I mean with your workout. I want to go home.”

Ilya huffs through his nose, a bead of sweat trickling from his hairline down to his temple.

“I just got here,” he repeats.

Shane huffs and turns sharply on his heel. “Fine.”

Ilya keeps his face blank and his tone cool despite the irritation fizzing in his chest. “Fine.”

Shane snatches the towel from the handle of the treadmill and stomps toward the door, throwing it open to the hall before the locker room. The door to the locker room bangs into the wall at the force Shane opens it, and he flinches at the echo that welcomes him.

Luckily it’s empty, though thick with steam and bleach. He runs the towel roughly down his face to wipe it free of sweat before collapsing on the bench between a row of lockers, pressing his elbows into his knees.

He knows what will fix the biting annoyance between himself and Ilya. He knows exactly how to fix what went wrong. It’s not that they have to have her back over again, or even back in bed. He just has to say sorry. He just has to make it right.

He tells this to himself, murmuring softly as he reaches up and flicks his locker open. He retrieves his phone and licks away the salty sweat pooling along his upper lip, swiping it open to the Montreal Metros logo on his home screen.

He scoffs at her contact, the number saved without a name. As if someone might take his phone, snoop around, and know instantly that the contact named Bunny was the lover he shared with the man only few knew as his boyfriend. He’s such a fucking idiot. Too careful, too cautious.

But he doesn’t know anything else.

Shane’s just about to tap on the call icon when the locker room door swings open. Ilya sniffles as he saunters in, out of breath and shining with a thin coat of sweat. He swings his locker open on the other side of Shane, taking a deep drink from the water bottle waiting inside.

“Okay, we can go now,” he announces.

Shane locks his phone and slips it in his gym bag, sighing softly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

♡♡♡

Ilya insists on driving, holding his hand out expectantly in the gym parking lot until Shane slaps the keys in his palm. Shane doesn’t think much of it, settling in the passenger seat with exhaustion like a hard ball behind his eyes, thinking of all the rice and salmon he’s gonna make at home—until Ilya makes a turn away from the condo.

“Uh…it’s a right turn, Ilya,” Shane says, watching their exit disappear down the road.

Ilya continues in the opposite direction. “Yes?”

“So you’re going the wrong way.”

“Mm, yes.”

Shane shifts in his seat to look at Ilya, whose face is cool and clean. Shadowed by the visor of a faded Raiders cap, still a little pink from exercise, but completely free of worry.

“What’s going on?”

Ilya motions with his chin toward the road. “Bunny lives few blocks from here. Apartment, big high rise. City girl.”

Shane feels the color drain from his face, the heat literally slip out of his body. He shifts back until he’s facing the road again.

“Oh.”

They drive for a while in silence. Just the hum of the tires over the road and warm air blasting from the vents. Shane watches building after building go by, watches as the lilac evening turns to a deep violet sky. As the city lights turn blinding, and they feel a long way from the safety of his condo.

Ilya pulls up to the curb of, as he described it exactly, a tall high rise. A city girl apartment. All windows and a doorman that Shane worries will look right through him if he goes up to that door.

Ilya puts the car into park and rests his head against the seat, watching Shane stare into the glass door of the building. He reaches over and cups his cheek, rubs his thumb under his eye.

“We do not have to go, if you don’t want.”

Shane closes his eyes, leaning into Ilya’s hand. He exhales deeply through his nose. He’s grounding himself, as Ilya’s seen him do so many times.

“I do. I have to, you know?”

Ilya nods, waiting patiently. Shane reaches over and rubs his hand along his thigh, more a comfort for himself than anything.

“I want to make things right,” Shane says.

Ilya pats his cheek, smiling even though he cannot see. “I know. She wants that too.”

Shane opens his eyes. “She does? She said that?”

Ilya hums, tipping his head thoughtfully. “Mm…no. She has not been texting much. But I know her. And I know what it looks like to care about you.”

Shane flushes, letting the smile tugging at his mouth show its face. He turns and presses his mouth to Ilya’s palm, soap-scented and a little clammy. He wouldn’t stop sweating from the gym until he took a long, cold shower at home. Shane had an uncanny ability to be fine the moment he sat down.

But his smile slips almost as soon as it comes. He holds his hand over Ilya’s against his cheek, as though bracing him for what’s to come.

“I just…don’t think we can do this anymore, with her. It’s too complicated. I mean, it’s already bad enough with us. Only seeing each other every few weeks, not being able to tell anyone—it’s a lot.”

Ilya nods, glancing off at the door of the apartment over Shane’s shoulder. “Yes. Is a lot.”

“Do you think she’ll understand?”

Ilya forces a small smile, and it’s weak and wavering. “Yes. Bunny is tough girl, remember?”

Shane nods, but just barely. “Yeah. I remember.”

Maybe too tough. Maybe, like Shane, Bunny didn’t let herself feel very much. As much as they should, as much as one’s allowed. Almost like they gave themselves a limit, and anything past that was too much.

It made Shane difficult to love, he thought.

“Then we will break it to her nice, yes?”

