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.

toronto, canada. january.

“You liked it, yes?”

Ilya pushes off the sink and spins all in one go, hunching over the basin to spit the froth of toothpaste from his mouth. Shane rubs his palms over his chest, Ilya’s favorite lotion smearing with every movement. He’ll go to bed smelling like boyfriend, as Ilya so sweetly puts it.

“Yes,” Shane murmurs quietly, glancing at his boyfriend’s back flexing over the sink. The broad expanse of his shoulders. He wants to bite him—always.

Ilya taps his toothbrush against the sink and tosses Shane a blank stare in the mirror. “Yes? You are so specific.”

Shane chuckles, running his fingers through the front of his hair. The black strands sweep back only to flop down again, perfectly mussed and beautiful. Ilya lets his eyes travel down the sculpted surface of Shane’s chest and stomach as he plucks a flossing stick in his mouth.

“What do you want me to say?”

Blurting the details of his sexploits wasn’t common for Shane. Ilya knew this well. But things had changed. He had a sexploit, for instance. A sexploit with a woman. And she slept in their bed sandwiched between them, ate a full breakfast spread cooked by a shirtless Shane and a naked Ilya, and ate it at their breakfast nook in one of his old Boston Raiders t-shirts. Were they supposed to pretend it never happened?

Were they supposed to pretend Ilya hadn’t caught Shane scrolling through her Instagram the other night? Watching her stories every day, keeping his thumb over the screen to make them last longer?

Ilya couldn’t have that.

“Uh, I don’t know. You loved having your cock sucked by a woman, you had fun—anything.”

A soft sigh hisses through Shane’s teeth, clenched in an uneasy, bashful grin.

Why is it so embarrassing? He’s been with women before. Well, one woman, and it didn’t go well. So why was this time so different? Maybe because she knew about him. His love for Ilya, their commitment to each other. She knew and she still liked him, was still attracted to him. She knew and she wanted both of them, together.

Did this make him any less gay? Did attraction to one woman make him bisexual? It's all so confusing, and if he thinks about it for too long, it makes his head hurt.

Ilya can practically see this, the dark storm clustering in Shane’s thoughts. He slides behind him, arms heavy around his waist. He tucks his chin over Shane’s shoulder and presses a noisy kiss to his neck.

“It does not have to mean anything. Can just be sex, you know? Can be just for fun.”

Shane lets his eyes close, lets Ilya bear his weight back against his chest. He holds him steady and firm, just the two of them there in the bathroom.

“Doesn’t that make us…I don’t know, shitty? Like, just some gross guys who fuck around?”

Ilya lifts his head, and Shane doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the expression awaiting him in the mirror. Pure confusion and exasperation. Ilya used to be that gross, shitty guy who fucked around. But what was so bad about sex anyway? Ilya never understood the repression of the Canadians. He grew up in Russia, for fuck’s sake, and he’s pretty sure he’s had more fun than all of Canada combined.

“Shane—“

Shane opens his eyes and sighs. “I just…I don’t want to date her. I don’t want to be, like, a throuple or something—“

Ilya keeps his gaze in the mirror, steady and understanding. Patient, nonjudgmental. Shane can’t be pushed into anything, but he’d never push him into something like this.

“But you want to fuck her.”

Shane eases back into Ilya again. “Yes. Y-yeah! But…I don’t know, I just feel shitty about it.”

“But is normal.”

“She’s a person. We can’t just…use her whenever we want.”

The sentence alone zings through Shane like an ice shock. Ilya hums, massaging his hands into Shane’s hips. The sound reverberates through him.

“We could ask her. See what she likes.”

Shane lets his head fall back against Ilya’s shoulder, their temples touching. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Ilya groans dramatically, and fixes Shane with a pointed look. “She is tough girl. Is surprising, but true.”

It might’ve surprised Shane before she graced their bedroom. If Ilya had introduced them as friends, if Shane had never fucked her throat until she spluttered and cried and gagged and then kissed all over his face when she gathered her breath. If she hadn’t giggled and conversed so casually about their water pressure when she emerged from the bathroom with one of their towels on her head and Ilya’s shirt draped down to her thigh. Shane saw the bruises, saw the marks they both left. And she said nothing, did nothing but settle into their night and break away from their morning the next day.

Shane knew just how tough Bunny was—but he knew how tough he wasn't.

“No,” Shane sighs, shaking his head. “It was just a one time thing.”

Ilya lets it sit there a moment, waiting for Shane to second guess himself. When he only rubs his hands over Ilya’s against his stomach and nods affirmatively, Ilya pops a kiss on Shane’s cheek and nods back.

“Okay. One time thing. Come to bed.”

It takes the morning to bring Shane to clarity. As Ilya snoozes in the crook of his side, arm thrown over his lap lazily, and Shane rests against the headboard with his glasses perched on his nose and his phone in his hand; on his screen, scrolling at glacial pace, is Bunny’s Instagram page. He scrolls, refreshes, clicks through the highlights, reads through the comments—and it feels like an obsession. Like he’s waiting for something new to pop up just so he can feel the surprise of seeing her face.

“You sure only one time?”

Shane jumps, phone flying somewhere near the edge of the bed. His neck snaps as he turns to find Ilya blinking up at him, lips curled into a smirk. He sighs, waiting for his heart rate to slow down before pushing at Ilya’s head in playful reprimand.

“I wasn’t—“

“Stalking poor girl?”

“I wasn’t,” Shane huffs petulantly.

Ilya snickers, rolling onto his back. His hands raise toward the headboard as he stretches his arms, and his muscles flex and lengthen beautifully. Shane can’t help but lean over and lick a stripe up the center of his abdomen, making Ilya chuckle as he buries his fingers in the back of Shane’s hair.

“I will call her today.”

And Shane doesn’t argue this time. He gathers his phone from the end of the mattress and slips out of bed, hiding a giddy grin in the bathroom door as it snicks shut.

♡♡♡

She brings wine. A brand new bottle with a red bow on top, and she’s dressed in a business-formal outfit that makes Shane fantasize about being the prime minister. Tight black skirt, tighter black top, black nylons that have a faded plaid pattern. Her shoes click over the hard floors of Shane’s condo as she hurries in her bunny fashion through the entryway.

“Hiii. Sorry I’m a little late, work ran over. And when did this snow start? It’s like—oh!”

Ilya braces her jaw with one large palm and drops a gentle kiss on her open mouth. She pauses where he stops her, just before the kitchen where Shane sits at the marble island with a beer. He’s only taken one sip and it was only because he didn’t know what to do with his hands while they waited.

Ilya detaches from her mouth with a soft, wet click, and she blinks up at his sly smirk dazedly. “Hello, Bunny,” he purrs.

“Hi.”

He gives her cheeks a little squeeze before releasing her, turning on his heel to join Shane in the kitchen. The latter watches her linger in the entryway, swaying with her wine and a ridiculously large purse. Various folders and books peek from the bulging zipper.

“Hi,” Shane greets her, and he’s not sure if he should at least hug her after that display.

Bunny blinks and steps forward, entering the kitchen. She sets her purse on a stool and the wine on the island and beams at Shane, settled in her Ilya-inflicted fluster. Shane knows that fuzzy feeling well.

“Hi, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane laughs, pushing off his stool to stand. “Shane. You don’t have to keep calling me that—it’s just Shane.”

Bunny drops her mouth into a pout that gives Shane pause on his ascent to wrap his arms around her. She completes the transaction, looping her own arms around his waist. Her chin touches his chest and it feels like his breath fizzles under it.

“I thought you liked Mr. Hollander.”

Shane lets his arms fall around her, giving her a firm squeeze. “I-I do. I totally do—“

“I’m messing with you, Shane. But I’ll call you whatever you want, baby.”

She perks up on the tops of her tiny heels to plant a kiss on his jaw, and then all too soon, she’s letting him go. He inhales shakily as Bunny swoops up the wine and rounds the island for the cabinets.

She passed Ilya, who tucks his chin over his shoulder to watch her open a cabinet and perk to her tiptoes again, reaching up high for the wine glasses. Neither help her and maybe only Shane feels like an asshole for it, but they like to watch her skirt ride up and her shirt slip free, exposing a sliver of skin.

Ilya turns to Shane and quirks a brow, lip caught between his teeth. Shane is so fucking glad he called her and Ilya can tell. There’s a certain buttery bliss to his face. A fucked-out euphoria and he hasn’t even been fucked yet. Ilya knows what that looks like all too well.

“Bunny?” Ilya coos, still holding Shane’s gaze.

“Yeah?” She sets the glasses down and fumbles through the drawers for an opener.

Shane doesn’t even mind that she’s making herself at home. It almost adds to the excitement bubbling in his chest. She’s so sure of herself, so quietly confident. Only Ilya seems to realize the same thing of Shane.

“Come here.”

His voice drops to that dangerous octave. An animalistic growl, a grumble that makes his accent almost ridiculous. The commanding tone that got Shane’s pants to come off all those years ago. The very same that turned Bunny into the depraved individual she becomes in his presence.

Said girl closes the drawer next to the fridge slowly. It shuts with a gentle clunk. She slides the wine bottle to sit against the wall—can never be too safe. And all the while, Ilya waits patiently. Hands bracing the island across from Shane, still watching him intently while they wait.

Bunny takes small steps toward the island. When she reaches Ilya’s side, Shane lets his gaze slide her way. She chews on the inside of her cheek, lips twisted sideways. They’re glossy again, glimmering with something pink that he can almost taste in memory. She plucks at the sleeves of her skirt over her knuckles. She’s nervous. It fills Shane with an indescribable hum of anticipation.

“Take off your clothes.”

Shane snaps his attention back to Ilya, eyes bulging. “Ilya, you can’t—“

Ilya inhales steadily and pulls off the island, turning to Bunny as she falters. “You had fun with us, yes? Few weeks ago?”

Bunny’s eyes flit between Shane and Ilya, and she swallows when she nods. Tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, of course.”

“And you want to do it again, da?”

Ilya catches her hand as it drops from her hair, taking her fingers to bring them to his mouth. A gentle kiss puckered against her knuckles. Enclosed in his palm, he brings her wrist up next, another kiss against her pulse point. Bunny steps a little closer, one hollow click of heel against the floor.

“Yes,” she gasps. “I was just waiting for the call.”

Shane inhales. Ilya smiles against her wrist and lets it drop, returning to her side.

“Then you’ll do as I say, yes? Take off your clothes. You, too, Hollander.”

Shane and Bunny lock eyes. A silent and brief conversation between gazes. Does she want this as much as he does? Does he want her back? Does she think about their kiss, his cock in her mouth? Does he think about her tongue, her touch? How long can they share Ilya, each other, before it gets messy?

It doesn’t matter. They’re here now and they’re drunk with the buzz of impending pleasure. It’s almost as good as the real thing, the actual euphoria. The buildup, the suspense, the foreplay of three people preparing to fuck.

Shane moves first. Pinches the thin cotton of his t-shirt at the nape of his neck and pulls it over his head. He reveals the taut lines and clean-cut muscle of the bronzed canvas Bunny’s been dreaming about. At her desk at work, when afternoons run long and her mind drifts to dangerous thoughts. His hot mouth over her body, his body pinning her down, his beautiful, whiny moan.

Bunny pulls at the zipper on her skirt teasingly slow. It falls at her feet, concealed by the island from Shane, but Ilya watches it pool around those dainty shoes on the floor. He watches quietly and contently, standing in the shadows in wait.

Shane’s sweatpants are next, salaciously grey and loose around the hips. They reveal a pair of tight black boxers, branded around the band. His cock strains against the material and Bunny’s heart thumps at the sight. The surface of her mouth grows sweet. She can recall the heavy weight of that cock in her mouth, on her tongue. The salty warmth of his skin. The heavy breaths dropped from a slack mouth, all rosy wet lips and airy groans. She loved bringing him to that.

Bunny slips her arms free from her shirt and tosses it over her head. It joins the skirt on the floor, and the men are pleased by the splash of color beneath it. The fiery red of the lace concealing what will be next. What Ilya loves to put in his mouth, feel with his teeth to hear her squeal. What Shane wondered about last time, when Ilya had her pulled back by her hair, when her hard nipples were staring Shane in the face begging to be touched.

Ilya directs his gaze to Shane. He hooks his thumbs into his boxers and slides them down his thighs, nudging them aside with his foot once they’re free. His hard cock bobs to attention, pink at the tip and weeping just gently. Ilya groans and Bunny gasps.

“Take the rest,” Ilya commands, motioning to Bunny’s remaining garments.

