Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter (background), Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Threesome - M/M/M, Banter, Light Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Top Ilya Rozanov, Ageplay (very slight), Rookie/vet roleplay (very slight), POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Humor, Bratting

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-09 Words: 4,431 Chapters: 1/1

Let's make a team

Summary

At the 2021 All-Star Games in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Ilya comes to Scott with a proposition.

Notes

This is technically a threesome, but mostly it is Scott looking for any excuse to fucking shut Ilya Rozanov up. Also timeline is meaningless because I never remember the dates from the books, so I just put 2021 in the summary because that seems like a plausible time for Ilya and Shane to be out and married. Sorry for the Winnipeg slander, I do it out of love (à la Matt Rankin in The Twentieth Century). Send me your questions, fanmail, concerns, etc @agoodsoldier on tumblor

Lyrics, naturally, from "3" by the master (Britney Spears).

Scott doesn’t really have any intrinsic desire to sleep with anybody other than Kip, but Kip thought the idea was hot. And, well, Scott doesn’t exactly disagree.

Scott is handsome. He knows he is, objectively, because whenever he went out to clubs in the off-season he never had any trouble picking up. And Kip is just spectacularly gorgeous.

But then there’s Hollander and Rozanov, who look more like supermodels than hockey players. Hollander’s 2014 Calvin Klein campaign had made him feel like a real fucking creep when it came out. Every other day he’d walk by a bodega and see magazines with Hollander running or doing yoga or weight training or eating a fucking salad bowl #InHisCalvins. And then there was Rozanov, who occasionally posted insane shirtless pictures on Instagram that looked more like staged GQ shoots than drunken club nights.

So when they floated the idea of a threesome, Scott wasn’t exactly offended. And he’d said, let me check with Kip, and Kip—who was an enlightened post-monogamy gay graduate student from New York—had said it sounded fucking hot.

Rozanov had been the one to propose it, which made sense. Rozanov is disgustingly confident and seems allergic to embarrassment, as opposed to Hollander who is only just recovering from being a walking billboard for shame. Takes one to know one.

“Scott Hunter,” Rozanov had said at the bar on night one of All-Star weekend, with the same languid kind of horniness in his voice that he always had. It was the kind of voice that probably should have clued Scott in to the fact that Rozanov was queer a hell of a lot earlier. “I have a proposition for you.”

“A fucking what,” Scott had said, because that was more syllables than he’d ever heard out of Rozanov’s mouth, or indeed any hockey player’s mouth.

“I want to proposition you,” Rozanov had enunciated. “Me and Hollander. We are hot, sexy, famously gay. And you are also hot and famously gay.”

Scott looked at him. Rozanov looked back, with the self-assurance of a man who proposed—no, propositioned—a gay threesome at what was essentially a work conference in Winnipeg, Manitoba, of all places. Entering the Winnipeg airport made Scott feel like Daddy Warbucks.

Desperate for any kind of stimulus that wasn’t an SRO bar fight or another local complaining to him unprompted about Confusion Corner, Scott had said, “Let me check with Kip,” and the rest was history.

Scott is sitting in a chair near the bed, nursing a glass of whiskey from the minibar. He doesn’t usually drink on game nights, even during ASG, but he figures he’ll need some alcohol to steady him.

When the two of them walk in, Rozanov, wearing a slutty little tank top and sweatpants that seem custom tailored to show off his bulge, already has his hand up Hollander’s shirt. Hollander’s the first one to notice Scott. “Hey, uh— what?”

Rozanov meets Scott’s gaze. He grins, a little too wide to be real. “Ah, you came! I thought maybe you forgot how to have fun in your old age.”

“All right,” Scott says, kind of irritated and kind of amused at Rozanov. And then he tips a little more into irritated when he notices the genuine shock on Hollander’s face.

Before he can say anything, Hollander says, flatly, “You’re joking.”

Ah. Scott winces.

“I asked you especially about hockey players,” Rozanov says, trying to put his hand back up Hollander’s shirt while Hollander slaps him away. Scott hates that he’s kind of into this. “I said, what about one of our gay hockey player friends? Will you say no?” And Rozanov states, very firmly, “You did not say no.”