Shane nods again, this time a bigger show. “Yes, of course. And we can be friends. I’d like to be her friend.”

Ilya smirks. “Yes, she is very good friend.”

Shane snickers, pulling Ilya’s hand from his face. “Not that kind of friend.”

Ilya turns the car off and takes the key out of the ignition, dropping it in his pocket. He pops the door open to the cold. “I know. She is fun to brunch with.”

“Since when do you go to brunch?”

“I was not always fucking you in hotel rooms, you know.”

♡♡♡

They stand outside of her door for a while. Shoulder to shoulder, the heels of their sneakers touching. The hallway is painted a deep navy, all the doors exactly alike. There’s a welcome mat before hers: that rough, brown material that hurts dog paws. She doesn’t have a dog then, Shane thinks.

A door down the hall slams shut and Shane jumps. He cranes his head back to follow the sound beyond Ilya’s wide shoulders. Ilya raises his brows at him.

“You are paranoid.”

Shane turns back to Bunny’s door. “I’m not.”

“Are you going to knock?”

“Yes.”

But almost a full minute ticks by and Shane still doesn’t knock. Ilya rolls his eyes and raises his hand, bringing it to the door with a harsh pound. Someone else’s dog barks from the door behind them, and this time Ilya tosses a look over his shoulder. Shane can’t bring himself to form a joke about it.

Ilya brings his fist up to knock again when the door swings open, welcoming a gust of cold air and the smell of cinnamon.

And standing in the doorway is a much softer, undone Bunny. A pair of grey sweatpants and a white sweater, so fuzzy and soft. Brown slippers cover her feet, embroidered lining around white fur. Her hair’s pulled away from her face, perfectly messy, and a pair of oversized glasses perch on her nose.

From behind them, her eyes bulge wide. “Ilya…Shane. Um—“

“We were in neighborhood, came to say hello,” Ilya explains.

The three of them stand there a moment, Shane and Bunny gaping and Ilya tapping his finger on his wrist, hands crossed over each other in front of him.

“Hello,” he says.

Bunny blinks, turning to him. “Um, hi. You were in the neighborhood?”

“Yes, just working out.”

She hums, glancing between them again. Shane looks at the collar of her t-shirt instead of her face, the faded material limp and wilting with age. Ilya keeps tapping his finger, irritation reddening his neck. He's standing too straight, like he's being inspected—and Shane's slumped like he's hiding.

It isn't entirely inaccurate.

Before anyone can say anything else, a ball of grey fur comes prancing into hall from between Bunny's legs. Shane steps back and Ilya coos, squatting to scoop the cat in his arms.

"Oh, Theodore, malen'kiy prints. Cannot believe he is still alive."

Bunny sighs, temple falling against the door. Ilya scratches at the cat, Theodore's chin. Shane can hear him purring even from here and he almost wants to roll his eyes. Even literal cats purr for him.

"Yeah."

Ilya pulls the cat back a little, held up toward the hall lights like The Lion King. He furrows his brows and screws his nose up at the animal. "He got fat."

Bunny laughs softly and Shane exhales for the first time since they reached her door. "Yeah to that, too. Well, come on."

She steps back, swinging the door open to the apartment. Ilya glances at Shane as he steps in, hoisting Theodore over his shoulder. As though sensing that he'll hesitate, Ilya reaches one hand back and tugs Shane forward by the hem of his sweatshirt. He stumbles in consequence, jostling Bunny back into her own apartment door.

"Sorry," he murmurs, hands instantly at her waist to steady her.

She holds herself still, avoiding his mouth angled at her own. She turns from him almost completely, glaring into the empty hall. "It's fine. Just come in."

He lets go immediately, stepping back, feeling like he's been physically burned. He turns for Ilya, who's tipped in half, letting the cat climb over his back to reach the post for him near the wall of windows.

Shane blows out a slow breath, wiping his hand over his face. Bunny shuts the door and hurries to the marble island where a laptop and an evening of mess awaits. A half empty water bottle, the last sips of an iced coffee, a wine glass, a journal and pen, and an empty bowl. Bunny snaps the laptop closed and gathers the other items in her arms.

Shane’s eyes roam over the apartment as she tinkers in the sink, the three of them quiet all the while aside from Ilya’s small murmurs to the cat.

A stainless steel fridge decorated with postcards and photos: Bunny and her friends, Bunny and a woman with the same eyes, Bunny and another Raiders player—wait. No. Bunny and Ilya, years younger. Ilya was still hard then, still disgruntled and creased. Bunny was just as soft, hair longer, cheeks chubbier. She was grinning at the camera and Ilya had his arm around her shoulders, staring the lens down like an enemy. He was in all his hockey gear and the ice was pure white behind them.

Her furniture doesn’t match but she clearly values comfort over style. A stack of magazines sits on the coffee table with a vase of flowers, dvds in their cases by the tv. All the lamps have a soft yellow glow—not the harsh, sterile white of fluorescents. There are blankets strewn over every chair or couch, more in a basket by the corner. She has a yellow toaster. Shane doesn’t know why that makes him smile.