The tights are a slightly less sexy removal, when they bunch and roll at the feet and leave indentations around her thighs. But they barely notice when her bra unclips and slides down her arms, and her panties wilt somewhere in the skirt on the floor to leave smooth, bare skin.

“Mm.” Ilya’s satisfaction is deep and throaty. He steps closer to Bunny, cupping one hand around her left breast. The flesh dimples with the pressure of his touch, nipple grazing his palm and delivering a shudder through Bunny.

She gasps when he kneads, taking as much as he can into his hand. Ilya cocks his head, fitting his mouth over her nipple. His teeth slide over the sensitive bud and she permits him that wonderful sound. Her heels click together, stomp a little on the ground. Her hands fly to his hair and grab hold, but her eyes never leave Shane.

She watches Shane stroke his hand up and down his cock with that parted, pouty mouth. That crease between his brows. The face she’s been dreaming about.

Ilya pulls from Bunny’s tit with a wet pop. He massages over the teeth marks in her flesh with one hand, reaching for the right side with the other to give her nipple a tug. “I have missed these.”

Bunny hiccups around air. Another stomp of heels. Shane wants her to wear them the whole night, he realizes. He wants to see them in the air, against her ass, maybe up by her ears. Jesus. There was a new thought.

“Mm, now me,” Ilya says. “Bunny, you start here.”

He taps his chest, the collar of a green t-shirt. He drops his hands to his sides and it almost thrills her to know he’ll be of no help. He likes when she earns it. Shane does, too.

Bunny slips her hands under the fabric, sliding the full surface of her palms up his stomach, over his chest. Ilya snickers, watching her over the slope of his nose. She hoists the hem of the shirt over his head and he lifts his arms to release them. A waft of his cologne, something smoky and rich, comes with the removal. His cross falls to his chest, slightly askew.

“Now you, Hollander. Here.” Ilya taps his belt and Shane comes rushing like a trained dog.

He fumbles with the leather, pulling free from his belt loops. The buckle tinkles as it unlatches, the leather whooshes as it leaves his hips to thud loose on the ground.

And Bunny is kissing Ilya’s chest. Loud, full-lipped kisses that travel over the top of his pecs, along his collarbones, down in the dip of abdomen muscles. Shane feels like he can’t catch a proper breath as he unbuttons Ilya’s jeans and pulls them down his hips.

He’s on his knees then, taking Ilya’s boxers with him. Mimicking Bunny’s affections with open-mouthed explorations along Ilya’s pelvis, his thighs, across his hip bones.

Ilya hums, cupping one hand around each head that approaches him. Feeling Bunny’s hair between his fingers, Shane’s raven locks under his palm. They move like twin snakes, slithering around his body to feel his flesh against their tongues.

Bunny drags a thick, wet stripe down his stomach until she joins Shane on her knees before Ilya. Down there, she can feel Shane’s warmth. Her shoulder against his elbow, their knees touching, the back of his knuckles grazing her thigh. She wants him to touch her again, to grab her in that sweet, oddly possessive way.

But Ilya’s grabbing his cock and holding it between them, and she knows they have a job to do.

“Tongues out, puppies,” Ilya coos.

Shane scoffs, shaking his head amusedly at his boyfriend. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Yes, but you want mine in your mouth, Hollander. You too, Bunny?”

Shane turns to the girl beside him to see her mouth already open, tongue held out flat. She nods eagerly, hands bracing her thighs.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers, watching Ilya touch the tip of his cock to Bunny’s waiting tongue.

“She listens,” Ilya says.

Shane redirects, facing Ilya again with his tongue out as far as it can stretch. Ilya rubs his cock a little longer on Bunny’s tongue before giving it to Shane, repeating the same gentle graze and wander in his mouth.

Bunny leans forward and kisses his hip, his thigh, the length of his cock that isn’t in Shane’s mouth. Ilya groans, dropping his hand to the base of her skull. His fingers nestle in her hair, palm heavy to pull her close.

Shane closes his mouth around the head of Ilya’s cock, humming deeply. Ilya gasps, now clutching Shane’s head, too. Holding them together, feeling like a god being worshipped above them.

Shane hollows his cheeks and bobs his head, Ilya’s cock heavy in his mouth, prodding the back of his throat. Bunny slides her tongue along the length of it and Shane moans around Ilya when it touches his top lip. So she does it again. She licks at the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip. She coaxes him with small whimpers, with the turn of her body a little more toward Shane, her knee sliding between his, her hands breezing up his thighs.

Breath whooshes through him, and his hands shoot out to grip her waist. His thumbs press into her stomach, his eyes watching her in his peripheral as Ilya’s cock bulges in his cheek. Ilya chuckles—he gets to have his cake and eat it, too. Watch their playful interactions and still have his dick sucked. It was fun to watch them learn each other.

Shane pulls off Ilya, swollen-lipped and pink-cheeked. It’s another moment of pleasant surprise when he grips the back of Bunny’s hair and yanks her over Ilya’s cock, shoving her head down half the length.

“Oh, fuck,” the Russian moans, placing his hand over Shane’s on Bunny’s head.

They listen to her throat click wetly, glugging around his length when it hits too deep. Shane realizes, as he sits there just to see her eyes brim with tears and her hands clench into fists, that he enjoys watching her work. That he likes to hear her sounds. His cock throbs achingly at the remembrance of her mouth on him.

“Ah, hold her still, Shane. Going to fuck her throat.”

Shane shuffles over the floor, pressing himself to Bunny’s back. Their sticky skin clings together with heat and sweat and she can feel his cock against her ass and she whines around Ilya. Shane hooks his arms around her waist, grazes his fingers against her sex for the very first time. She’s so fucking soft and warm there and he itches to explore it more.

But Ilya’s using Shane’s shoulder as a prop for Bunny’s head, for a place for it to rest as he begins to piston down her throat. Her mouth stretches wide to accommodate him, tears flowing freely down her cheeks now. Shane cranes his head to watch it, to watch the spit and cum trickle down her chin and gather on her chest. He’s not even thinking when he sweeps his hand over her throat, clutching her jaw to keep her still, holding her up for his boyfriend to use. He can feel Ilya's cock bulge through her throat against his palm and it's obscenely hot.

We can’t just use her whenever we want.

Oh, but can’t they?

Ilya’s breath is labored, huffed through his nose in heavy gusts. Shane tips his gaze up to watch him turn a bright shade of red all over. The vein in his forehead makes an appearance as his ass tenses, his hips stilling to keep his cock deep in Bunny’s throat.

“Ohh,” he groans, “take it, Bunny. Take all of it.”

Shane watches her now, blinking wetly up at Ilya as he cums down her throat. She’s clutching onto Shane’s hands like a lifeline, his fingers still just resting over her clit. She bucks up into them, grinds a little against his hand. Ilya’s softened cock slips from her mouth with a trail of slick, a string of spit.

Bunny swallows thickly and Ilya spreads two fingers in the corners of her mouth.

“Open,” he demands.

She holds her tongue out to show her empty mouth and Shane moans, pressing his head to her jaw. His fingers rub a little at her clit, encouraging the jerk of her thigh and the sharp gasp against Ilya’s prying fingers.

“Good girl,” Ilya purrs, and his eyes finally fall to Shane’s hand between her thighs. “Ah, Hollander, you are already step ahead.”

He still has his fingers in her mouth and it should make her flush with humiliation—but it only makes her grind up against Shane even more. Shane keeps his touch featherlight and she wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. If he’s learned his cruelty from the best.

Ilya grips Bunny’s chin with his other hand and jerks her head toward Shane. “Spit in her mouth.”

Shane pauses for only a moment, searching Ilya’s gaze for confirmation. He blinks back slowly. So Shane turns, puckers his lips, and spits directly into Bunny’s open mouth.

The poor girl whines and almost waits for more, but Ilya jerks her back to face him and hunches over, committing his boyfriend’s spit with an obscene smack of his own on her tongue.

“Swallow, Bunny. Good girl.” Ilya removes his fingers from her mouth and massages her throat, sure to be sore and aching.

Shane presses a little harder on her clit, circling smoothly. He runs the tip of his nose over her wet cheek, ghosts his open mouth along her jaw.

“Good girl,” he mimics in a whisper.

Ilya smiles, already tugging on his cock as it stands back to attention. “Bunny is lucky girl. Mr. Hollander really likes you.”

“I do,” Shane rushes out, kissing down Bunny’s jaw. His mouth travels down her neck and his hand sweeps further back between her thighs, dipping the tip of two fingers into the wetness gathered there.

Her head falls back against his shoulder, back arching off his chest. “Shane, please.”

“Please what, Bunny? Tell him,” Ilya directs, stroking himself faster.

She struggles a minute and Shane doesn’t do much to help. He’s found a spot inside her that’s warm and gushy and she releases this throaty moan every time he prods at it, and he can’t stop making her make that sound. He can’t stop wanting to hear it in his ear, coming from that swollen, spit-smeared mouth.

“Come on,” Shane coaxes, but he reaches even deeper, presses until his knuckles are flush against her clit. “Tell me what you want, Bunny.”

This is so unfair, she thinks. Ilya stands above her tugging at his cock so close to her face she can feel every move of his hand in the air. Shane’s touching her, fucking her so deep that she feels it in the pit of her stomach. It’s been better than she imagined, having the two of them pass her around. They could stop right here and she’d go home feeling like a lucky girl.

But she doesn’t want it to stop. She wants more.

“I want to cum,” she gasps. “Please, Shane, make me cum.”

He picks up the pace, curling his fingers and tugging them in and out fast enough to hear it. She clutches his forearm, head thrown back in agony, writhing about between his strong arms.

“She is almost there,” Ilya says, watching Bunny squirm like a caged animal.

Keeping his fingers at pace, Shane lifts his other hand and knocks Bunny’s head aside. He captures her mouth, and it’s like he’s swallowing her whole. His tongue inside her mouth, his lips claiming hers with bruising pressure. But even with the muffle of Shane’s lips, the sound that leaves her as she trembles and cums right there on the kitchen floor is deafening.

Shane moans into her mouth, relieving her when she shoves at his still prodding hand. His fingers are slick and he can still feel her pulsing against the heel of his palm.

He detaches from her mouth with a soft click, and she collapses into him with small, labored gasps. He allows his eyes to open, to admire the glow over her face as she catches her breath. How gorgeous she looks with a warm swell in her cheeks, bits of hair sticking up.

“My god, you are like tortured animal,” Ilya announces.

Bunny scoffs tiredly and Shane smacks at Ilya’s thigh.

“Is okay, I like it. Means Hollander did a good job, yes?”

Bunny nods dumbly, running her hand over Shane’s arm. Her eyes are still closed. “Very good.”

They wait for her to catch her breath. Shane leaves small kisses, peppered across her face, until he feels the signifiant cool down in her skin. Ilya strokes his hand over Shane’s hair, sweeps his thumb across his cheek.

“She’s tired,” Shane whispers, the back of his knuckles petting her cheek.

“‘m okay,” Bunny protests. “Just give me a minute—“

“Shh, just relax. Come on, we’ll open the wine.”

Shane twists the cork as Ilya hoists Bunny over his shoulder, running down the hall toward the bedroom. Shane follows the sound of her distant laughter, the muffled sound of Ilya’s playful growl and a mix of English and Russian exclamations.

Does Bunny know Russian, too? Shane doesn’t even know. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about her. What exactly she does for work, because she only posts selfies from her desk and the occasional book stack. If she’s seeing anyone else, because he never sees her with other men online.

“Shaaane, where is wine?” Ilya whines from the bedroom.

“Coming!”

Shane gathers three wine glasses—stems-up—in one hand and the wine bottle in the other. He takes his time making his way to the bedroom, a nervous pitter patter tapping away in his chest. He can hear the soft murmurs of the two of them in the bedroom: the low grumble of Ilya’s accent and the sweet melody of Bunny’s honey voice.

He nudges the door open and peeks around. Bunny’s sprawled out on the end of the bed, stomach shuddering under Ilya’s wandering hand. He runs it up and down her stomach, ghosting between her thighs only to pull away. She has her arms above her head, reaching for the heavens and smiling while she does it. That coy little grin, bottom lip tucked between her teeth; the grin she gave Shane before his dick entered her mouth that first time. When it was just the two of them sharing a small secret of her tongue touching him first.

“Ah, there he is. Come.” Ilya pats the bed beside him and Bunny cranes her head back to beam at Shane.

He returns it, but he doesn’t join Ilya on the bed. He stops before Bunny at the edge of the mattress and passes Ilya the wine to free up one hand, which he uses to grip her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re playing without me,” he says, and it’s a statement. As much of a statement as Shane’s gentle voice can make.

