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The club thrums with loud music, some pop song banging off the walls. Ilya takes a sip of his drink—an alcoholic cocktail he doesn’t know the name of. Girls have been coming up to him all night, their flowery perfumes surrounding him. They fix the strands of their long, glowing hair and tilt their heads to the side, acting interested in Ilya.
He isn’t sure why he keeps shaking his head dismissively, his eyebrows flashing up in what feels like disappointment. And while he doesn’t have a strong preference for whoever he is sleeping with, tonight girls don’t seem to do it for him at all.
His eyes trail over the guys—some dancing in the center in transparent tops and makeup, some standing in the darker corner with others, talking and flirting and drinking. He doesn’t seem to be able to find what he wants.
He and Hollander have hooked up only twice at this point, so there is no exclusivity in their relationship. Ilya could sleep with whoever he wanted, and Hollander could do the same if he wished. He takes a long breath, sighing the exhaustion out of his body. The whole team is here somewhere, some of the guys leaning toward a girl’s ear, whispering something before kissing them.
Irritation burns in his gut. Maybe staying at the hotel was a better idea; at least he could have jerked himself off without any noise. But Marleau dragged him along, encouraging him to come celebrate with the team. Except Ilya isn’t in the mood to celebrate. His body is asking for something, making his dick ache. Something he can’t find next to a girl.
Going somewhere with a stranger feels like a useless idea. He’s too tired and drunk to do much. His head is cloudy and he isn’t counting the drinks that flirting women keep putting into his palm.
He searches for Marleau and finds him near the opposite side of the bar counter. A brunette woman stands next to him, and Ilya focuses on the way Marleau looks. There’s nothing that special going on with his facial expressions—Ilya has known him for years. Yet he’s been wondering why Marleau never settles with anyone, picking a new woman to sleep with every time they’re in a new city.
Their eyes meet, and Ilya presses his lips together, motioning with his head that he’s about to leave. Marleau furrows his brows but gives him a nod, continuing to talk to the woman next to him.
Ilya takes a cab and drags himself back to the hotel, a bitter feeling sitting inside his chest. It’s been a long day and he would love to release the tension that keeps suffocating him. But doing it alone also feels like a worthless idea because it is simply too boring. Everything is too fucking boring and familiar, and he hates it.
He falls on the bed with an exhale, kicking his Adidas shoes off while already lying on the mattress. Marleau’s bed next to him is empty, the sheets still messy because neither of them bothers to make their beds. He ignores his stiffening dick and closes his eyes, the alcohol in his system easily pulling him into sleep.
At least an hour later, he hears the faint jangle of keys being pressed into the keyhole, the door shutting and locking with a click.
“Can you believe what just happened?” Marleau says accusingly, his voice so loud it wakes Ilya up. “This chick fucking cockblocked me just before we got to the good part.” He takes his shoes off and, without bothering to turn on the light in their room, steps into the bathroom.
Ilya squints his eyes, the sound of water running dragging him back toward sleep. A sudden bright light flashes above him, and Marleau doesn’t even glance at him.
“What the fuck, Marly? I’m sleeping over here,” Ilya complains, motioning his hand in the air.
Marleau just laughs, that idiot. “Don’t be such a baby, it’s barely past midnight.”
Ilya clicks his tongue and hides his face with a white sheet. There’s a clink of a buckle and he pulls the sheet down a few inches, enough to sneak a look at Marleau. Marleau unzips his jeans before tugging on his shirt, swiftly taking it off. Ilya stares at the abs covering his stomach, at the trail of hair that goes into his pants, and at the dark stubble on his jaw. It’s exactly what he needs right now, something harsh to bring him back to being his normal self.
“That girl left me standing alone at the bar with a fucking boner,” Marleau grits, clenching his teeth. “I’m fucking pissed.” He slides his jeans off and catches Ilya’s gaze, now standing only in boxers. “What are you looking at, Roz? You want a taste or something?” he jokes.
And maybe Ilya does want a taste. He never gave it much thought because their relationship was always platonic and brother-like, with their usual teasing and banter. But for whatever reason, it doesn’t sound that bad right now. He still wants to get himself off, because unless he does, his mood is going to stay bad forever.
“You mind if I jerk off?” Marleau asks, and it sets Ilya back completely. This isn’t something that new—he’s heard Marleau jerk off in the shower a few times. But in the same room? That’s never happened before.
“Do whatever you want,” Ilya answers, trying to sound unbothered.