Oh, but the smile slips at the Raiders pendant flag hung behind the tv, among the framed photographs and vintage mirrors.

Ilya seems to be all over this house, and suddenly Shane feels curdled and clustered with self doubt. Did Ilya want this all along? Did he just want Bunny to be a part of what they had? Did they ever end things, or were they together all along?

They’re silly, stupid thoughts, Shane knows. But they zip through his mind anyhow.

“I wasn’t expecting guests,” Bunny murmurs, turning with her head bowed to collect the last of her night from the island top.

Shane quickly averts his gaze from scrutinizing her apartment. “No, it’s nice.”

“You should have seen it back then,” Ilya chuckles, stepping away from the cat to lean on the counter. “Everything was pink.”

Bunny scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I had a pink couch.”

“Was enough.” Ilya makes a face of disgust. “What is that stomach medicine…”

“Pepto?”

“Yes! Was Pepto couch.”

She giggles despite herself, and Shane visibly relaxes. She can’t be that mad at him, right?

But her laughter fizzles, and Ilya’s smile turns painful. His eyes slide to Shane across the room, and Shane can only pretend he doesn’t notice for so long. Ilya has the nerve to clear his fucking throat.

Bunny looks between them as she comes back to the island. “Look, guys—“

“Hollander has something he’d like to say.”

“I can speak for myself.”

The men look at each other, and for the first time Bunny sees something other than love between them. Not rage, not hate, but certainly something toeing the line of anger. Frustration. Ilya’s jaw knots when he clenches it, and all the soft, boyish sweetness of Shane’s face is gone.

“Well—“

“I do want to say something,” Shane interrupts, turning to face her. “But I can say it myself.”

She raises her brows. “Okay.”

He sighs. “Can we…go sit?”

Bunny turns to Ilya, who whirls around mechanically and stomps to the living room. He collapses in an armchair under the glow of a floor lamp, pulling the white fur pillow resting there in his lap. Bunny follows slowly, and she tucks her legs up when she sits on the couch. Despite it being his request, Shane’s the only one who doesn’t sit.

Instead, he paces. He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs at the strands at the nape of his neck. He toys with the strings of his sweatshirt, avoids the watching gaze of Theodore from his window-front perch.

Ilya tips his head back against the chair and sighs. Shane shoots him a serrated look.

“Listen,” Bunny starts, and when she adjusts the glasses on her nose, Shane feels his resolve begin to crumble. “I get it, alright? You were scared, you were confused. It was shitty, but I don’t, like, hate you.”

Shane stops, standing before her on the other side of the coffee table. “You don’t?”

Her eyes round behind the glint of her lenses. “Of course not, Shane. Is that what you thought?”

His hands rise and fall in an empty gesture, slapping down on his thighs. “Well, I would.”

Bunny adjusts, sitting up on her knees on the couch. “Why should I hate you?”

Shane’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water. He looks to Ilya, but the man only shakes his head and shrugs. Is not my question, Shane can practically hear him grumbling. Sometimes he hates how he doesn’t help him out when he knows he can’t find the words. But why should Ilya speak for him?

When he can’t seem to find an answer, Bunny finds it for him with another tired sigh. And tired is the only word he can use to describe her, all bundled up and dopey-eyed. She falls back into the couch like she might curl up and sleep.

“I get it, guys. It was fun while it lasted, right? And we can be…friends. Like me and Ilya.”

She turns to the Russian, who nods with a small smile. He’s stroking the fur of her pillow like it’s another cat. “Yes, friends.”

Bunny nods, looking back up at Shane. “Friends then?”

He looks at her. Really looks at her, for longer than he’d like. Longer than what’s comfortable for any of them. She looks to Ilya again, who sits forward in her fluffy chair that she uses for reading. He tips his head to watch Shane, whose face is so blank it almost scares him.

They’re all in a deep state of unrest when Shane finally nods. Numbly. Stiffly. Just once. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at the empty couch cushion next to her.

“Yeah. Friends.”

Bunny nods back and stands up from the couch. “Okay.”

She walks around the coffee table, and Shane isn’t sure where she plans to go. To him, to hug him? To put her chin on his chest the way she did a few weeks ago? When she called him baby and he felt his insides stir. Or maybe to Ilya, to beg him to take his meltdown of a boyfriend away because he was freaking her out.

Before she can do anything, Shane decides for her. He grabs her by the sleeve of her white sweater, pulling her to him slowly. She goes, but turns her head to watch him in the corner of her eye. She steps into him, their hips touching. He lets her sleeve go to wrap his arms around her shoulders, tugging her against him with one rough pull.

She grunts, bouncing against his hard chest. For a moment, her arms just sit there, unmoving. She lets him hold her and does not hold him back. Hidden in the ridiculous pile of hair atop her head, Shane lets his face crease in any way it wants. In agony, in regret, in shame. He pinches his eyes shut as far as they’ll go, until little spots dance in the blackness behind them.

But then he feels her hands along his shoulders, holding him back. He sighs, and it almost sounds like a groan. Throaty and full of relief.

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmurs against her head.

He feels her nod under his arms. “I know.”