He feels her flush under his touch and his favorite grin flitters over her face again. “Never.”

Ilya cocks his head, admiring the lines of his boyfriend’s body when he bends in half to capture Bunny’s mouth. Gentle and sweet and only a little tongue. It makes her insides feel like liquid.

“I have an idea,” Ilya announces, leaning to put the wine bottle on the nightstand.

“Shocker,” Shane mumbles into Bunny’s mouth. He licks at her bottom lip before standing straight.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Do you want to hear it or keep kissing?”

Shane and Bunny share a small smile and side-eye. Ilya huffs, and Bunny squeals when he grabs her by the ankles and yanks her away from Shane. She’s hoisted into his lap, their bare sexes pressing together and bringing immediate hardness to Ilya’s cock. But he keeps one hand firm on her ass and it doesn’t plan on moving to fuck her. Not yet.

“Now you will listen, yes?”

Bunny nods and Ilya’s eyes slide to Shane, who chuckles. “Yes.”

“What if we all fuck each other?”

There’s a pause. Bunny looks up at Ilya, does her best to peer back at Shane.

“Well…yeah, isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Shane scratches at the nape of his neck.

Ilya rolls his eyes again. “Yes, but I mean—fuck. You fuck her, and I fuck you at same time.”

Shane lights up like a Christmas tree, all red and hot and pulsing. He swallows and even Bunny can hear it. “Oh.”

“Is good idea, yes?”

Bunny twists to see Shane, her cheek pressing to Ilya’s as she goes, and they sit there together with their faces touching and their eyes on Shane.

“Shane, would you…like that?”

Shane’s eyes flit down to her ass, arched over Ilya’s lap, and he doesn’t pretend to think, or even give himself time to think. It feels good to stop thinking.

“Yes.”

Ilya trails his fingers over the length of Bunny’s spine. “Yes what?”

Shane puts the wine glasses on the dresser and turns around. “I want to fuck you, Bunny. And yes, Ilya, I obviously want you to fuck me.”

Ilya laughs, patting Bunny’s ass in signal. She crawls off of him toward the edge of the bed, reaching for Shane. He lets her, lets her take his hands and pull him close to her, takes her mouth again with his.

He likes that she’s smaller, softer, a flip side of what he’s used to handling. Or maybe it’s just that: he’s used to being handled. And he loves when Ilya slams him down and fucks him until he sees through space and time, but it’s been fun to play the other side. To shove his cock down Bunny’s throat and know she’ll take it, because he knows what it’s like to be on his knees just like that.

“Hey, stop kissing my boyfriend,” Ilya whines from behind Bunny.

She giggles into Shane’s mouth and lets Ilya tug her back, pulling her flat on the mattress. He dips down and smacks his mouth over hers, a little too rough—as he tends to do. He makes a show of it, moaning against her and twisting his head around to mush their lips together. She’s still giggling, and Shane’s bringing her legs around his hips and feeling the softness of her calves with his fingertips.

Ilya pulls up, slick-mouthed and grinning. He looks at Shane and the position he’s put them in. “You want her like that, Hollander?”

Shane nods, gazing down at Bunny as she pants softly, blissed-out and perfectly still. “Yeah, just like this.”

Ilya hums, sliding off the bed only to swoop up again behind Shane, tucking his chin over his shoulder. Bunny’s insides wind together in a knot at the sight of both of them, looming over her.

Is your dream, yes? Ilya asked last time. That first time might’ve been a fraction of that dream, but this was the whole of it. The two of them before her, the three of them soon to be intertwined.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs, and Shane’s eyes close when he begins leaving open-mouthed kisses along his neck, “because I want you like this.”

Bunny is content to watch them for a moment. Ilya’s tongue drag over Shane’s skin, Shane’s hand come back to tug at a curl at the nape of his neck. Ilya’s hands over Shane’s stomach, chest, up and down and feeling as they go. Shane whimpering, tipping his head around for more.

But it isn’t enough. And it’s petulant when she does it, but she’ll worry about it later—and Bunny shifts to squeeze her thighs around Shane’s hips with a huff.

“Is someone gonna fuck me?”

Their eyes pop open in different gazes. Ilya’s narrow with faux but equally dangerous warning. Shane’s bulge and marry the pink glow on his cheeks in the perfect picture of embarrassment.

“You will watch the tone, Bunny, or get nothing,” Ilya grumbles.

She shifts, feeling Shane’s expression morph onto her own face. “Sorry.”

“Strict program ‘round here-ah!” Shane yelps when Ilya’s hand pops over his ass.

“Yes, it is. Now say please, both of you.”

They murmur their pleas together and Ilya reaches around Shane to spread Bunny’s legs a little wider. Shane nearly chokes around his own breath at the sight below him. The thickness of her thighs, the firmness of the flesh there. The soft slickness between them, so delicate and pretty.

“You need help, or…”

Shane scoffs, jabbing his elbow back into Ilya. “Shut up. Bunny, can I…”

“Yes, yes please.” Bunny bobs her head hungrily. “I want you, Shane.”

It’s all he needs to hear. Shane presses the head of his cock to Bunny’s center, where the dip grows warm and wet. As he inches in, Ilya tips Shane’s hips back a little, pushes his shoulders over Bunny until he’s hovering, palms pressed into the bed. He heard the sharp smack of spit before Shane feels the breach as he slides further into Bunny, and soon all three of them are releasing sounds of pleasure that echo through the bedroom.

Ilya moves first. Rocks his hip one time, deep and languid against Shane’s ass. It sends Shane tumbling forward, rutting into Bunny. Her hands fly to his arms, nails piercing the warm firmness of his biceps. Through the bleary blur of her vision, she watches his face contort. That beautiful, pained display of euphoria.

Ilya keeps hold of Shane’s hips for momentum, and if it weren’t for Shane’s hold on the mattress on either side of Bunny’s head, they’d both come toppling down on her. But right now, every thrust inside of Shane causes every thrust inside of Bunny, and every time they move the bed goes with them. Jostling, jerking, bouncing Bunny up and down over it.

“Oh god, please,” Bunny whines, and it wakes Shane from his stupor.

He doesn’t want Ilya to fuck both of them. He wants to fuck Bunny, by his own volition. He wants to get those pitchy sounds out of her. He wants her to moan for him.

So even despite Ilya’s steady pace behind him, Shane begins to set his own. Thrusting with intention and excitement and drive. The shift immediately takes hold of Bunny, who gasps like someone’s cut off air supply. Her back crescents as much as it can, folding up into Shane to place her mouth on his neck. He drops down a little further to give her access, groans noisily when she latches on.

“Ooh, fuck, Hollander. Look at you go. So fucking eager,” Ilya purrs. “And Bunny takes it so good.”

He runs his hand along Bunny’s thigh, tickling and teasing. She shivers, the chilling pleasure of Shane’s cock and Ilya’s reminder almost too much. It’s barely started and she’s already struggling.

“Keep going, Shane,” he whispers against Shane’s ear. “Make her scream.”

“Fuck,” Shane sighs, and then he’s balancing on one shaky arm to place his thumb on Bunny’s bottom lip. “You want that, Bunny? You wanna scream?”

She nods again and he shakes his head. “Tell me. Make him happy, I know you want to.”

Her eyes flit to Ilya, who’s smirking over Shane’s shoulder, nodding encouragingly, promising that yes, he will be so happy when Bunny listens for them. Listens for Shane, who’s taken to this new role so well.

“I-I want you to make me scream,” she tells him, and then she’s moaning around the thumb slipping in her mouth.

And then Shane’s rambling in that sweet, cooing voice like he’s calling to a stray. “I’ll do that for you, honey, I’ll do that. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His thumb hooks in her mouth when he picks up pace. Smears spit and pours drool from the corner of it as he ruts until the vein in her neck protrudes, until he can feel the heat in her face practically pulsing in front of him.

But she still isn’t screaming, and Shane’s gonna cum in a pathetic amount of time from the way Ilya’s making the skin over his hips ripple—but not before she’s screaming.

Shane uses all the strength he can to gather Bunny’s legs, as quickly as he can, and to push them up. Her knees near her ears, folded in half, ankles hooked over his shoulders so Ilya catches sight of a thin gold anklet around her left leg. So delicate and fragile, just like their Bunny, beginning to squeal and shriek at the new angle of Shane’s cock inside her.

“Oh-my-god,” she whines between gasps, between the pound of Shane’s hips against her, the stab of his cock inside her. “Fuck.”

“Not yet,” Ilya grits between his teeth, and he turns to kiss Bunny’s dangling ankle.

Tears kiss her eyes and Shane cradles her wet cheek in his palm, thumb pressing away the errant drops that slip down.

“But—“

“Not. Yet.”

The command cuts through even Shane, who feels Bunny’s thighs squeeze around his neck and her walls tighten around his cock. She looks to him with shiny, pleading eyes, but he only smiles.

“Not yet,” he repeats. Softer, gentler, a little mocking. “Be a g-good girl, Bunny.”

Ilya takes hold of one of Bunny’s ankles and the back of Shane’s hair, using his grip on both to muster enough power that Bunny can feel every thrust inside of Shane. The domino effect being that Shane fucks into her, and the whole bed squeaks and groans and she’s so glad Shane’s too cheap for something better so she has proof of just how hard they’re fucking. She hopes the neighbors can hear—even though they can’t—so she can say that’s happening to me.

“P-please, I can’t,” Bunny whines, nails dragging down Shane’s arms.

He groans, eyes rolling back, rutting wildly—so hard that Bunny feels it in her throat. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya looks between them, the writhing mess on the mattress and the bronzed boy fucking her wildly, and getting fucked back. It’s fills him with a power like he’s never felt before. A high he’s not sure he knows how to handle. He has the both of them in the palm of his hand.

“Fuck, do it. Cum, vozlyublennyye.”

Bunny’s first this time, but just barely. Shane moves his hand fast enough to slip two fingers in her mouth and she bites down on them absentmindedly. He yelps, and the spurt of warmth inside her is enough to make her want to cum again. But she worries, in the fuzzy haze of her fucked-out daydream, that she might be hurting the poor boy trembling over her—so she eases up on the teeth, relaxes her mouth to suck at the fingers shoved deep inside. She forces her eyes open, wanting nothing more than to see the two of them as they come undone.

Ilya goes a little longer, the slap of skin and slick suction of sexes loud without her own screams and Shane’s whining. They’re reduced to whimpers now, tiny pips let out the longer Ilya fucks Shane through his orgasm, the longer his gentle thrusts rock him in and out of Bunny. And then Ilya pulls out, bracing Shane’s hips, letting his release paint the freckled muscles of his back. Without Ilya’s weight holding him up, Shane falls into Bunny with a fatigued sigh, his fingers slipping out of her mouth to fall at her cheek.

His breath is heavy against her chest, where his cheek is pressed flush to her skin. She cradles the back of his head, fingers running through the damp strands, scratching gently at his scalp. Her legs have slipped back down, still vibrating around his hips in the come-down. Ilya sits back on his haunches before them at the end of the bed, running the full weight of his hand over Bunny’s right leg, the other over Shane’s thigh. He watches their eyes flutter shut, their chests ease back down to the stasis of gentle breaths. He grins to himself, feeling full and proud.

“Sleepy babies,” he coos at them. Bunny snickers, but Shane only hums affirmatively against her breast, moving his hand down to her waist where he holds her tightly.

She blinks her eyes open, finding the white ceiling above her. Shane is heavy in that wonderful, warm way, like a blanket meant to ease anxiety, or a coat meant to keep from cold. And he’s holding her like a pillow, and the throb between her legs has subsided to a dull ache, and there’s something fluttering in her chest that freaks her out. A flutter she felt with Ilya back in the day, briefly, before they cut things off.

The Russian is still massaging them, but he’s grown quiet, too. He watches Bunny blink slowly, her face shift from the glow of pleasure to the frown of something else. He moves his thumb a little deeper into her spasming calf and she looks from the ceiling to his watching eyes.

“Okay?” he asks.

She plasters a smile on her mouth and nods, stroking her fingers over the back of Shane’s head again. “Yeah,” she whispers.

They wait a beat, resting there in the silence. Ilya tips his head at Shane, still pressed to Bunny’s chest. “He is still inside, yes?”

She laughs airily, sweeping her hand down his hair again. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” the man murmurs against her skin, cheek squished to puff his lips out. She doesn’t want him to be sorry. She doesn’t want him to move, but she knows he will soon.