“Scott fucking Hunter?” Hollander says, which is kind of offensive.

“I’m right here, you know,” Scott says, and Hollander deflates a little. Scott can see what Rozanov likes in the guy. He personally prefers his sweetheart of a husband who gets cutely anxious whenever things like Thesis Supervisor Email and Research Committee Meeting and Job Interview come up, which are all phrases that sound pretty much indistinguishable from fantasy world spells to Scott. But he can see the appeal of a guy who is so easy to wind up into a little spitfire. He can certainly see the appeal of twisting all that tension up tight and then fucking it out of him.

Hollander exhales, “Jesus fucking Christ,” in a way that sounds like acceptance, in that it went through the other four stages of grief first.

Clearly, Rozanov thinks so too. “Sexy, yes?” he asks, and kisses Hollander. The way they kiss is so intimate it’s a little disgusting. Rozanov sticks his whole tongue into Hollander’s mouth, licking and mouthing at him like he can’t get enough, while Hollander grips his waist and eats him right back. Jesus. Into Hollander’s mouth, Rozanov murmurs, “The most famous gay hockey player in the world wants to watch you come. Isn’t that nice?”

“Why are you saying it like that,” Hollander gripes, while Rozanov licks his earlobe and turns them around so Scott can see Rozanov’s hands on Hollander’s ass. Fuck, Scott would love to fuck that. Rozanov squeezes over his pants, spreads the cheeks apart a little bit, and all the blood rushing in his ears means Scott can barely hear Hollander saying, “That’s the way my mom talks about brand deals. Oh, Rolex wants to do a shoot for pride month, isn’t that nice?”

“All-Star is pride for hockey players,” Rozanov replies, which is an insane sentence. “So this is like that. Pride month activity, very exciting, meaningful, sexy, etcetera.” He slaps Hollander’s ass, and Scott watches it jiggle. He can see it jiggle, even through the pants. Jesus fucking Christ. “Now get on the bed.”

Hollander clambers onto the bed, and Rozanov meets Scott’s eyes. He asks, “Are you just going to watch?”

His tone is almost sincere. Scott realizes that it’s not a chirp for once—he’s just asking. So Scott says, “It’s up to you guys. Kip doesn’t mind what I do, as long as I tell him all about it after.”

Rozanov grins. “Ah, he thinks we are sexy too. Should we Facetime him?”

Hollander looks a little panicked at that, and anyway, it’s a moot point. “He has work,” Scott says, because he doesn’t know how to explain to Rozanov that his husband is not actually getting paid to meet with a museum curator after opening hours to discuss paint restoration. “But maybe next time.”

Rozanov walks toward Scott then, one wall of muscle. Like this, Scott can see the line of his hipbones where his tank top has ridden up a little bit, and the hair leading down to his dick, which looks comfortably hard. Scott’s mouth waters a little.

“So I can kiss you?” Rozanov asks.

In reply, Scott stands up and pulls Rozanov in for a kiss, hands curling in his hair. Rozanov kisses hard, but not too hard — not domineering the way he was with Hollander. Scott breathes him in, bites his lip, and Rozanov makes a little sound in the back of his throat, Christ.

Scott’s a little taller than him, at least, and like this he feels a little— well. He’s starting to feel a little like he should put these kids in their place, even though they’re both well into their twenties.

“You jealous, Hollander?” Scott asks, pulling Rozanov away from him by his hair. Rozanov blinks, maybe a little surprised, and Scott’s dick twitches. At this rate he’s gonna get fully hard without anybody touching him.

Brave little Hollander shakes his head, even though he is clearly jealous. He looks like he’s going to cry. Scott, like an asshole, thinks that’s kind of sexy.

“Maybe he is jealous that I get more kisses than him,” Rozanov says, which is obviously not what is fucking happening here. But then he asks, “Do you want to kiss him?” 

“Yeah,” Scott says. He gets on the bed, kisses Hollander’s beautiful pouty mouth, just begging for something in it. They only break apart to take off Hollander’s clothes, Scott helping him while Rozanov strips. He likes the look of his own body, clothed, up against Hollander, naked and wanting.