Shane closes his eyes, lets himself exhale so deeply, it deflates him entirely. He drops his head to her shoulder, fits it into her neck. She runs her hand along his back, up into his hair. Every inhale comes with a mouthful of his sweatshirt: a cologne-laced musk, heady and warm. She can hear the steady thump of his blood rushing under her cheek, pressed to his chest. Could he hear hers, when he was lying on her chest? Did it stutter the way she thought it did, when she felt him pulling away?

Bunny pulls away first, slowly inching back. She turns to Ilya immediately, where the Russian busied himself with stroking Theodore, cooing to him softly in Russian. She wonders if the feline remembers him, if his scent stayed the same after all these years. It did to her. The first night at Shane's condo, when all three of them were together, Ilya was exactly the same. The way he smelled, the way he tasted—it all came rushing back like a tidal wave.

Her cheeks were burning and Ilya was looking at her with a soft smile.

Bunny blinks hard and tosses her head aside, clearing the sudden hoarseness of her throat.

How would being just friends work exactly?

"Well," Ilya sighs, standing to his feet. He tosses the white pillow back on the chair and gives Theodore a gentle pat on the butt to scoot him away. "We should go."

He walks to Bunny with open arms that she curses herself for falling into so easily. They fold around her, pulling her close, so close her nose dips into the collar of his sweatshirt.

"Bye," she murmurs into his chest, and she wonders when she'll see him next. She feels like she only just got him back, as a friend or not. She missed their friendship.

She pulls away in time to see him push the visor of his cap back, twisting it around to rest like an awning over his neck. He grips her chin and tips it up, and blood rushes to her cheeks with stinging heat.

"Bye," he whispers back, and then he's pressing their mouths together.

She squeaks, and Shane hears his breath wheeze through the room. Did friends kiss like this? Did they put their hand around their jaws, pull them up until they're clinging for a lifeline on those massive fucking arms? Did they slip their tongues in the other's mouth, moaning with every glide of wet heat?

These friends did.

Jesus, Ilya was going for it. Moving his free hand to the plush fat of her ass, grabbing it with the full weight of his palm. Swallowing the gasp that leaves her, muffling it with another intrusion of his tongue. He slides his hand from her chin to the back of her skull, pulling her close, keeping her stationary—but where the hell would she go?

When their mouths pop apart, Bunny blinks in a sugary daze. Ilya licks the taste of her off his lips, spit-slick and swollen rosy pink.

Ilya adjusts his hat back in place and sniffs. “Hollander, let’s go.”

He doesn’t bother looking at Shane, who’s standing there watching him walk toward the door in an equally stupefied daze. His fingers ache in the tightly-balled fists at his sides. He stopped being able to feel his tongue a few minutes ago, and he’s worried if he talks it’ll come out like mush.

But Bunny turns to him, aching for just one word. They listen to the door swing open, to Theodore chirp his goodbye to an old friend as Ilya slips by.

And Shane steps forward, pulling Bunny into another quick and stiff hug. He pecks the top of her head and clears his throat, removing himself from her body like she’s a hot coal.

“Uh…bye.”

He ignores her small huff of a sardonic laugh as he turns to go. Ilya’s waiting at the door, bracing the frame with both hands to fill the expanse of the exit. He’s looking at Shane like a panther in the brush, daring him to misstep.

And Shane wants to. Fuck, does he want to. He wants to grip the back of her hair the way he knows she likes. He wants to devour her mouth and hear her whine, the way he likes. He wants to rip her clothes off and pin her arms down and—

“Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane snaps, walking through the door and knocking Ilya’s right arm down as he goes.

He stomps ahead of him down the hall, the thunder of his sneakered feet thumping in time with his blood, slamming in his ears. In the back of his mind, Shane knows Ilya is following, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. He cares only for the hard strain against his sweatpants, the horrible ache of need in his chest that weeps like something split wide open. He’s felt it before. In the low light of hotel rooms when he was nineteen years old. Nineteen, twenty, fuck—even just a few years ago. When he scrambled to get dressed and pretended Ilya was still asleep, the way Ilya pretended to be asleep, so they didn’t have to say goodbye. So they didn’t have to look each other in the eye in the light of day.

Shane slams on the elevator button, pocketing his anxious, fidgeting fingers. Ilya approaches slowly, waiting a few feet away as the red, blinking numbers rise.

“We agreed,” Shane spits, staring down his warbled reflection in the steel of the elevator. In his periphery, Ilya cocks his head in that stupid Russian way. “We agreed to just be friends with her.”

“We are.”

“You aren’t! You just—you kissed her.”

The elevator is four floors away.

“Yes. You kiss Rose all the time, is same thing—“

“That is not the same thing.” And this time Shane does turn to him, cheeks hot and fists clenched again.

He steps to him, and he can’t quite figure out why the fire inside him is burning so hot. White hot, a temperature almost agonizing. Ilya blinks back patiently, because maybe he can. Maybe he knows Shane better than Shane even knows himself. Or maybe he just knows what Shane isn’t letting himself feel.