It’s even worse that when he does, Shane stands from the bed and pats down the back of his hair, ruffled from her wandering fingers, and he takes small, quiet steps toward the bathroom door with only a shifting glance back at the bed.

“I’m gonna shower,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and edged with what Bunny can only describe as distance.

Ilya’s brows knit together. “Hollander.”

But the door snicks shut, closing the room to silence between Ilya and the girl lying naked on their bed. She swallows, curling in on herself as she rolls to sit, reaching for the closest thing to cover herself. Ilya turns to her, a frown etched on his mouth.

“I don’t know—he’s just—“

“It’s okay. Um, I’ll just get my stuff.”

Ilya grabs her wrist as she reaches for the edge of the bed, pulling her to sit again. “What? No, Bunny. You can use other shower, I’ll grab you something clean. Don’t go.”

She glances at the bathroom door, the beam of white light shifting beneath it as Shane moves about. The faucet starts a beat later, the patter of water-fall coming down on the shower floor. Ilya holds her wrist gently against her thigh, watching her all the while.

“Okay,” she agrees.

He walks her to the shower on the other side of the condo, meant for guests that stay in the spare room. He places a pile of clothes on the sink, a Metros pullover and plaid pajama pants, a pair of boxers in between. Ilya shows her the shampoo she can use, the body wash that will leave her smelling like him, where the towel warmer is. He kisses her head and then her cheek, and then he’s closing the door on the fluorescently-lit room.

She takes her time in the shower, wondering if Shane and Ilya are sharing the other one as she scrubs her hair, as she cleans herself of Shane. Tears gather in a hard ball behind her eyes, and she closes them before she can cry. She keeps them closed as Ilya’s body wash lathers over her body, as the suds slip down the drain. She opens them only when she’s dressing, and then she’s standing there with wet hair and mismatched clothes—part Ilya, part Shane.

She hangs the towels neatly, arranges all the items in the shower by height. She wipes any water from the floor, runs the fan to release the steam. When she steps out of the bathroom, it’s still quiet. Her clothes are still strewn across the kitchen floor with Shane and Ilya’s, the evidence of a few hours ago like a slap in the face. She glances toward the bedroom as she gathers them, feeling like an idiot when she slips her feet into her high heels.

She shoves her clothes into the purse on the kitchen island, crumpling work folders and the pages of a paperback. The shower in the bedroom turns off and a door creaks open.

“Bunny?”

It’s Ilya, not Shane, and still that stings. She puffs a deep breath through her cheeks and turns for the door, just slipping through it and into the cold as the men emerge from the bedroom with wet hair and the bottle of wine.

Robin gestured in the direction of the dining room, still giggling, leaning more and more into Steve until he was practically holding her upright.

“Jesus, thanks.” Eddie heard Steve start his third lecture of the night about drinking responsibly as he left the hallway they’d congregated in to head into the dining room and fucking hell.

Does Your Mother Know was blasting through the speakers as he looked up, watching his best friend dancing on the table. Limbs all loose with the liquor she was twirling and bouncing to the music, hips swaying in a way that was cruel. Her skirt — far far too short for where she was dancing — was riding up her thighs with each movement, and where maybe he’d have indulged himself in staring at her legs in their gorgeous glory, all of the people stood around the table staring instead were just starting to piss him off. The girls were cheering and the boys were whistling and it was making him so angry that she was getting oggled so obviously.

He shoved past a group of people and ignored the drunken complaints as he got to the edge of the table. “Hey!” He shouted, his hand finding the warm skin of her ankle.

She twirled back around and broke into a huge grin when she saw him. “Eddie!” She squealed. “Hey! Oh my god! Come dance with me!”

She bent over to try and encourage him up and he quickly reached up to yank her skirt down to cover her ass, spare her flashing half of the party.

“No. Come on, get down.”

“But it’s fun up here!” She giggled, though it seemed like her drunkenness was on his side as she wobbled towards the edge of the table, and he just wrapped his arms around her thighs to lift her down, ignoring the people that started booing at him.

She was still giggling at him once her feet were on the floor, nodding along to the music. “Well I can dance with you honey, if you something something, does your mother know that you’re out- Eddie I love this song!”

He reached for one of her hands to start pulling her out of the room. “Uh-huh, tell me about it outside, you need some air.”

She didn’t complain, fingers squeezing his as she followed along until he reached the patio doors to lead them outside.

It was cold out, nearing late November, so instantly he shrugged off his jacket and encouraged it onto her arms. She didn’t even complain, just letting him dress her like a life-sized Barbie doll.

“How’re you feeling, dancing queen?” He looked back up at her face and scowled when she was leaning up on her tiptoes to peek over the hedge to the neighbors garden. “Hey,” he poked her cheek. “Are you feeling okay?”

The fresh air seemed to hit her all at once because she wobbled on her feet and made a face. “Oh. Dizzy.”

“Yeah, thought so,” he glanced around the garden for a bench so she could sit, though there was only a set of swings stood against the back fence. “C’mon, let’s sit down.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her the short distance to the swing set, at least thankful she wasn’t too drunk to walk. Though it seemed like if he’d left her alone for any longer she might’ve been.

He let go of her so she could sit down on one of the two swings, and he’d been planning to sit on the other, though instantly she leaned back and almost slipped right off of the swing.

“Whoops.” She giggled, hands still on the ropes as Eddie quickly lifted her back up, and settled with just standing behind her so she didn’t fall back into the grass again, his hands planted on her shoulders.

For a moment he just gave her a moment to sit and breathe. She’d leaned back against him, feet pushing against the floor to swing though prevented by Eddie stood behind her. “Swing me.”

He scoffed. “I don’t want you to puke, babe.”

“M’not gonna puke,” she leaned up to continue her argument though was quickly distracted by the clear skies above them, blinking at the stars. “Woah. Look,” she pointed up. “Orion’s Belt.”

Eddie didn’t look up, instead just continued staring down at her face. The glitter she’d packed onto her eyelids stood in front of his bathroom mirror earlier that evening had migrated down her cheeks like little sparkly freckles. Her cheeks were flushed from drinking, nose red from the cold of the night. She was so fucking pretty. It wasn’t fair.

Her head tipped back just that much further to look up at him, the top of her head pressed against his stomach. “Hi,” she blinked. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” He was quickly overcome with just how easy it would’ve been to lean down and kiss her. His hands slid from her shoulders to the warmth of her neck, thumb stroking the length of her jaw without thinking. It didn’t help that she nuzzled into his touch like a cat.

His eyes had shifted down to her lips, lipgloss making them shiny. He wanted to know what it tasted like.

He’d leaned down just a fraction when the patio doors slammed open.

“Eddie! Y/N!” Eddie grit his teeth as he looked up and saw Robin stood in the open doorway, grinning like crazy. “You’ve gotta come see what Steve’s doing!”

Eddie just sighed, hands dropping back down to his best friend’s shoulders as she sat up straight again.

Kissing her would’ve been a bad idea anyways.

“You ready to go back in, babe?”

She hunched over and threw up on the grass in front of the swings.

Eddie winced, instantly scooping her hair into a makeshift ponytail. “Fuck, you’re okay, just let it out.” He held her hair with one hand and lifted the other to rub her back through the leather of his jacket.

He glanced up to see Robin grimacing at the door. “…I’ll tell Steve you’ll be a sec.”

let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list <3

Your brain feels like it is buzzing thanks to the prosecco-heavy cocktails and the kisses shared with the men on either side of you throughout the night, their teasing touches and murmured promises as the other watched on, wanting to touch and be touched, to kiss and be kissed too. 

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Eddie murmurs against your neck, nuzzling just below your ear. 

His eyes are dark, full of warmth and his signature mischief, and fixed on Steve. You follow his gaze, watch how the streetlights and neon bar signs light up his face.

“Mmhm, gorgeous. So pretty it’s unfair.”

Together, you watch the way Steve’s lips curve upward, and you feel how he squeezes your leg to let you know he has heard; he is more tuned in to you than his conversation with the cab driver, who is monologuing now about his son’s college baseball career.

Your hand drifts away from your lap, finding a place to sit far too high on Steve’s thigh to be accidental or decent. Heat seeps through summer-appropriate denim, just a few centimetres below where his pants barely conceal his semi. A barely-there brush of your pinky makes his jaw twitch and tighten. 

Your lips buzz, eager to close the gap and press a kiss there, nip the stubble shadow that sits over the fine line of bone. If you look close enough, you can still see a smear of your lipstick on his neck; it matches the smudged hue that graces Eddie’s smiling mouth. 

Not to be forgotten, the devil himself trails his fingers higher between your thighs, seeking out the damp gusset of your panties and a break in your composure. Steve’s eyes dip from your gasping mouth to the shape of Eddie’s hand beneath your skirt; his pupils are almost all black, hazel subsumed by desire. 

Thighs tighten and try to clamp around the wandering hand, but Steve keeps your leg pinned against his own, open just enough for Eddie to keep teasing you and testing your ability to play it cool. Your cheeks flame hotter, sweat beading along your hairline and across the bridge of your nose as blood rushes in your ears, and black-painted nails tiptoe along the lace trim.

“Just up here on the left, with the green railings,” Steve says, after a quick glance out the window, “Thanks, man.”

A feeling, something between bereavement and relief, fills your chest as Eddie withdraws his hand, rewarding your composure with a quick, sloppy kiss as the cab pulls up to the curb outside the apartment building.

The slightest suggestion of a cool breeze hits your too-warm body as Steve helps you out of the heated backseat; you yearn for the chilled comfort of the apartment two floors up and the privacy it promises. Eddie unfolds himself, Bambi-like, from the car, and you fix a mean little glare between your brows just for him.

“Onward, good sir, into the sweltering night,” he crows to the driver, slapping the roof. “Drive safe, godspeed!” He waves him off with a flourish, standing in the middle of the empty street.

Amusement twitches at the corner of Steve’s mouth as he leans against the railings with his house keys burning his palm. 

“What’s the face for, baby?” Eddie asks, sidling up to the curb. He looms over you without even stepping up from the gutter, head tilted to the side with faux concern. 

Your eyes narrow, and Steve is barely holding back laughter. 

“You’re a fuckin’ menace, Munson.”

Eddie adores that bitchy little edge to your voice; it gives him goosebumps, makes his knees a little weak. 

“You love that I’m a menace,” he counters, cupping your face. 

His lips are damp from kissing you, kissing your neck. You could close the gap and kiss him again, melt gooey and sweet for him and admit how much you liked the spike of adrenaline when he touched you behind a stranger’s back, but you feel like being sharp and barbed instead.  

He strokes your cheek so gently as his teeth flash, wolf-like under the streetlights. “Don’t lie, I felt how wet you were, doll.” 

There’s a little part of you that wants to torture him a little for that stunt, drag Steve upstairs and let Eddie keep his hands to himself for the rest of the night.

A look passes over your head, hazel and brown eyes and smirking lips. 

“Honey, don’t act all innocent,” Steve adds, stepping up behind you to place his hands on your hips. It sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, being between them like this in public. “Weren’t exactly keepin’ your hands to yourself, were you?” 

Eddie beams, mirth twinkling in his eyes, while you flush hot all over again.

“Busted,” he whispers, and trails his hands down to rest on top of Steve’s. 

Every centimetre of you screams with need, with want and anticipation; you feel like a cornered little mouse between two hungry cats. It’s thrilling, one of your favourite things about this dynamic you have fallen into with them, it’s always fun, always exciting. 

Steve squeezes your hips, then Eddie’s hand, before nodding toward the front door haloed in porchlight. 

“You two are welcome to stay out here on the street and decide who’s the bigger horny menace, but I’m going up.”

Eddie scoffs, watching Steve turn with a sly little smile on his pretty pink mouth. 

“Oh, you’re so full of shit, babe.”

Steve shrugs, looks over his shoulder with a smirk that makes you feel molten as he slides the key into the lock. 

“Sue me.” 

All the way up the stairs, Eddie playfully bitches at Steve and lets you know exactly why they took so long coming back from the bar bathroom earlier.

“And then he just leaves. I’m there with my pants open, dick like a fuckin’ diamond, and he’s already at the bar ordering another fruity little drink.”

Your ribs hurt from laughing, and Steve’s wearing this amused little smirk; he adores Eddie’s way with words as much as you do. He loves too, how bitchy and dramatic your boyfriend gets - especially when it comes to his allegedly neglected dick.

“Can you keep it down, please? Mrs Wallace is going to come at you with her spray bottle if she hears you talking about your dick in the common areas again, Ed. Have some decorum,” Steve says as he stops in front of their door.