Eventually, they lie back, Scott petting all over Hollander’s skin, hand on his jaw just to feel the way his muscles work as he sucks Scott’s tongue, and then Rozanov straddles Hollander’s thighs.

He licks Hollander’s dick, presses kisses down the shaft like he can’t get enough of the taste. “Just to take the edge off,” he explains, while Hollander tries to keep his hips still. “He is so needy. He always comes twice at least.”

“Shut up!” Hollander protests, embarrassed. Hunter watches the two of them. He wants to know what it takes to make Hollander give up on his little charade, to make him beg for it the way everyone in the room can tell he wants to.

“I have to warn him,” Rozanov replies, meeting Hollander’s look. “Hunter’s husband is not as desperate as you. You are a little slut.” And Rozanov elbows up the bed just far enough to give Hollander a little tap on the face— not really a slap but not not a slap. Hollander blinks, eyes wide and open, and Scott thinks, fuck.

And then Rozanov scrapes his teeth along Hollander’s stomach while he goes down to swallow him. While Rozanov has Hollander’s dick pressed up against the back of his throat, and Hollander makes little breathy noises in the back of his throat—he’s not so fucking shy now, is he—Scott takes a risk. He says, “You look good, rook.” And he touches him, hand splayed out on his sternum.

The risk pays off. Hollander shivers, tries to cover his face with his forearm. Scott reaches over and pushes his arm up above his head, presses his wrist down into the pillow. Hollander looks Scott right in the face, eyebrows creased over his wet eyes. He looks like porn, like he’s never wanted anything in his life but to fuck men. Like he was born to take it.

“I think Rozanov wants to hear you,” Scott murmurs, and Rozanov moans around Hollander’s dick in agreement. 

Hollander tries, “Scott—”

“Maybe you should call me Mr. Hunter,” Scott says, operating on pure instinct. He’s rewarded when Hollander’s hips buck up and Rozanov almost chokes. “I knew you when you were first drafted, you know. Gotta show some respect.”

He grips a little tighter around Hollander’s wrist, sets his jaw so he looks a little meaner when Hollander sees his face. “Oh, shit—” Hollander says, gasping, and then he comes like that, down Rozanov’s throat. “Fuck, fuck, Ilya, fuck—” and then, nervously, ”Mr. Hunter—”

“Fuck, yes,” Scott hisses, looking down to see the twitch of his abs, Rozanov swallowing. “Jesus, you’re good at sucking cock.”

“One of my hobbies,” Rozanov says, wiping his mouth as he pulls off. 

He comes back up Hollander’s body and they all make out like that for a while, lying half on top of each other and both of them on top of Hollander. Scott takes his clothes off, finally, just to feel them against him, all warm and beautiful and muscled. Rozanov is in control enough to kiss Scott and Hollander, actual kisses, while Hollander’s handsy and sloppy, down somewhere intense. Scott’s glad Rozanov is here to help him out. He’d never say it—Christ, he’d never hear the end of it—but Scott’s not sure he could handle Hollander by himself.

“You said he usually comes twice? At least,” Scott says, running his palm over Rozanov’s flank while he kisses Hollander. He looks so unbelievable. Scott’s pretty sure hockey players don’t need to look like this—all muscle, tight and contained and lithe.

“Yes,” Rozanov says, breaking away. “Probably only one more tonight.”

“Got it,” Scott says, looking at Hollander. If he’d come that hard he’d be out for a day. This kid really is a fucking energizer bunny. “You’re fucking hot, Hollander.” He moves his hand to Hollander’s thigh, presses up so that Hollander’s under Rozanov, knee to his chest like they’re about to fuck.

So soft, so fucking sweet, but clearly more lucid than he was when he called Scott Mr Hunter, Hollander asks, “Are you gonna fuck me?”

Scott’s dick twitches. Fuck yes, if that’s on the menu. He wants to get Hollander so fucked out he can’t say anything but Scott’s name, can’t do anything but beg. Something about Hollander invites that kind of thinking, even from a man as comfortably vers as Scott. Maybe he just has a really powerful bottom aura.