Ilya closes the gap between their bodies, and he knows in any other world, Shane would be recoiling and running for distance—but he isn’t thinking straight. Bunny’s got his thoughts twisted, puréed into an incomprehensible nothing. It’s the way Ilya felt—and feels—about Shane.

“What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya gravels. Each word rumbles through Shane beautifully.

Shane looks over Ilya’s shoulder at the empty hall. The elevator dings beside them, and the doors part to a wood-paneled box. A woman steps out with a haul of grocery bags, and Shane steps away this time. He rubs at his temple and sighs, meeting Ilya’s eye from the short distance they now have.

Ilya nods and moves aside, gesturing down the hall. “Get her then. Just stop thinking, Shane.”

Bunny’s just taken her hair down and poured a glass of wine—which she has every intention of taking to bed—when a loud bang collides with her door. She jumps, muffling a yelp with the back of her hand. She wipes the sip of alcohol from her mouth and hurries to the door, glancing through the peephole.

The door opens an inch wide and Shane’s on her—throwing it open the rest of the way, gripping her by the nape of her neck, the curve of her waist, yanking her to him like he needs her to breathe. He groans into her open mouth, walks her blindly to the nearest solid surface. Her back arches over the edge of the island, urged by Shane’s overbearing weight and desperate attack. His mouth moves to her cheek, her jaw, along the column of her throat. She grabs fistfuls of his hair in her fists, gasping for air and struggling to find it.

The door to her apartment slams closed. She jumps, eyes flying open to find Ilya standing before it, arms crossed over his chest. Heat laps at her belly, gathers in her head like air in a balloon. Shane remains undeterred, sucking at the spot below her ear until she whines.

Ilya raises his chin, tips his head to the side. He watches his boyfriend ravage the girl struggling to breathe—the girl he gifted to him. There’s a power to that, he thinks. That he gave Bunny to Shane and he can take her away, too. He thinks.

Ilya nods at Bunny, who finds herself watching him for permission. At this motion, she tips Shane’s head back with her fingers in his hair and guides their mouths together again. He moans against her lips, tongue lolling out lazily, hands wandering beneath the flaps of her sweater, then under the hem of her t-shirt to slide along her bare stomach. He groans throatily when his fingers brush the hard, naked pebbles of her nipples.

For a while, Ilya just lets it happen. He lets their breathing roughen, shorten to sharp pants and huffs passed between slick, open mouths. He lets Shane knead—paw, more like—at Bunny’s tits, lets Bunny throw her head back and whimper at it. He even lets Shane start taking off her clothes, pushing the cardigan off and pulling at the strings of her sweatpants. He waits until her comfortable articles of clothing are on the kitchen floor, and Shane’s sweatshirt has been thrown somewhere aside, to make his move.

They don’t hear him approach, not between all the gasping and whining. It’s pathetic, really, Ilya thinks. The way they so easily fell into worshipping each other.

Did they forget who ran the show?

She hears the sharp hiss of breath whooshing before she feels him being pulled away, and Bunny opens her eyes to find Ilya wrenching Shane off of her by his hair. His face scrunches in a pleasures pain, head tipped back to bare a beautiful throat. Ilya has a hold of the hair at the back of his head, a great fistful in a strong, ringed hand. He has that calculated, empty look on his face, softened only by the fiery glow of passion in his gaze.

Bunny grips at the island behind her, chest rising and falling with labored breath. She watches Ilya take three small steps backwards, pulling Shane with him as he goes. Steered by his hair, Shane releases small, exhaled gasps until Ilya stops them.

“I think,” he says, tipping his mouth to brush against Shane’s cheek, but keeping a steady eye on Bunny, “you still owe Bunny apology.”

Shane’s knees hit the floor with two hard thumps when Ilya urges him down, dropping him before Bunny without another word. She watches him go, pupils blowing wide, jaw going slack. Ilya lets his lip twitch into a half smile, loosening his grip on Shane’s hair.

Ilya turns to Bunny and pats the marble of the island. “Hop up, Bunny.”

She swallows, glancing again at a kneeling Shane before inching herself up onto the island. The countertop is a cold jolt against her flushing skin, a welcome reprieve from the overload of absolutely insane need. She’s never been so horny in her life.

Ilya hums, bending his fingers to skim over Bunny’s warm cheek. He pets over the soft flesh, head tipping this way, that way, inspecting her carefully. She keeps her eye on him directly, despite the hot breath going directly to her core from the floor. Shane’s placed directly between her legs, thighs parting on their own accord—and with the help of Shane’s wandering hands.

“So pretty,” Ilya murmurs. “Pussy is pretty too, yes?”

He pulls back to look at it and she burns bright hot, letting out a soft laugh.

“Jesus,” Shane huffs from the ground.

Ilya tightens the grip on his hair again and the other man groans. “You think so, Hollander? Maybe you should start there, yes? Say sorry proper way.”

Bunny looks down at Shane, the tops of his cheeks a violent shade of red. She begins to pull her knees together again, squirmy and suddenly bashful.

“If you want—“

“Fuck yes,” Shane sighs, and he fights against Ilya’s hold to press his mouth to the soft flesh of Bunny’s thigh.