Eddie’s eyes flash, wild and incredulous. “Decorum?! You -”

His roll-over rant is swiftly cut off. 

Your mouth waters at the sight of them together; Eddie backed to the wall, stunned and efficiently shut up with a fierce kiss. The sight of Steve’s huge hands on his trim waist, golden skin and dark denim studded with silver hardware, strikes something fond in your chest. 

“Ed. Shut. Up,” he whispers against Eddie’s mouth, delivering a much softer kiss for balance. 

He slaps Eddie’s flushed cheek once before opening the apartment door with a practised flick of the wrist to bypass the sticky lock, and holds the door open for you to step inside.

Eddie’s just about melting, stunned and lightheaded with how fast the blood has rushed south, so you grab his hand and steer him home past Steve’s smug little smile.

The door locks, shoes and keys are abandoned, and Eddie’s the one burning up now.

“I think you broke him.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Steve reaches for you, drawing you into him. His smiling mouth soothes the buzzing feeling in your lips; you have missed this, though it’s been less than half an hour since your last fix. Too long. You feel cherished in his arms, his hands on your waist holding you against his broad chest. 

He kisses you slowly, savouring the plush feeling of your lips as you open up for him. He tastes like whiskey and orange, sweet and addictive on your tongue, and smoke from a cigarette shared when you waited for the cab. 

The hitch in Steve’s breath tells you that Eddie is out of his trance. Through barely open eyes, you spy him kissing Steve’s neck, just as he had with you in the cab. Tomorrow you will have matching bruises in the shape of his nipping teeth. 

Pressed up along Steve’s back, he watches how you kiss each other and feels a needy little pull in his chest. His hips rock slowly against Steve’s ass, pulling a quiet little noise from his chest and right onto your tongue.

Blindly, you trail your fingers from Steve‘s shoulder up to Eddie’s jaw; his stubble prickles your fingertips as you guide him close enough to smell the smoke and tequila on his breath. Close enough that he is right there to claim Steve’s lips as you pull back barely an inch.

This kiss is less bruising than their last, less power and play and more pure desire. Your heart speeds up as you watch them, the wet pass of tongues and breathy gasps of pleasure, craving more.

You thumb over Eddie’s jaw, stroke your fingers up the back of Steve’s neck to make him shiver. The two moles on his cheek call out to you, beg to be kissed too, and who are you to deny? They mark your mouth's journey down to his chin, to the thick chord of muscle in his neck, and soothe the bruise left by Eddie’s teeth.

He pulls you tighter against him, against Eddie, and you can see him smiling into the kiss. Infectious, Eddie’s smiling too. Warmth bubbles up in your chest, furry and lovely, unlike the burning need between your thighs.

“Bedroom,” Eddie whispers, flicking his tongue against Steve’s lower lip.

He turns to kiss you next, all too brief and dripping with want. You taste the moan on his tongue when Steve cups him through his jeans. 

“Now.”

Steve has already pulled away, shirt buttons slipping between his fingers as he backs down the hall to the bedroom that started as his and slowly became theirs, and then yours too. The buttons had started falling open earlier in the night, revealing more of the bronzed skin and dark hair beneath, the glimmer of gold around his neck, but now it’s slipping off his shoulders like a harlot in one of Eddie’s tales - his kiss-bruised lips and finger-tousled hair only make that more true.

“Just following orders,” he says with a shrug, nudging the door with his hip before disappearing into the darkness. 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you and Eddie share a look, both a little in awe of and totally gone for your boyfriend.

“As if he’s ever done what he’s told a day in his life,” Eddie murmurs. His cheeks creased with a scheming smile. 

“He’s not going to start tonight,” you add, matching his smile.

Eddie laughs, a dirty, throaty thing and zings electricity down your spine, right between your legs. 

“We’re so fucked.”

His hands are on your hips again, bunching the dress beneath his palms as he kisses you one more time. The dark room glows golden, warm and inviting, as Steve flicks the lamp on. 

You melt a little, wondering if he’s left his briefs on for you to unwrap, if he’s started without you.

“Oh yeah,” you agree, taking his Eddie’s and the first step towards your shared room. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

James replays your words on a loop, trying to dissect every possible meaning while ignoring how painfully hard he is thinking about it. His fingers twitch with the urge to scroll through that hidden photo album on his phone, the one full of pictures he’s taken when you weren’t looking, and take care of the ache. But the guilt of even having those photos is too heavy.

What would you think if you found out about that too? Or what if you knew that a single smile in his direction could send him rushing off to his room, hard and desperate, jerking off to the thought of you. Or if you knew about the increasingly frequent visits to your bedroom when you’re not home? Not just to get off to the lingering scent of your perfume, but sometimes, just to lie in your bed and imagine what it would feel like to fall asleep next to you.

Fuck, he’s pathetic. You’d surely think so too. He’s convinced he must’ve misheard you earlier. Or maybe you were just teasing him. Mocking him because you didn’t know how else to react. God, maybe you were just uncomfortable and trying to have a laugh at his expense to ease your own discomfort.

Even if you really didn’t think much of it, he’s sure that if you found out about everything else, you’d send him packing.

James finally leaves his room when the takeout he promised to order arrives—because, of course, he always keeps his promises when they’re made to you. Even if the thought of you right now makes him want to hide out in his room for the foreseeable future.

He is sitting on the sofa now, picking at a loose strand at the hem of his shirt as he waits anxiously for your arrival. He’ll have to face you eventually, he figures. Besides, he wants to do right by you. He has to. He’s not quite sure what he’ll tell you. Sorry for being a perv, seems a little audacious.

He’s still mulling over possible excuses for his behavior when he hears the jingle of your keys at the door. For some reason, he’s memorized every cute little keychain you have. Can picture them perfectly, dangling next to the key to the flat you share. His whole body stiffens when the lock clicks open.

The first thing you notice is the brown takeout bag on the kitchen table, the receipt stapled to the front displaying the contents in bold letters. All of your favorites. You smirk as you slip out of your shoes and hang your blazer on the coat rack.

You pop your head into the sitting room, seeking him out.

“Hi, there,” you say, an air of smugness in your tone, finding James sitting on the sofa, looking downright miserable. Shoulders slumped and eyes fixed on the floor. Oh, poor thing, you think.

He clears his throat, barely looking up at you. “Hi,” he replies, his voice sounding smaller than he intended.

“My meeting went well. I’ve gotta admit, it’s in small part thanks to you for that little… confidence boost this morning.”

James shrinks into the cushions, mortified. Any whisper of an idea to play it off like his jerking off in the shower had nothing to do with you vanishes. It was simply a bad morning for you to need to use the mirror, he could have told you. He could have tried to excuse it. Impersonalize it. But if you had any doubt about his reasons that he could have played into before, he’s certainly crushed it with the way he just reacted.

It’s obvious to you how much all of this is weighing on him, how his thoughts seem to be running a mile a minute.

“Something on your mind, James?” you ask in a low, teasing tone that makes James’s cheeks burn. That, and the sudden proximity as you step closer, almost standing between his legs.

James stammers, staring up at you with big, wide, chestnut eyes. The shame burning in his chest is urging him to tear his gaze away, hide. But you look so beautiful. With your hair falling in front of your face as you look down at him, your kissable lips curved into a slight smirk. There’s something tantalizing about your work clothes. A white, collared shirt with short puff sleeves, tucked neatly into striped gray trousers that hug your curves just right. The top two buttons are undone, as if to tempt him.

“James?” you murmur, pulling him out of his trance.

“I- I really like you,” he blurts out in a shaky, almost whiny voice. This isn’t exactly how he imagined confessing his feelings—if he was ever going to in the first place. And it’s not exactly how he planned to start this conversation either, not that he was able to come up with much of a plan, but anything might’ve been better than turning into mush.

“You’re amazing and brilliant and so pretty and- and I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever. I know I shouldn’t have done that in the shower with you… there. But I just can’t control myself when it comes to you. And I’m sorry because I don’t want to make things weird or- or uncomfortable because I really don’t want to lose you.”

The words don’t feel like enough. James's hands flex restlessly in his lap as he fights the urge to reach out and touch you. Hug you. Shake you and beg for forgiveness.

“Oh, baby.”

His breath hitches at the pet name.

“I thought I was being clear,” you say as you drag a hand down the side of his face, following the sharp curve of his jaw to his chin. He shivers at your touch—barely there, he could be imagining it. “I like that you like me so much. Honestly, I’m flattered.”

James’s lips part like he has something to say, but no noise comes out. All he can manage to do is look at you like he’s already completely at your mercy.

“C’mere,” you purr, pulling his head to your chest. He goes easily, like he’s been waiting for this, because he has. His big arms finally encircle your waist, holding you tightly, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go.

His body practically sags against you as you card your fingers through his curls. His cheek is pressed against your chest, and he can hear your heartbeat. It’s a lot more controlled than his and it helps him relax a little.

You slide a hand back through his hair, gripping it at the roots this time. He sucks in a sharp breath as you pull his head back. The room suddenly feels several degrees warmer.

“But if you’re feeling like you have something to apologize for, we can work something out,” you tell him in a low, sultry tone that has him choking on air.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, neck craning back farther as you give his hair another little tug. He doesn’t understand what you mean. Hell, he can hardly understand how this is even real. All he really knows is that the words that come out of your mouth sound so pretty.

“I’ll do anything you want,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Aw, yeah?” you murmur, your tone patronizing. Your eyes trail down his body to the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, straining against the gray fabric since you first touched his cheek. His eyes follow yours and he’s hit with another wave of embarrassment.

“Why don’t we lay everything out in the open?”

“What?” he asks, his voice cracking.

Your eyes flick back up to his. “No more secrets. I want to know what you do when you think about me.” Your gaze turns down to his bulge again. “I want you to show me.”

Of course he’ll show you. Anything you ask. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a nervous wreck. It’s not just about exposing himself, it’s about laying himself bare. Showing you the most depraved side of himself.

He can’t do that without making something clear first.

“I don’t just think about you when I’m horny. It’s not just that. I- I think about you all the time. As much as I think about how badly I want to touch you, I think about how badly I want to be with you more.”

Your hand drops from his hair to cup his cheek, stroking gently at his cheekbone. “I know,” you say softly. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, James.”

You had. It really is so cute how in his head he gets, completely unaware that every time you catch him looking at you lustfully, you revel in it. You find little excuses to expose more skin, flaunt yourself, just to watch his eyes go wide. But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Because he also doesn’t notice how affected you are when he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s easier to maintain the upper hand when he doesn’t know how much he does you in.

“You have?” he asks bashfully.

“I’ve seen more than you think.”

James’s gaze drops shyly to the floor, which you’re having none of, and you promptly turn his chin back up with a press of your thumb.

“You don’t have to be shy,” you whisper, a reassuring smile overtaking the cocky smirk on your lips. Your thumb swipes across his lower lip, teasing, before your hand starts to trail slowly down his toned chest over the soft black cotton of his t-shirt. “Can I help?”

James nods quickly, his heart skipping a beat as your hand travels lower and lower. You toy with the string of his sweatpants before tugging it loose. Then, you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough for his hard cock to spring out.

He mutters curses under his breath. He’s halfway convinced this is a dream—he’s definitely had one just like it before.

“Pretty boy,” you muse. Shit, you hadn’t expected him to be that big. Long, thick, and already flushed and leaking for you. You watch a bead of precum trace a path down his length, imagining how he’d stretch you out, and you have to fight the urge to press your thighs together.

Seeing the way you look at him, hungry and wanting, a shiver runs down his spine. His blush has crept all the way up his neck to the burning tips of his ears now, and his hand grips the arm of the couch like a lifeline.

James is disappointed when you put a bit of space between the two of you, backing up to sit on the edge of the coffee table behind you. He already feels the loss of you keenly, missing the closeness of your body. His cheek still burns where you had touched him.

You get comfortable, leaning back and supporting your weight with your hands on either side of you.

“Go on,” you say coolly, watching his cock twitch under your gaze. “Touch yourself for me, baby.”

“Oh, fuck,” James mutters, breath shuddering out of him. His jaw clenches, but he starts to lift his right hand at your command.

Oh, you’re going to have fun with him.

He slowly traces a trail up his thigh, buying time. A groan slips past his lips as he tentatively wraps his hand around himself. Pushing through his embarrassment, he starts with slow strokes.

“Hm, wait,” you say, and he stills his hand immediately.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull his hand towards you. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. Then, you spit in his palm.

“Oh, fuck.”

You place his hand back over his cock, covering it with your own to guide a single, slow stroke over his length. Then, you pull away, leaving him to continue what you started.