Marleau turns the main lights off and lays himself down in his bed, sheets rustling under the weight of his body. He spits in his palm, and the sound forces a shiver to run down Ilya’s spine. Marleau’s figure is barely visible in the darkness, but Ilya subtly watches the rough movements of his hand anyway.
A low grunt escapes Marleau and his head falls back, resting against the cushions. After a moment, Ilya’s eyes adjust and he can see everything more clearly. Marleau’s cock is not only big, but so fucking thick too, thicker than Ilya’s. There is a quiet squelch of Marleau’s hand spreading the gooey spit down his length. He strokes himself, probably thinking Ilya is already fast asleep.
Ilya swallows, rubbing his thighs together to help his aching dick, tight inside his boxers. Marleau speeds up, his gleaming chest heaving.
“Fuck, I hate this shit,” he murmurs to himself. He growls helplessly, his hand moving lazily now. Ilya can’t help but let out a muffled whimper, biting on the fabric to shut himself up.
Marleau looks to the side. “You okay, Roz? You jerking off too or something?”
Ilya wishes he would be. “How much did you drink?” he asks.
“Too much, apparently,” Marleau huffs, stilling.
Ilya already feels so fucking dumb for asking, but he can’t help himself. He knows Marleau will probably think he’s a fucking pervert for doing this, but if he’s drunk there’s a chance he at least won’t remember who started it.
“Maybe we can help each other out,” Ilya says firmly, revealing his face from the sheets.
Marleau chuckles meanly. “Is this a fucking joke or something? Do I look like I want you to help me?”
“Forget about it.”
He doesn’t even know why he tried this. It’s stupid to expect anything out of Cliff fucking Marleau, number one ladies’ man, who’s as tall as a wall.
A minute passes before Marleau opens his mouth. “Why are you asking? You want to jerk me off?”
“I don’t fucking know. Just… forget about it if you’re going to mock me for it,” Ilya replies.
Marleau inhales, as if deciding. “Okay. Come here,” he instructs. He pats the bed next to himself, moving to the side to leave space for Ilya.
Ilya gets out of the bed unsurely, taking a few steps forward. Everything feels fucking awkward and embarrassing, but there’s too much alcohol in his system to think straight right now. He’s still surprised Marleau agreed because it feels like a prank, as if he’s going to lie down in his bed and Marleau will immediately beat him up for even suggesting something like this.
He sits down next to Marleau, uncomfortable tension spreading between them.
Marleau swallows before finally speaking. “If we do this, it doesn’t mean anything,” he states simply.
Ilya immediately nods. “I know it doesn’t. We can just forget it ever happened.”
There is silence, and neither of them moves.
“So?” Marleau asks, shaking his head. “You’re going to do something or what?”
Ilya sighs, still unsure of what exactly he is allowed to do, because it’s still fucking Marleau, his best friend, with whom he’s never done anything even remotely similar before.
“I’ll just imagine you’re that girl from the bar, come on,” Marleau says impatiently. He reaches his arms toward Ilya and pulls him onto his lap. Ilya’s legs brace on each side of Marleau’s strong, firm hips. Setting himself down, he presses against Marleau’s fucking cock, so hard it literally pokes him in the ass.
“We’re not doing any fucking,” Marleau says strictly.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t need you to fuck me.” He tries to relax as much as possible while sitting on Marleau’s stupidly big dick.
“Good. You can move on me only while we have our clothes on.”
Marleau says it like Ilya needs his granted permission, as if it’s something he so desperately wants. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even like Marleau that way, never would. And there’s still Hollander, who takes a bigger place in his heart, but he’s too far away, and it’s not like they’re something.
Ilya lets himself forget about everything and just starts moving on Marleau’s cock, back and forth. He never appreciates being the bottom; it’s just not his thing. But it’s a good start before the actual jerk-off.
Marleau grips him by his sides while their clothed cocks rub together. They’re both naked, wearing just boxers and nothing else. He watches Ilya’s movements, amusement showing on his face.
“I didn’t know you could ride it like a fucking girl,” Marleau spits, laughing at him.
Ilya gives him a glare. “I’m not a fucking girl. Shut your stupid mouth.”
“Fucker,” Marleau replies, voice sharp.
Ilya rolls his hips, closing his eyes. His brain finally shuts off, every noise disappearing. He feels like an idiot, but he still leans down to be closer to Marleau’s face.
Marleau understands and squeezes his cheeks, bringing their lips together. He tastes like tequila, and Ilya opens his mouth further. He slides his tongue against Marleau’s more firmly, the kiss so wet and uncoordinated that spit shines on their chins. The stubble scratches Ilya’s face and he sighs, his hard dick weeping pre-cum.