Ilya smirks, relaxing the hand in Shane’s hair to run his fingers through the mass of it. His other hand burrows in Bunny’s hair, sliding around the nape of her neck supportively.

“Good, get to work, Hollander.”

Shane obediently follows, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the insides of her thighs, using his hands to hook around her knees and keep them spread. He brings them over his shoulders, pressing up on his knees to remain eye-level with the counter. He works his way to the apex of her thighs, where her need throbs and pulses.

He dives in with a wriggling tongue, and Bunny throws her head back with a whimper of his name. Ilya releases his hold on Shane to press his hand firmly into her chest, guiding her back flat against the counter. Sprawled there, he steps around until he’s standing beside her, bracing the counter on either side of her head to attach their mouths.

Another slow, languid kiss that confuses any thoughts trying their best to form in Bunny’s head. She feels them forming, but they fizzle and fade before she can even remember what it was she wanted to think. Ilya’s wrapping his hand around her throat, just under her jaw, and the blood rushes to her head in a swell of blissful ecstasy.

And Shane’s between her legs lapping and sucking like a man on a mission, like a starving dog given a feast. He savors the sounds muffled by Ilya’s mouth, wishes selfishly that he’d pull away so Shane could hear them fully, and know they were all for him.

But Ilya’s on Bunny with just as much need, licking along her mouth and scraping his teeth over her cheek. Her attempts at moaning and whining trail into wheezes from the hand around her throat, but it makes every effort that much more exciting. It makes Shane work harder, pulling her down along the counter until a squeak of flesh on marble erupts through the static. Until he’s buried between her legs with nowhere for her to go, her tremoring thighs held steady by Shane’s strong arms caged around them, pressing into his ears until he can barely hear a thing.

Ilya pulls away from her mouth and holds her throat, keeping her pinned to the counter—as if she’d go anywhere. She’s perfectly content where she is, pinned by Shane fucking Hollander and Ilya fucking Rozanov to her own kitchen counter, half drunk on white wine and ready to ride the nearest thing that approaches her.

Bunny sucks in a much-needed breath when Ilya releases her throat, hands scrambling to remove his shirt and pants. The gold cross around his neck glistens in the low light of the overhead fixture, and the semblance of a thought of Bunny’s floor-to-ceiling windows giving a 4k picture of her current threesome comes and goes when Ilya’s cock slaps against his stomach.

It takes some force, but he pulls Shane from Bunny’s thighs and cups his hand in front of his mouth. Shane blinks, face pink and wet, panting over Ilya’s palm—and then he spits into it. Ilya releases his hair and lets him get back to work, snickering when Bunny whines, her hands flying to Shane’s head in a desperate attempt for grounding.

She receives none, however, when Ilya strokes his cock with the hand Shane spit in and cuts off her air supply with the other. Her back arches from the counter, body twisting sideways. She has no idea where her body thinks it’s going, she just knows it has a mind of its own. Moving on its own accord, fueled by the pleasure building and tingling between her legs and the fuzzy, airy feeling in her head from the hand around her throat.

“Fuuuck, this is hot,” Ilya growls, the wet slap of his hurried stroking registering through the lap of Shane’s tongue and Bunny’s hoarse wheezes against his heavy palm. “Hollander should apologize more, hmm?”

She tries to nod, but she isn’t sure her head moves at all. Ilya takes his lip between his teeth, digging in hard. He watches Bunny’s face contort, feels her body temperature rise, watches every fraction of her begin to vibrate.

“She is going to come, Hollander,” he announces. “Keep going. Do not stop until I say.”

At hearing this, Bunny writhes for release. Her impending orgasm and the promise of torture is as exciting as it is terrifying, and the feelings melding together create a build sure to explore. Ilya was an expert in this—bringing you to the edge, letting you tumble over it, and watching you fall until you couldn’t take it anymore. Until you were sobbing, begging, willing to do anything.

There was a time in Boston a few years ago when Ilya kept Bunny crying for two hours. Suddenly her thoughts work well enough to remember this.

The tears bubble and spill as Shane sucks at her clit hard enough to trigger her release. Ilya lets up on her throat enough to let her breathe into the scream, the one Shane so desperately wanted for weeks. He groans at the gift of it, poking his tongue into the wetness of her pulsing hole, feeling her clench around him.

Ilya groans, his own release approaching at the mere sight of Bunny’s untamed display of pleasure. She was never shy in her satisfaction, and he always liked this about her. Sometimes, Shane held himself back, especially before. Afraid to give himself away fully, fearful of being mocked, terrified of the aftermath when they’d part ways and he gave too much of himself.

Bunny was never plagued with these ideas. Not with Ilya, and now not with Shane.

At Ilya’s command, Shane continues on, sucking and licking Bunny through her high until he can barely keep her still. Until she’s pushing at his head so hard his neck hurts from the resistance and she’s practically flailing for air.

Ilya moves his hold to her jaw and pulls her head aside, jerking his cock against her mouth. Her eyes flutter shut, gasping and panting and twisting her lower body.