“Better?” you ask, watching the way his face contorts in pleasure.

A hopeless, breathy noise is all he can manage in response as he continues, starting at the slow pace you set. Your spit lubricating his cock makes it feel unbelievable. It’s not just the slickness, it’s the fact that it’s yours. His grip tightens, and his eyes screw shut as the pleasure builds.

You click your tongue. “Look at me.”

An embarrassing whimper slips past his lips as he forces his eyes open. You look equally amused as you are turned on. He watches as your eyes trail down his body. The way your teeth catch your bottom lip when they fall on his hand pumping his cock.

Fuck, this feels unreal. It’s different with you watching. So different. Nothing like the countless fantasies he’s had about you. No, this is better. Real. Even the low burn of embarrassment has nothing on how turned on he is right now. And all you’ve done is get him to use his own fucking hand. But that look in your eyes, trained on him, it’s enough to wreck him.

“Have you ever done this here before? On our sofa?” you ask, settling back on your hands again.

James tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone dry. “Y- yes,” he chokes out, trying to maintain the pace of his hand.

“When?” you ask, tilting your head.

You don’t even look up from his dick when you talk to him. Like you’re transfixed. Fuck, James can’t take it.

“When you’re—fuck, not home. Or—mmh—in the shower.”

“Where else?”

Your voice is too calm. It’s unfair, really. You just sit there, looking pretty, level-headed. And he’s falling apart.

“I-” James hesitates. Your eyes flick up to his face and you can see the embarrassment written all over it. You’ve never seen him blush such a deep shade of pink.

You lean in slightly, encouraging him gently. “Go on, baby. We’re being honest, yeah?”

“Your- your room. I’m sorry, fuck.”

You smirk as if that’s what you were hoping to hear.

He has to fight the urge to look away, but he knows you wouldn’t like that, so he keeps his eyes on your pretty face. But admitting that is humiliating, terrifying. And it turns him on more than he’d like to admit. He’s getting worked up fast under your command, under your smug, expectant gaze—you’re watching him like he’s all yours to play with.

He would wholeheartedly agree that he is.

“On my bed?” you ask knowingly.

“Yes,” he cries out, thumbing the sensitive head of his cock as he throbs in his hand, heat pooling in his gut with every stroke.

“Why there?” you ask, squinting. It’s almost a dumb question, you think, because it’s obvious. But you want to hear him say it.

He squirms, choking on his words. “I like to feel- feel close t’you.”

It’s a tame answer. True, but doesn’t quite capture the depravity he really feels. And it’s like you can see he’s holding back, but you let it slide, this time.

“And what do you think about?”

“You. Always you,” he sputters, dumbing down fast, all coherent thoughts slipping away as his hand speeds up.

“What about me?” you prod.

“Everything. The way you look—so fucking pretty—the way you sound, the way you smell,” he groans. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils, and he’s not sure if it’s because you're right there or because he’s memorized it. “I think about your mouth,” he continues.

“Yeah, you fuck your fist thinking about my mouth? Want my lips on your cock?”

Your filthy words send a shockwave of heat straight through him. “Fuck, yes, yes,” he cries out, squeezing himself hard.

“What else?”

“Think—hmmf—‘bout how you’d taste. How you’d sound if I—ah—ever got the chance to touch you. I think about you looking at me like- like I’m yours.”

That makes you smile. So sweet. Somehow, it all feels that way. So very sweet.

“I think about you touching me,” he continues. “Want your-” He’s cut off by his own moans.

You take pity, filling in the blanks. Or maybe you’re being cruel, knowing how your words affect him.

“What? Do you think about fucking me, James? Sinking your cock deep inside me?”

A series of humiliatingly high-pitched whimpers falls from his lips. Your words are doing horrible things to him, and he wishes for you to never stop.

“Dunno, baby,” you continue your teasing. “You’re a big boy, dunno know if I could fit you.”

“You could, you could do it, mhm, know you could, you’d feel so good,” he pants, words meshing together lazily.

Your lips stretch into a wicked smirk. “Yeah? You think about how good my pussy would feel when you jerk off to the panties you stole from me?”

James lets out a broken sound, his strokes faltering as he stares at you, wide-eyed. “You-? Fuck! How did you-?” he gasps, shame crashing down on him, his thoughts too scattered to form a full sentence. This is mortifying, you look so fucking hot, his head’s spinning, how did you find out?

You smile like you’re satisfied with yourself. Like you’ve caught him. Fuck, you were guessing.

Well, you suspected it when you noticed the missing pairs. Maybe hoped, because of how hot you get at the thought of him touching himself with your panties in his free hand. Maybe pressed against his face. Shit, maybe tangled between his fingers as he works himself raw with the same hand. You should feel violated, really, you know that. But you’re far from it, pressing your thighs together subtly, you're pulsing with arousal instead.

“Stole half of a matching set, baby,” you reveal how you caught onto his little habit, sounding like you pity him for being so foolish. “Hard not to notice they were missing. ‘S okay, though.”

James whimpers softly, unable to do much else.

“Kinda hot. You want to fuck me that badly?”

“Yes,” he whines. “Please, I- I-”

“Bet you're thinking of bending me over this sofa right now. What if I told you I’m not wearing any panties?”

You are. But torturing him is just so much fun.

“Fuck! Please, I’m-”

His hand starts to get sloppy, his rhythm faltering as his hips lift helplessly off the couch, chasing his own hand. Every breath comes out in a whine.

“Please. Not gonna last.”

“Aw, you can handle it. Just slow down for me, yeah, that’s it. Good boy,” you coo as his hand stutters, then slows.

The praise makes his head spin. His hips thrust up into his hand desperately one more time before he manages to rein it in, his grip on himself slacking a bit. “Fuck… just, please,” he pants, his breath coming out in uneven puffs, unsure of exactly what he’s even asking for.

“Wanna know what I think about when I touch myself?”

“Fffuh—oh, god.”

James’s mind goes blank. The mere idea of you, naked, with your hand between your legs, is undoing. He’s afraid your words alone will make him come. Even if he stops touching himself altogether, your voice might be enough.

“I think about you, too. About how it’d feel to have your fingers instead of mine. I bet you would make me feel so good,” you say, watching the way his fingers tense around his cock. James really does have nice hands. Nice long fingers, you can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like buried inside of you. You feel yourself clench around nothing. Shit, if James only knew how wet you are, he might go insane.

James moans, unable to form words—or thoughts. This is too good to be true. He can’t help the way his grip tightens and his hand pumps faster despite you telling him to slow down just a second ago.

“Something tells me you’re even better with your tongue,” you continue, every word meant to push him close to the edge as your eyes fix on his lips. “Oh, how I’d love to sit on that handsome face.”

You turn your attention back to his cock, drinking in the sight as it twitches desperately in his hand.

“Shit, and I’d ride your cock so good too. I’d take it nice and slow, bet you’d like it.”

Your voice, combined with the image your words put in his head, nearly sends him over the edge. “Please, I’m so close. Please, can I come?”

“Oh, but I haven’t even touched you yet,” you emphasize.

That gets him to really slow down. “You- you-” he sputters. His chest rises and falls heavily with every breath, his whole body is thrumming with need but he forces himself to slow down.

“Want me to touch you, baby?” you ask, your tone a touch mocking.

“Yes, god, yes,” he responds eagerly, his hand stuttering to a stop at the base of his cock.

You tilt your head down, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for more. A low whine escapes his throat when he realizes you want him to beg.

“I—fuck—I need you,” he pants, fingers of his left hand digging into the armrest. His eyes are filled with desperation and his eyebrows are pinched together, almost in anguish, as he begs for you. “W- will you touch me? Please. Please?”

Your lips stretch into a satisfied grin. “Move your hand, pretty boy.”

As you say it, you push off the coffee table to kneel on the carpeted floor in front of him and his heart just about stops. He mumbles something incoherent as he spreads his legs a little more to make room for you, moving his hand to lie flat on the cushion beside him.

It’s obvious how desperate he is, but you’re determined to drag this out. Tease him. You start by lightly touching his knees, running your hands over the soft fabric of his sweats, stopping just under where they bunch up at his muscular thighs, then trailing back down. Goosebumps litter every inch of his exposed skin.

He holds his breath when you finally touch him, looking up at him through your pretty eyelashes as you drag a finger down his length, your touch barely there as you trace along a thick vein. He moans loudly when you finally wrap your hand around the base of his cock.

You push yourself up on your knees, leaning closer with parted lips. So close, he can feel the warmth of your breath. But you don’t touch.

“Want my mouth, baby?” you whisper, your lips millimeters away from his leaking tip.

He lets out a pathetic little whimper, using every ounce of self-control not to buck his hips into your face. “Please,” he whines, his voice strained with desperation.

“No, not yet, I don’t think,” you murmur. Your voice is smooth as silk. Unfazed, completely casual. As if you’re not driving him insane. He thinks he could actually cry, he needs you that badly. He’s so desperate for you to open your mouth a little wider and take him. For you to move your hand even an inch. Anything. He’s about to whine, beg some more, when a slow strand of spit drops from your mouth. You catch it with your thumb as it paints a trail down his length, and rub it into the head of his cock, applying a delicious amount of pressure that makes him writhe against the sofa.

His breath catches in his throat, but when he recovers, he’s crying out for you.

“Oh, fuck! Please, I need-”

“Shh, be patient, baby,” you say, shooting a stern look up at him. But you give in to his pleas. Slowly stroking his length, taking your time bringing him back to the edge.

His eyes dart between your hand and your face, unable to decide what’s more captivating. He raises his hand from the armrest, itching to touch you, but unsure of what he’s allowed. He reaches out anyway, hovering near the side of your head. You look up at him, a dazzling smile on your lips that completely melts him, and you lean into his hand. He doesn’t hesitate anymore, grabbing a fistful of your hair.

A faint gasp falls from your lips, which only encourages him to hold on tighter. You find yourself getting lost in the blissed out look on his face. His pupils are blown wide, and he watches you like you’re the greatest thing to ever exist. Is he crazy for thinking that you are?

“You’re so—fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

His words make your heart thud harder against your chest. The way he looks at you does something to you. Twists something tight in your belly, and you’re eager to give him more.

You pick up the pace of your hand. You’re tempted to take him into your mouth, but you want to take your time with him. You want to give him everything, but not yet. You’re determined to make him wait. To take things slow (albeit not that slow).

He fights the urge to throw his head back in pleasure as you play with the tightness of your grip, squeezing him teasingly, then loosening up, pulsing your hand around him to drive him mad.

“That feels so good. Mmff, fuck. You’re perfect,” he babbles, getting lost in a thick haze of his own pleasure.

His praise spurs you on, and you add a second hand, one hand pumping his length while the other plays with his tip, smearing another ribbon of your spit with slow, filthy swipes.

He starts to lift his hips off the sofa, meeting your hands. You tut, but he’s too far gone to hold back now, rutting shamelessly into your touch.

“Please, please, I’m so close,” he whines, clutching your hair so hard there’s a dull ache in your scalp that has you biting back a groan.

“Yeah? You wanna come?” you ask, your teasing hand curling fully around his shaft now, matching the steady pace of the other. You twist your hands in unison, the wet heat of your palms drawing a ragged, guttural moan from his throat.

“Please, please, please,” he chants breathlessly like it’s the only word he knows, fingernails scratching against the sofa cushion and your scalp. It stings, but you don’t mind at all.

“How bad do you want it, baby?” you ask, just to drag this out.

Tears sting the corner of his eyes. He can barely answer you, mumbling almost unintelligible nonsense—pleas for you to let him come. He looks at you with a wrecked expression, features crumpling in on themselves.

A deep sense of satisfaction settles over you. You have him exactly where you want him.

“Come for me, baby,” you finally say, murmuring your words in a soft, honeyed whisper.

James comes with a broken, strangled cry of your name, coating your hands in his sticky release the very second you give him permission.

“That’s it, there you go,” you coo.

His back arches from the cushion behind him, muscles trembling as a shudder rips through him. And his grip on the edge of the couch turns so tight he tears a hole in the already fraying fabric. Better that than your hair, which he loosens his hold on significantly, afraid he could really hurt you. Even lost in the heat of his climax, you’re his greatest concern.

“Did so good for me,” you hum, gently working him through his high with just one hand now, not wanting to overwhelm him. His chest rises and falls heavily as he tries to catch his breath.

He’s a whimpering mess as he comes down, pulling on your hair gently as a silent plea for you to come closer. You oblige, climbing up onto the sofa next to him. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around you and curl into your side, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, addicted to the scent of your perfume, and it helps ground him. His other hand is still in your hair, combing through it lazily.