“Not yet,” Rozanov says, nudging Scott out of the way. “We have to put on a nice show for Scott Hunter. He is very old, dying, this is like Make-a-Wish foundation.”

“Holy fucking Christ, Rozanov,” Scott laughs, “do you ever shut the fuck up?” He’s mostly impressed, actually, that Rozanov can hold a conversation while his man looks like that.

“Why?” Rozanov asks, “will you make me?”

“Is this your way of asking to suck my dick?” Frankly, it’s working, but Scott would never let Ilya know that. “You are such a fucking brat. Of course you found the sluttiest bottom in world history, no top would ever entertain this.”

“So mean, Scott Hunter,” Rozanov says delightedly. “You are so upset!”

If Rozanov sucks his dick right now Scott’s going to come in two minutes flat. “Hollander,” Scott says, “does he talk this way to you?”

“Yeah. Hard to believe I put up with it,” Hollander says.

“What?” Rozanov sits up, shoulders off the bed, looking like an alerting dog. He looks at Scott accusingly. “I treat him better than he’s ever been treated!” And back to Hollander, “You put up with me? You beg for me. You beg all the time—”

“Hollander, please shut him up,” Scott says, pushing Rozanov down his body. Hollander pulls his thighs back, knees almost to his shoulders, and Scott pushes Rozanov’s face into Hollander’s hole.

He lets go and watches them. Pretty fucking picture. Rozanov eating him out like he’s dying for it, and the noises— God, the fucking noises Hollander makes. All whines and moans in the back of his mouth, the sharp desperate inhale, and the look of him with his head tilted back and that mouth open. Jesus fucking Christ. His dick aches.

Rozanov pulls back for air. Voice rough, lower, out of air, Rozanov rumbles, “Do you want to fuck his mouth?”

Who fucking doesn’t. Scott kneels on the bed next to Hollander’s face. “You want it, rookie?”

Hollander blinks up at him, eyes wet. “Yeah,” he breathes, and Scott taps him on the cheek at the same time Rozanov slaps his thigh, as if they’re on a line together, clicking just right, Rozanov and Hunter in perfect sync which is just about the stupidest fucking thing to ever happen to Scott— anyway, their combined correction makes Hollander rush to say, “Yeah, yes, please, Mr. Hunter, I want it so bad—”

“Fuck,” Scott groans, feeding his dick into Hollander’s mouth. His fucking mouth. His lips, that tongue, so fucking soft, made for it— fucking built to suck cock. His mouth is tight, hot, Jesus he looks so fucking good.

Hollander makes a noise around Scott’s cock. Scott looks down to see two of Rozanov’s fingers inside Hollander, moving slow— there’s so much lube but it’s still slow, fuck, Hollander must be so fucking tight—

“Can you come twice?” Rozanov asks, jaw tight with something beyond arousal, nostrils flaring like a bull in the ring. Like a hockey player on ice. Scott shakes his head tightly. “You can come now on his tits—” and at that, Hollander swallows. Scott’s stomach clenches with the effort of not coming that fucking second. “Or you can fuck him, if you can wait.”

Scott pulls out of Hollander’s mouth and breathes. Jesus Christ.

Rozanov locks eyes with him. There’s a concentration there, the kind of knowing that he saw in Rozanov on the ice during Boston’s Cup run. Everything in his world is moving at pace. Scott slips into that, clicking into gear. “It’ll be worth it,” Rozanov teases, singsong, elongating the vowels, but it’s just window dressing. They both already know that Scott will wait for it.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. He watches Rozanov watch Hollander as he pushes a— fuck, a fourth finger in. Hollander inhales, relaxes even further somehow, muscles liquid as he takes it. Scott watches the flex of Rozanov’s wrists, the bones in them. “I’ll fuck him.”

Then Rozanov presses in. Scott knees over to the bottom of the bed, watching his cock in Hollander’s hole, the heat of it, the way Scott can imagine how that cock feels filling you up, bullying its way in—

In. Scott exhales at the sight of Rozanov skin-to-skin against Hollander’s ass, his cock bouncing gently with every movement of Rozanov’s hips.