“Open,” he grumbles to her, voice wavering with his own approaching orgasm.

She parts her lips, tongue lolling out. He rubs the weeping tip of his cock against the heat of it, and then he’s spurting into the wet cavern of her mouth. On her tongue, on her chin, over her cheek, on the fucking kitchen counter. He’s everywhere, and Shane still hasn’t stopped.

Ilya waits until he’s given her every drop before tiredly patting Shane’s head. “Is good, Hollander. Let her breathe.”

Shane pulls back slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to her clit that makes her jerk painfully. His hands massage at her thighs, easing their aching tremble. He watches her flatten like a thrown noodle against the counter, sure to fall if she were to be placed on her feet. She’s breathing like a player on the ice after a day’s worth of practice, and she’s covered in cum.

Normally, he’d scrunch his nose and complain about Ilya making a mess—but something about the sight of it on her makes his insides wrench. He has the sudden, perverted idea to lick it off her.

Ilya turns to Shane, sees this thought forming in his head, the way his dark eyes trace over Bunny’s destroyed body lying limply.

“Go ahead,” he tells him.

Shane slowly stands, and he joins Ilya on the right side of Bunny. She blinks her eyes open, peering up at them dazedly.

“Give him a kiss, dorogoy.”

Bunny moves her head the only inch she can manage, and Shane swoops down to slide his tongue along the mess of her. He cleans it from her face, keeps it gathered on his tongue as it dips into her mouth. They share Ilya between their mouths and Ilya feels his softened cock hardening just from the absolute filth of it.

He hums, petting the top of Bunny’s hair and the back of Shane’s. They’re both clearly spent, Shane’s shoulders slumped, Bunny still struggling for breath.

“My sweethearts,” Ilya coos. “So good for me.”

Shane pulls away from Bunny slowly, stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles the way he likes to do. He rubs his thumb into her cheek, enjoys the way her eyes flutter closed.

“I think,” she pants, voice cracked and gravely from strain, “I need a soft surface. Back…is…killing me.”

Shane hooks one arm under her knees and the other around her back, hoisting her into his arms. He takes her to the living room, plopping her on the couch and taking her shiver as a reminder that she’s still bare. Ilya tosses him her clothes one at a time, and soon she’s dressed back in her t-shirt and underwear, tucked under the fluffy leopard print blanket strewn across the arm of the couch.

She pats the cushion next to her head, and Shane—still fully clothed—cups her head and lifts it as he slips beneath her. Her head falls into his lap with a soft, content sigh.

“Ilya?” she calls softly. There’s a soft gentle panic in her tone.

He enters her line of vision in the living room, still shirtless but covered with the sweatpants he came in. A glass of water and a plastic straw wobble in his hand.

“I am here, dorogoy,” he whispers.

The apartment suddenly seems so quiet. The sky darkened to black sometime in the confusion, and now the only light that graces the room is the warm glow of the few lamps flicked on.

Bunny closes her lips around the straw that approaches her, drinking willfully. Ilya kneels beside her on the rug, running his fingers along the swell of her cheek. He tucks her hair behind her ear, brushes Shane’s fingers when the other man comes to feel it, too. They lock eyes over her head, and Shane tries a small smile. Ilya’s is painful at best—and sad. It was always sad these days.

“Sleep, Bunny,” Ilya commands softly, placing the water glass on the coffee table behind him.

Though already drifting, she reaches out blindly and finds his hand. “Will you stay? Just for a bit.”

He swallows. In his peripheral, Shane continues to stroke Bunny’s hair. He shifts and shuffles on the couch, leaning his head back against the plush cushion. He seems relaxed, comfortable. He looks at home.

“Yes. I will stay.”

He tucks her legs into his lap when he assumes the cushion beside Shane, and Bunny burrows further into her new cocoon. And the room is so quiet. A clock ticks from a bookcase, full of colored spines and mismatched trinkets. The sound of city life beyond the windows comes like static. A door slams somewhere down the hall, muffled and distant.

Shane reaches along the back of the couch and cups the back of Ilya’s head. He plays with a curl there, gives him a gentle squeeze around his neck.

He waits to hear Shane tell him he loves him.

But they drift off to sleep, and Ilya remains awake.

♡♡♡

Bunny wakes to a cold breeze through the room. The distant blare of a car horn and the whizz of tires below. She stirs, fumbling for her phone on her nightstand, her glasses atop a book—only to find a hard knee and a big hand. She blinks her eyes open slowly, finding the black screen of the tv and the empty living room. Shane’s lap below her head, his hand placed lazily over her cheek. She hears his soft, breathy snores before she even peeks.

She lifts her head slowly, achingly. Where Ilya once sat at her feet, an empty cushion awaits. His cap sits on the coffee table, the water glass now empty.

Lifting the blanket around her shoulders, Bunny carefully slips free of Shane’s loose hold. She glances at him as she stands, shimmying beneath the blanket. His head is tossed back against the couch cushion, mouth hanging open to emit drool and gentle breaths.