You keep your hands still, hovering over his lap, trying not to make more of a mess than he already has. But it’s hard, with the sudden urge you have to hold him too. Instead, you turn your head to press your lips to his forehead, staying just like that until his breathing evens out.

“We should get cleaned up,” you murmur against his skin. “After, do you wanna cuddle in your bed or mine?”

James is pretty sure he’s dreaming.

It’s only when he’s in your bed, snug under your duvet with your body tucked into his side and reheated takeout containers in your laps, that he accepts this isn’t a figment of his imagination. He didn’t scare you away with his obsession. Somehow, it helped him win you over.

And he doesn’t plan on ever letting you go.

“Are you hurt?” She reaches for you, bringing you inside. You move like your body weighs a thousand pounds. 

“No, I’m—it’s old. I’m fine. Remus fixed it.” 

“Good old Moony,” James croaks. It’s meant to be a joke, but truly, he’d love to fly to Remus and Sirius’ flat right now to give his friend the hug of his life. If only there weren’t things for James to take care of here first. 

“What happened, sweetheart?” Lily asks, running a gentle hand up your arm. Blood flakes under her touch. 

“They were waiting for us.” Your voice is low, like it’s the sort of truth that becomes worse once said aloud. Your eyes look bigger and brighter in the midst of all the mess. James wants desperately to hug you, and yet—shamefully—he’s afraid of touching you; like despite what you say, he might find you less whole than you were when you left a few hours ago. “It was just supposed to be Dolohov there, but there were a lot of them. They knew we were coming.” 

“They did this to you?” 

“It…I…” Your gaze moves from Lily, to James, back to Lily again. You look exhausted, haunted, but worried beneath that. A moment later, James understands why. “It was Severus.” 

Lily reacts as though you’ve hit her. Her expression looks like a heart cracked open, but she doesn’t let go of your arm. 

“He used this spell,” you tell her, seeming sorry to do it, “that opens cuts all over the other person’s body. Remus was able to figure a counter-curse before I bled out. I don’t think Severus was aiming for me…” 

Even looking at your face, James is unsure of whether you mean that. The odds that Snape would try to hurt you seem equally as likely to him as those that he wouldn’t. You may only be trying to protect Lily. She looks so devastated, James wants to wrap you both up and never let you go again. 

Something Lily and James have always had in common is how they love. They may not always show it in the same ways, but once they’ve chosen someone, that’s it; they’ll live and die for them. They give away their whole hearts. James has just been luckier in who he’s chosen to give his to. His first love—outside of his family, of course—was Sirius. Lily’s was Snape. 

But, as much as James loves Lily, if Snape showed up on your doorstep right now James thinks he would kill him. 

“I’m sorry,” Lily says to you, her eyes shining. 

“It’s okay.” You extricate yourself gently from her grasp. “I’m going to shower.” 

“Sweetheart…” James reaches for you, but you ghost past his hands, only mumbling again, “It’s okay.” 

Nothing’s okay. Lily’s looking after you like her heart’s been cracked open. From the sound of it, you actually were cracked open for a while. There’s a fracture between the three of you that James doesn’t know how to fix. But certainly he’s going to try. 

“Come on.” He takes Lily’s hand, encouraging her down the hall with him. When she comes, he wraps an arm around her shoulders to kiss her hair. “It’s alright. Come on, lovely.” 

The shower is already running when they open the bathroom door. James shuts it behind them before starting to strip, and Lily’s questioning look only lasts a moment before she’s doing the same. He sets his glasses on the counter. 

“Hi,” he says, pulling the shower curtain open enough to pop his head in. You look surprised, which is a surprise in itself; you must really be lost in your own head not to have heard them enter. “Room for two more in here?” 

There is, of course, room—as if James would ever let you get a place without a shower big enough for three—but still he’s relieved when you nod. He steps the rest of the way in, making room for Lily to squeeze in behind him. You seem to have scrubbed your face clean and now are letting the water do the work on the rest of you. Blood swirls down the shower drain. 

James steps closer, giving you long seconds to back away, to let your face reveal hesitation or denial, before he kisses you. Slowly. Warmly. You soften like butter in the sun, arms coming around him as his do you. 

“Didn’t get to do that properly when you got home,” James murmurs after your lips part. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

He fights to keep his lips from twitching at the now-familiar dazed quality to your tone. It is taking every ounce of his concentration to not think too hard about the two stunning women he’s sharing a shower with right now. 

Since Lily is no longer up to being the asker of questions, James gives it a whirl. “Do you want to tell us any more about what happened tonight?” 

Your eyes go weary and somber. He sees your throat bob as if around something painful. “We, um. We lost Edgar.” 

Lily makes a wounded sound. “Bones?” 

James has already drawn you into a hug. You nod against his chest, choking out a weak, “Yeah.” 

“Was it…”

“It was Lestrange,” you answer before Lily has to finish asking. Not Snape. She breathes out. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, joining your hug. Water runs in rivulets down the three of you, transferring from one body to the other, off James’ nose and Lily’s hair and your chin, pooling in all the places you’re pressed together. James fights an ache in his own throat. You’d all known Edgar, but only you watched him die. This is a grief he and Lily can only share in parts of. 

There’s lots more kisses and murmuring before you get to the business of washing. James runs you over with a soapy cloth while Lily shampoos your hair, the both of them making sure no inch of you goes unseen to. Remus has done a good job; there are no scars where Snape’s curse tore you open. As the blood clears away, James can’t tell where it originated from at all. 

He tells you how happy they are to have you home. You smile at his exaggerated jokes about separation anxiety and squeeze his hand when he presses a thumb into the corner of it, chuffed with himself. Lily apologizes again for Snape, and you both promise her she’s not responsible for him until it seems almost like she believes it. James is kicked out of the shower in disgrace after mistaking your body wash for conditioner. He warms towels in the dryer while Lily works the tangles out of your hair with her fingers. 

"Death metal. Is there any else I can help you with today?" You deadpan, hoping your lack of interest in anything that's coming out of his mouth will be enough to get him to leave the damn record store.

"Noted," the man winks, it makes your stomach churn, and you have to try your hardest to school your expression quickly, "I'll see you around then."

The smile you give him isn't in response to his terrible flirting or bad breath, but out of pure relief that he's finally left the building.

"God, that guy is insufferable," Steve laments from where he's reshelving this week's new release vinyls.

"Astute observation, asshole. Would it have killed you to throw me a lifeline?"

"Sorry, you know Cathy doesn't like me scaring off the customers with my charming disposition and devilish good looks," he shrugs, and you hurl a pencil cap eraser at his big block head.

"I just don't understand what I need to do for him to get the goddamn hint. I mean, this is ridiculous, right? Am I overreacting?"

"I mean, I don't know-- is it such an awful thing to be flirted with?" Steve asks, pushing the shelving cart to begin stocking closer to you.

"By that greaseball? Yes."

"Well, you know, you're cute so--" his eyes widen as he realizes the admission he's just made, "I mean-- ah-- i mean, not like that--" Steve stutters, practically tripping over himself. You narrow your eyes at him, gesturing for him to continue making a fool of himself.

"Not that you're not cute, I just mean. What I meant was." He leans against the CD shelf adjacent to him in an attempt to play it cool. Or maybe because suddenly his collar was too tight, and his armpits were sweating and had you turned the heat up when you went on lunch earlier?

"Geez, Harrington, tell me how you really feel," you try to joke though secretly your stomach sinks a little each time he recovers from saying he thinks that you're cute. Steve Harrington, the boy you've had a crush on since junior year, can't even admit that he might find you objectively pretty. Ouch.

With a sudden crash, the entire CD case becomes top heavy and spills its contents all over the floor. Steve's cheeks redden to a bright crimson; he wishes he could go back to three minutes ago and suture his lips shut with the staple gun you've been using for the packages.

"I'm going to just...stop talking. And clean this up." He says timidly, crouching down to collect the scattered merchandise. You abandon your station at the checkout counter to help him; there weren't customers inside anyway.

The two of you pick the shelf up and clean in silence for a few excruciating minutes, the tension brewing between your bodies like a tea kettle, until Steve clears his throat and says, "For the record, I do think you're cute. Beautiful, actually."

You're momentarily stunned at his confession, so he continues, "And if I didn't work here, I'd probably be another one of those losers coming in everyday just to see you," he chuckles, maybe a little self-deprecatingly though you can't understand why.

"You think I'm beautiful?" You breathe in partial disbelief. It's not that you weren't confident in your appearance but hearing it from someone you've admired since you were a teenager feels unbelievable.

"'Course I do," Steve says, deathly serious, "I have eyes. Plus, you're like, super funny. I used to think I was quick witted until I met you."

You're grateful for the wooden barrier of the shelf blocking the way you flush at his words. Once the shelf is picked up and properly arranged again, you make your move: "Hey, um, I was thinking about going to see The Princess Bride tonight? At The Hawk?" You're not sure why you're infecting your voice as if every statement is a question. Nervous habit, you suppose. "Would you wanna come with?"

Steve physically trips over himself again and you're nervous he's about to knock another display case over, "Uh, sure, yeah--definitely." He says, a little too enthusiastically, "Pick you up at eight?"

You can't seem to stop fidgeting with the loose strands of baby hairs curling behind your ears, twirling them around your fingers to give yourself something to focus on other than the way Steve's looking at you now with his big, hazel doe-eyes.

You lean up into a sitting position, your tee shirt falling back down and covering your abdomen. "Steve," you all but whine, reaching out for him. He's shirtless, and his skin is damp with sweat, but you don't mind.

"What?" he laughs. He cups your cheek with his hand as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your lips, then your nose.

Rolling your eyes, you press your free hand to his chest and push him back, firmly but carefully. His lips are too distracting - you'll have to keep him off of you if you want to accomplish anything.

"Why won't you let me?" You've been learning recently how to do the girlfriend thing with a little more… finesse. That includes pouting - at least, when there's something you want. And you're also learning that Steve is a little bit of a sucker for some puppy dog eyes.

"Let you what?" He sounds distracted, and maybe a bit amused, while diving in for another kiss.

Your hand moves swiftly and with purpose down his chest, dropping straight to the button of his Levi's and tugging him in closer. You're still new to this - much newer to it than Steve is. But that doesn't mean you aren't sure of yourself, and it certainly doesn't mean you don't know what you want.

However, while you're angling for something new, he appears to be on a bit of a mission himself.

"Don't worry about that, honey." His tone is chipper, and then his mouth is on yours, and his hands are on your thighs, and your brain is empty.

Steve is a very generous boyfriend, in more ways than one. For your first time, he makes sure everything's just right. The music, the mood, the venue - even the lighting.

He's more prepared than you've ever seen him before. He's bought a pack of condoms to keep in your nightstand, and a bottle of lube as well. You're not exactly old-fashioned, but it's nice that you didn't have to look the lady in the pharmacy checkout line in the eye while buying it yourself.

He makes you cum on his fingers and his mouth first, reddened lips glistening with your slick, and if you were excited to have sex before, now you're aching for it. He never has a hard time getting you interested, but you weren't expecting to feel so satisfied before you've even gotten started.

When he asks if you're ready, you are - absolutely. You palm him through his briefs and moan into his mouth at the feel of him, hard and heavy in your hand.

"Oh, honey," he groans, easing you back down into the pillows, and you can't help but whine a little as he slides his briefs down, freeing his cock.

It's not the first time you've ever seen a penis, but it's the first time you've ever seen Steve's, and with him, everything feels like the first time. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, the shaft hard and ready, tip flushed a dark pink.

"Steve," you sigh, and he kisses you firmly, lovingly, cradling the back of your neck with his big hand.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease, and then his free hand descends on you, rubbing slick circles around your swollen clit. You know there's something you wanted to ask for, but when your hips buck against his hand, still sensitive from your orgasm, you can't remember what you wanted until he swipes the head of his cock through your folds. You feel him twitch against you, and it's intoxicating, the thought that you drive him as crazy as he does you, that you can feel how hard he's working to exercise some restraint. How hard he's trying to make this perfect.

Your grip on his bicep tightens, and by then, you're so worked up, you're not about to ask him to stop just so you can blow him.

The line between emotional intimacy and sexual intimacy becomes blurrier over time. It's only been three weeks since he touched you the first time, but he's gotten really good at making you feel comfortable. You're also becoming more confident asking for what you need, slowly but surely.