Rozanov pulls out, snarling, hands gripping Hollander’s waist, and then he fucks in, steady. One more, and then one more, and then instead of building up to a rhythm, Rozanov slides another finger in.

Fucking— Christ. 

“Oh, fuck, Ily— fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hollander hisses, looking down at his ass. “Fuck, it’s so—”

“Scott Hunter is not as big as me,” Rozanov grunts, which is so completely locker-room misogynistic that it almost comes out the other side charming and earnest. “But still need to prepare. Your hole is so tight, even though you are so desperate to be fucked by two big famous gay hockey players.”

Scott is genuinely so mad that he finds this situation nosebleed-sexy.

“Get on the bed, Hunter,” Rozanov says. Scott obeys, lying down next to Hollander, completely zeroed in on the shape of Rozanov’s wrist as it curls to put his fingers in next to his own dick. He watches Rozanov try a second finger, watches the loosening in Hollander’s shoulders as it sinks in to the third knuckle.

“God, fuck,” Hollander hisses, and he shakes, shoulders heaving as Rozanov presses in with another finger, the fucking bully. “Ily— fuck, fuck, it’s too— it’s so much, it’s so—”

“Hollander,” Scott murmurs, setting his hand on Hollander’s pec, feeling him breathe. The warmth or the pressure of it settles him. Hollander’s breath evens out a little, the furrow of his eyebrow looks a little less desperate. Rozanov rocks his wrist in and out a few times, getting comfortable with it. “You can take it. You’re doing so well. You look gorgeous.” Rozanov pulls out gently, so gently, and Hollander whines with the emptiness. Scott catches Hollander’s eye. “Hey, you’re doing good, rookie.”

“You are not helping the case against old man,” Rozanov says. He really never fucking quits.

Scott sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed to get a condom, when Rozanov stops him with a hand on his collarbone. He waves a condom packet in Scott’s face, and then kneels on the floor, shoulders level with Scott’s knees.

“Am I also your rookie?” Rozanov asks, mouth brushing Scott’s thighs. “Maybe we should worry, old man Scott Hunter is stealing our innocent virtue—”

“You are disgusting,” Scott says, kind of admiringly, and uses his grip in Rozanov’s hair to pull him onto his dick. His cheek bulges. He looks obscene. Somehow this is the thing that well and truly breaks Scott. Hollander’s a smokeshow, no denying that, but Scott has guiltily imagined fucking the smirk off Rozanov’s face for years. Guilty because of the gay thing, not because Rozanov didn’t deserve it. Even when Scott tore himself up about being that guy in a locker room fantasizing about another guy, he still thought someone should put something in Rozanov’s mouth on principle.

“Hollander was built to suck cock,” Scott says, and Hollander lets out a little sound at that, fuck— but Rozanov is on his fucking knees here, Scott’s getting a little cross-eyed, “He’s just naturally talented. But you. It’s not even about fucking your mouth. It’s just shutting you up. You’re like a fucking dog, Rozanov. Need a muzzle.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes brattily halfway through Scott’s little speech, but by the end of it, Rozanov’s as cock hungry as Hollander, pupils wide. Scott isn’t keeping track, he’s not, but if he was, he might say he just won this threesome.

Of course, games aren’t won until the buzzer goes. “Condom, Rozanov,” and Rozanov pulls off and rolls a condom onto his dick. Scott inhales. “Hitch a ride, Hollander.”

“You’re so fucking old fashioned,” Hollander says, but he straddles Scott anyway, facing him, thighs hot against Scott’s hips.

Scott holds his dick as he fucks up along Hollander’s crease, the head catching against his hole. And—fuck, he’s so loose—Scott slides in, easy as anything. To the hilt. “Shit,” Scott grits out.

Hollander is sighing like he’s finally happy, after years of deprivation and not a few minutes of having his hole empty. “Feels good,” Hollander slurs. He makes little nasal whines, sweat dripping off him, all of his skin flushed and gorgeous.