She snickers softly, slipping her glasses back over her nose. Ilya must’ve taken them off when she fell asleep. They were folded carefully on the coffee table near his hat. She notices, with pleasant relief and surprise, that her cheeks are soft and bare. She imagines Ilya carefully wiping her cheeks with a cloth while she slept, and her heart aches sorely.

The Russian, as she suspected, is on the balcony. Wintry wind whistles through the glass door, left ajar. She shivers as she nudges it open, ensuring Theodore is nowhere to be seen before stepping out onto the cement. She shuts the door behind her and turns to see Ilya in the orange glow of a flame. The butt of a cigarette burns in a halo of red as he inhales deeply.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

His lips detach dryly from the paper in his mouth. “Hey.”

Ilya’s sprawled out sideways on the cushioned couch in the corner of the balcony, puffing a plume of smoke from limp lips. Thanks only to the bright city lights and glow of his cigarette, Bunny can make out the angled features of his face. There’s a storm brewing within them, plaguing his brow with a furrow and his mouth with a hard line.

She hugs her blanket tighter around her body and pads over, feet bare on frozen concrete. She tucks them up into her lap when she sits beside him. He’s fully dressed again—besides the hat—and he’s staring out into the cityscape blankly.

Bunny reaches over with two fingers and plucks the cigarette from his hand, bringing it to her own mouth to inhale. He makes a small, sarcastically dissatisfied sound, but watches her blow the smoke out silently.

Ilya retrieves the cigarette with steady fingers and balances it in the corner of his mouth, shuffling up to motion Bunny over.

“What?” she asks.

“Come here.”

She lifts on her palms and wriggles closer, and Ilya shifts to ease the discomfort. When their knees are touching, he brings his hands to brace her neck, tipping her head back carefully. She closes her eyes, a hollow flutter in her chest like a caged hummingbird.

“Was too rough,” he grumbles.

Bunny eases his hands away and watches him puff around the cigarette. “You weren’t. You know I loved it.”

His eyes bounce around her face, studying wordlessly. He places his palm to her cheek and swipes his thumb over the soft, soap-scented skin. She takes the cigarette from the dip of his mouth and ashes it on the concrete. The crease of his face hasn’t eased—in fact, it’s only deepened. Folded into something akin to misery.

She takes his hand and brings it to her lap, watching her own fingers trace the valleys of his knuckles, the deep violet squiggle of veins.

“Am I coming between the two of you?”

Ilya plucks the cigarette back and takes one long, deep drag. It sails over the balcony railing, zipping down like a lightning bug. He pulls at the back of his hoodie with one hand and claws it off, shoving it over her head before she can protest.

She lets him swaddle her in his warmth, pulling the hood over her head and tying the strings tight beneath her chin. She lets him replace the blanket, draping it over their laps, and tug her into his side with one heavy arm around her shoulders. She falls into him, cheek on his shoulder, the tickle of blond curls against her ear.

“Is not you.”

Bunny nibbles on the skin of her bottom lip, scraping her teeth over the surface of the sting. “Something else?”

Ilya exhales deeply. Air feels heavy in his chest, like a dumbbell slammed down. He rubs his hand over his eye, twisting until spots decorate the darkness. His response forms and hesitates on his tongue. The thought of what he might say tastes acidic, sour like something rotten.

Bunny turns and tips her head up, nothing but a nose poking out and big eyes blinking up. Ilya avoids her gaze, keeping his straight ahead at the night before them. He’s afraid he’ll cry if he looks at her.

“You love each other,” she whispers. She sounds so sure.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “But I think I cannot love in silence.”

A swell of hurt rushes through her chest. Bunny reaches up, placing her hand on Ilya’s cheek.

“Oh, Ilya.”

He turns at her prodding fingers, mirroring her gesture against her own face. He rushes forward and smacks his lips against her head. When he rears back, his eyes are wet, and his smile is painful again.

“And now we have you. Another secret.”

Her fingers loosen at his jaw. Like a door opened to the snow, Bunny suddenly feels cold all over. As though the winter had only just reminded her it was there. As though she went wandering without a coat. That familiar ache nips behind her eyes.

“You don’t have to have me, Ilya. I’ll walk away, and I’ll be fine.” After a while, she wants to add. But it isn’t fair.

“You love each other so deeply, I can tell. Don’t let me get in the way.”

Ilya shakes his head, pushing on the back of hers until it falls back onto his shoulder. “Is not you, Bunny. I promise.”

She thinks of Shane snoozing happily on her couch in the room behind them. She thinks of Ilya’s pajama pants folded neatly in her drawer, Shane’s sweatshirt on the back of the bathroom door. She thinks of a hockey game in Boston when she was twenty years old, and of a night in a hazy hotel with a man that left before she could fall asleep. She thinks of the name Jane on his cellphone, and with bright clarity, realizes it sounds a lot like Shane.

They were together long before Bunny had any claim over Ilya, and she wanted it to stay that way, no matter what her body told her—no matter what Ilya told her.

She concludes, as Ilya lights another cigarette and rests his head atop hers, that she’ll make the decision for them.

Why have two secrets when one was enough?

#rolly!

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