Sometimes you don't know how to say what you mean without it sounding overly crass, and if you can't look him in the eye when you make certain requests, or if your cheeks burn with mild embarrassment - well, it's not like you can help it. But each time, he's so encouraging, helps you through it and never makes you feel ashamed to express yourself. As a matter of fact, you're starting to get the idea that he gets a little bit of a thrill from prompting you to be more direct, hearing you say things you never, ever would have said to him before you were dating.

You're getting a lot of practice asking him to modify his technique, or suggesting a new position. You're also getting better at communicating nonverbally, reading his body language and refining your own. For years, you've felt like you could read Steve like the back of your hand, and it felt like there was nothing left to learn. Oh, how wrong you were. There are so many things to want or need now that were never on the table before, and a million more questions to ask, so sometimes you can't imply the things you want to with your hands or your mouth, with a sigh or a moan. And it's moments like that where Steve seems to have the most fun.

The cheesy slasher flick Steve brought home from Family Video is frozen on the screen of his TV, and you're straddling his lap. Your camisole is abandoned on the floor, and a half-empty popcorn bucket and a couple of wine glasses are strewn across the coffee table. Steve's hand is tangled in your hair, his mouth parted with a sigh as you kiss him, nipping and sucking gently at the junction of his jaw and his neck.

"Oh, honey," he groans, other hand gripping your hip, pulling you a little more firmly against him.

The moan that spills from your lips would be embarrassing with anyone else, but the hard press of his erection between your thighs, separated only by a few layers of clothing, has you feeling so needy it's hard to care about much else. You fist the front of his shirt in your hand and yank him closer, kissing him so clumsily your teeth knock against his. Your hands graze the familiar landscape of his lower stomach, desperately working your way under his shirt, and then to the waistband of his jeans.

Breathlessly, you ask, "Can I?"

Steve's hips rut against yours, and his hand leaves your hair, cupping your cheek. He pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against yours, and his eyes are dark with desire. "Can you what?"

You hesitate, mouth feeling a little dry. How are you supposed to ask this without sounding like a frat boy? Steve has gone down on you like ten times now. Why is it so hard to work up the nerve to just tell him what you want when it comes to this?

Maybe it's because all the girls you went to school with talked about blowjobs like they were inconvenient - or worse, an obligation. Maybe you're afraid it'll make you look like a nymphomaniac if you admit you actually want to. Maybe it's because all the pressure is on you to perform properly, whereas with sex, you're working together. Or maybe it's just because you really, really want it to be good for him.

A couple beats pass, and you tell yourself it's just Steve. Why would it bother Steve for you to act like you want him? Finally, you sit back on your heels and bite your lip, fingers poised at the button of his jeans, and you ask, "Can I suck your dick?"

The first time you offered, he seemed to have gotten the memo, but he'd dismissed your request. The second time, you'd been too wrapped up in how good you felt to get the words out. You're not sure what you're expecting when you finally ask again. Part of you irrationally wonders if maybe that's something he doesn't like, or if he specifically doesn't want you to do it.

He hesitates, and you brace yourself for rejection as you take in the uncertainty in his eyes. Instead, he asks, "Are you sure you want to? You don't have to."

Brow furrowing, you say, "Why would I ask if I didn't want to?"

The way he's looking at you, it's like he's trying to decipher what's going on in your head. You haven't seen him so unsure in years, if ever. After a pause that lingers just slightly too long, he replies. "I just don't want you to think you have to do that to make me happy. I wouldn't be upset if you didn't."

You're starting to put it together what this is about. "Steve, I know you don't want me to feel obligated, but I want to. I want to make you feel good. I think about it a lot, actually."

He shifts his hips underneath you, and you gasp quietly at the sensation, the zipper of his jeans rubbing against you through your shorts. His lips tug upward at the corner. "Yeah?"

Nodding, you kiss him slowly, like you mean it. Your hands shake slightly as you begin undoing the button of his jeans.

He lifts you slightly where you perch on his knees as he raises his hips, allowing you to help him shimmy off his jeans. His hand finds your breast through your bra, and you arch slightly into his touch. "Have you done this before?"

You shake your head, a tinge of self-consciousness blooming in your belly. You're determined not to let that stop you. Eyes meeting his, eyelashes fluttering slightly, you murmur, "Can you teach me?"

Licking his lips, he nods and leans back in, pressing a kiss to your lips. Your gaze drops to the briefs still clinging to his hips, and your breath stutters at the sight of the thick outline of him pressing through the cotton. "I've got you, honey," he says, clearly mistaking your interest for intimidation. You smile at the softness of his voice. Sometimes, you still can't believe Steve is yours, that you have the privilege of having your first sexual relationship with someone who cares so deeply for you, who always puts you first.

You climb off of him and settle between his legs, shag carpet pressing into your knees. It's not exactly comfortable, and Steve must anticipate that, because he hands you one of the pillows beside him on the couch and helps you position it between your knees and the floor. Your heart is racing now; you can feel it throbbing in your pulse point.

"You'll let me know if you start feeling uncomfortable, yeah?" he asks, and his tone is serious and soft as he strokes your hair with one hand.

When you nod, he takes your hands in his gently and pulls them to his lap. You lean forward a little, hands settling on the tops of his thighs. Thinking back on how Steve touches you when he's trying to help get you in the mood, you rub his legs lightly, across the tops of his thighs, along the more sensitive skin on the insides of each of his legs. You try to acquaint yourself with every inch of his exposed skin before moving forward, and it might feel a little silly if you couldn't feel him getting more and more relaxed under your touch.

On a whim, you close your eyes and lower your head to press a chaste kiss to the inside of his knee, and you look up at him, hooking your fingers into the band of his boxers.

He inhales sharply, lips parting slightly, and he lifts his hips again, allowing you to remove his boxers. Once they're down to his ankles with his jeans, you slide both garments all the way off his body and dump them in a heap beside you. His cock is hard and flushed, nearly brushing his stomach, and while you're nervous, you can't help but sigh a little at the sight of it. You've spent weeks daydreaming about this, and you don't know why. You don't know why you've wanted this so badly, just that you do, and now you're finally here, and you don't even know where to start.

As if reading your thoughts, Steve takes one of your hands in his and guides it to his shaft, curling your fingers and palm ever so gently around the base of it. Your fingers almost wrap all the way around him, and you feel yourself growing wetter at the sight. You're not sure if his size is average, or if he's a little on the bigger side, but you know you think he looks really good, and you know he feels really good, too. The weight of him in your hand feels natural.

You start to move your hand over him, and he hisses, then closes his hand over yours, stilling your hand. "Not so firm." His voice is low and gentle, not chastising you but guiding you instead.

Cheeks burning, you loosen your grip a little and look up at him for confirmation.

"There you go," he hums. "It's sensitive, so you have to be gentle, especially since your hand is dry." You think back on the times you've tried to masturbate when you weren't wet enough yet, and that makes sense. "Try again."

You cock your head slightly to the side and watch as he lets go of your hand, and you slowly move your fist up and down his shaft. He twitches in your hand, growing a harder from your touch, and it makes you feel something like pride. Your motion is straight up and down, which feels a little uncomfortable with the position of your elbow and wrist, so you loosen your wrist and watch his eyes as you stroke him rhythmically, tugging him slightly to the side.

He groans and leans his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. "That's it, baby." His breath stutters, and he asks, "Doesn't that feel a better for your wrist?"

You hum your agreement and focus on maintaining your rhythm, leaning in a little closer. "Is it okay if I…?"

You're sure he'll make you say it out loud, but he doesn't, just nods, locking his eyes with yours. "Go ahead, honey, whenever you're ready."

After another few beats, you use your free hand to steady yourself, pressing it to his thigh and leaning your full weight into the cushion beneath your knees. Hesitantly, you lick a stripe up from the bottom of the head to the very tip, and he tenses, fingers finding the back of your head again. He's gentle, not pushing you closer but offering reassurance.

Feeling a little more confident, you take the head of him into your mouth. You read your friends' issues of Cosmo when you were younger, so you've retained some information on various blowjob techniques, but you're not sure if they're any good. When you wrap your lips around him, you attempt to hollow your cheeks and bob your head slightly, straining to look up at his face.

The hardest part seems to be the multitasking. You're still trying to work his shaft with your hand as you suck on the head, and when you try too hard to look at his face, too, you can feel your mouth filling with saliva. You try to swallow around him but struggle a bit, so you pull your mouth off of him with a pop and then swallow.

"Is that okay?" you ask, voice small, leaning back just a little to see him better.

His lips are red from biting them, and he nods, voice hoarse when he says, "Yeah, baby, you're doing so good."

Once you feel ready, you lean back in and wrap your lips around him again, and he inhales sharply when your back teeth graze the head. You pull away quickly. "I'm so sorry," you say quickly, mortified. You don't know much, but you do know you probably weren't supposed to do that.

"It's okay, it's okay," he insists. "Just gotta be careful with the teeth. You'll get it."

You frown a little and look at the head of him again, steeling yourself. When you take him into your mouth again, you take extra care to suck in your cheeks and open wide enough to keep from touching him with your teeth. After a few moments of practicing with the head, you swirl your tongue around the tip, and his hips stutter. You feel rather than see him grip the edge of the cushion, and his brow furrows.

"Oh, honey," he groans. "That feels so good."

After a few moments of licking different patterns on the tip, noting the reactions they draw from him, you begin bobbing your head a little further down, taking more and more of him with each movement. Soon, your lips are connecting with your hand, where you're stroking his shaft, and you focus on trying to get low enough that your fist only covers the base.

The first time he touches the back of your throat, you gag and pull away abruptly. Steve laughs lightly while you catch your breath, and he strokes your cheek, smiling sympathetically. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

"It's okay," you reply, sounding a little strangled.

While you're looking up at him, you realize he's not looking at you like someone who just choked on his cock, or even like someone who's blowing him at all. Steve looks at you like you're the most important thing in the world.

Like he's in love with you.

"You don't have to take it all," he says encouragingly. "It's hard to do if you have a sensitive gag reflex."

"No, I'm doing it."

He laughs at your stubborn attitude, watching as you wrap your hand around him again. His eyes crinkle in the corners, and your heart swells with fondness.

"If you insist, baby, just don't hurt yourself. If you can't, you can still use your hand to cover the rest. Try to focus on breathing slow and deep through your nose. That should help."

You nod and roll your shoulders and neck, preparing to get back in the saddle. When you take him into your mouth again, you do like he said, and you focus more on your breathing than on fisting his cock with your hand. You'd like to do it all, but you remind yourself that you're just learning and maybe it's better to start with the basics and then do the extra stuff.

This time, when he nudges the back of your throat, you feel the urge to gag, but you stop yourself just in time, gripping his thigh with your hand.

"Oh my god," he groans, hand weaving into the hair at the nape of your neck. "That's it, baby. Keep going."

Before long, your nose is pressing into his pubic bone, and you're taking all of him in your mouth, all the way to the base. Your jaw is sore, but you don't care, because he's making such pretty sounds. When it becomes too much to handle, you pull back to just the tip and swirl your tongue around him, and his hips jerk forward at the sensation. He murmurs sweet nothings, tells you how well you're doing, how good you feel. And when you work your way back to taking him to the hilt, he whimpers.

Pressing your thighs together to alleviate the ache, you begin bobbing your head with more fervor. You're not sure you've ever been so wet in your life, and you want him so badly it feels like you might die. You want to make him cum with your mouth, but you want him inside you, too, and you're overwhelmed by a resounding chorus of need need need inside your mind.

"Baby, babe," he babbles, and when you meet his eyes, he looks like overtaken by pleasure. You can feel the desperation behind his gaze. "I'm - I'm so close."

You moan around his cock, squeezing your thighs together again. You're absolutely soaked. He's never sounded so good as he does right now, and then he says your name like it's both a plea and a prayer.

You can't take it anymore. You pick up the pace, and it hurts - oh, God, your jaw aches - but you don't care.

"I'm gonna cum," he warns, and you've never heard some sound so feverish. "Baby, I'm—Please. Need to feel you."

Your head swims with desire. You've never heard Steve beg before. How are you supposed to cope with that?

You pull off of him, panting, eyes watering with exertion, and Steve hauls you to your feet, looking to you for permission to remove your shorts. When he unzips them, they drop to your ankles, and you step out of them easily. He pulls you onto his lap, and you're on his mouth just as quickly, kissing him breathless.

His cock nudges against your underwear, and you sigh, rolling your hips against his.

"Can I—" He licks his lips, and when you look into his eyes, you can see he's feeling just as self-conscious as you did earlier. Butterflies explode in your stomach, and you take his face in your hands. You don't know what he's asking, and you wait for him to try again. Finally, he chokes out, "I wanna show you how much I love you - please."