Before he can pull Marleau’s cock out of his boxers, he’s stopped by a palm on his wrist. “We’re not doing it like this. Take your own side of the bed.”
It’s funny how Marleau can initiate a kiss and hump him, but can’t handle their cocks actually touching, as if he’ll get burned if it happens. Ilya pulls back and leans his back against the soft cushion, tipping his head up. He tugs his underwear down, his cock finally springing free. Marleau gives him a side look and does the same thing.
There’s barely any space left between them and Ilya reaches his hand to Marleau’s cock. He wraps his fingers around the length, staring at the red tip. He thumbs the slit, and Marleau releases a grunt, clearly enjoying it.
“Fuck, feels good,” Marleau whispers, voice heavy.
“Yeah. As good as when a girl does it?” Ilya asks teasingly, pushing his limits on purpose.
Marleau gives him a mean stare. “Fuck, Roz, don’t remind me.”
Ilya suppresses a laugh and continues the same movement, raising his eyebrows at Marleau to repeat after him.
Marleau extends his hand and closes it around Ilya, squeezing his dick with a solid grip. Ilya lets out a quiet whimper, licking his lips that still carry the flavor of Marleau’s mouth.
They stroke each other at the same time and Ilya glides his hand up and down the length of Marleau’s cock, the heavy weight of it pulsing in his palm. He feels dizzy from it. He has to admit to himself that being jerked off by someone else instead of his own hand feels good, even if it’s his best friend that he has no business doing this with.
Ilya starts drowning in the pleasure his body has been craving for weeks. His mind drifts back to Hollander, remembering his face and his body. He would sit on his knees in front of Ilya and let him do whatever he wanted. He would moan and arch to Ilya’s needs, his plump ass raised high in the air. He would swallow Ilya’s cock to the root, gagging before his throat would finally relax. He wouldn’t be as fucking mean as Cliff Marleau, and Ilya misses that.
“Shit, keep doing that,” Ilya groans when Marleau starts playing with his balls, the pads of his fingers pressing against the thin layer of skin. Trembles run through his body, his thighs occasionally convulsing when Marleau painfully squishes his dick at the base.
Sweat builds at his temples, and he blinks, realizing how weird everything is. But the tiredness and the haziness help, so he strokes Marleau’s cock even faster.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Marleau warns, his chest moving up and down quickly. His stomach tightens and he comes all over Ilya’s fist, white trickles running down his knuckles.
Marleau sets a rapid pace on Ilya’s cock and Ilya shouts, his free hand closing around the sheet desperately.
“Fuck. There, Marly. Oh, shit,” he rasps, fucking into the tightness. The tip of his cock becomes white and cum splatters up, falling down on Marleau’s hand and Ilya’s navel.
They breathe heavily for what feels like forever, trying to collect themselves. The realization of what just happened dawns in Ilya’s mind, almost turning into panic. He forces himself to relax and ignore the fact that he and his supposedly straight best friend just jerked each other off.
He tilts his head to the side and watches Marleau, who sits there like he has no idea where he is. Marleau stares back with that familiar, evil-like expression, the side of his lips curving upward.
“This never happened, and no one can ever know about it, understood?” Marleau asks, wiping his wet hand with a tissue from the bedside table.
“Oh, believe me, I don’t want anyone to know that I jerked off Cliff Marleau just because some girl at a bar cockblocked him,” Ilya replies smugly, tucking himself back into his boxers.
Marleau sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, the moment I wake up you better never remind me of this or I’ll beat your ass.”
“I actually have someone I would much rather do this with.”
“Sure.”
“I do,” Ilya admits, with no intention of actually telling Marleau who it is. “So don’t act so full of yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Marleau mocks him, pulling a sheet above his stomach. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Whatever, man. Go to your bed, I’m not sleeping next to you,” Marleau tells him, pushing Ilya to the edge.
Ilya gets up and goes to his own bed, settling himself into the pleasantly cold sheets. He stares at the ceiling before laughing.
“Remember when you kissed me just ten minutes ago?” he says with a smirk, knowing that his words will irritate the shit out of Marleau.
Marleau throws a pillow right into his face.
“Shut your damn mouth, Roz. Consider that none of this happened.”
Ilya nods, still chuckling.
“Sure, Marly,” he murmurs lazily. “Totally didn’t happen. Must’ve been the tequila.”
“Fuck you,” Marleau says, dragging the words out until he starts laughing too.