He tries to tighten his hole around Scott, but—and this, Jesus, this—his hole flutters a little when he relaxes, letting the tiniest amount of air in. Christ. He’s so loose. Wide fucking open. “You are ready for me,” Rozanov murmurs, kissing Hollander’s shoulder. Scott watches Rozanov look down at where they’re pressed together, so fucking careful, the kind of expression that reminds Scott of how Kip sometimes looks at him like he’s never wanted anything except for the chance to take care of him. Scott looks away.

Rozanov pushes, just a little bit, and then, somehow, he’s— in. Oh God. Oh God oh God. Scott can feel the head of Rozanov’s dick against the base of his, can feel the heat of him, the wetness of Hollander’s hole gripping them—

“Nn—” Hollander says, and then he just keeps making that noise, one long string of sound that Rozanov fucks out of him, relentless, unmovable. The Terminator of fucks.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott breathes. It’s so— tight, and wet, and firm, and hot, Jesus fuck—

“Fuuck, Hunter,” Rozanov moans. “Oh God, oh God—”

“Jesus—” and Scott cuts himself off before he becomes a broken record. He doesn’t have any other words. It’s— this is insane, it’s insane that Hollander’s tight, muscled body can just change shape to fit two fucking cocks—  “You’re so fucking desperate, aren’t you, Hollander,” Scott says, and Hollander chokes out a moan, tightening, somehow, even more. “You’re so fucking cock hungry. I’ve met sugar baby twinks less desperate for cock than you.”

“Scott Hunter— nnh— where are you meeting— sugar baby twinks?”

“My husband’s friends are more interesting than mine,” Scott says, settling into it. The level of pleasure is— it’s insane, it’s unbelievable, but it’s plateaued a little bit, giving Scott some time to breathe. He can’t imagine what Rozanov feels, fucking into Hollander bare, wet—

“Hollander, are you gonna come?” Scott asks, noticing the slippery slide of Hollander’s cock against Scott’s stomach, the wetness. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” Hollander gasps, and then he shakes, like that, cock spilling without a fucking hand on him. “Oh my god, oh my god—”

“Fuck,” Rozanov snarls, loud, biting Hollander’s shoulder hard, using it as leverage to fuck into Hollander once, twice, four more times. Scott can feel him come. He can feel the warmth of it, the way it fills Hollander, Jesus.

Scott lets Rozanov have his moment. He pets through Hollander’s hair as he shudders through it, Rozanov kissing his shoulders, the back of his neck, all of it a little sweeter than he thought he’d see tonight. It’s almost cute that even the most annoying pair of hockey players in the league can find gay love.

“You’re insane, Hollander,” Scott says, when their little moment has passed. And then, earnestly, “That was so fucking hot. Your body is unbelievable.”

“Yes, yes, we know this,” Rozanov says, pulling out carefully. “Hollander’s ass is fantasy land, I have said this from day one.”

“In what world is this a competition,” Scott says, mostly just to say it, while Hollander rolls off him and then curls into his side, thumbing over Scott’s nipple while Rozanov takes care of the condom. Scott breathes. Jesus he has to come.

“You should come on Ilya’s face,” Hollander says. His voice is dreamy, soft, but he looks up at Scott with something a little sharper than that— “He’s always talking about how hot you are. Literally from our second time hooking up.”

“That is a lie!” Rozanov cries, face red, sweaty, mouth red and swollen from sucking Scott’s cock. Holy fuck. Yeah. Scott wants to come on his face. “I have never said this, complete lie, I would never say old man Scott is sexy—”

“Whenever we hooked up at All-Stars,” Hollander lists out casually, “whenever he played an Admirals game, when we got in that fight—”

“I said nothing about Scott Hunter, it was only you, Shane Hollander fighting for once—”

“—texting during the off-season, the playoffs when you guys won the Cup—”

Rozanov kisses Hollander then to shut him up and Scott watches it, watches Rozanov lick his teeth, press his mouth against him just for the feel of it. “On your knees, Rozanov,” Scott says, losing patience, and Rozanov slides down easy. Scott feels lightheaded. He sits up, strokes his cock, fuck, the feeling of it— sparks down his spine, he’s not going to last—

“At least you are better at fucking than playing hock—”

“Shut up,” Scott snarls, grabbing Rozanov’s hair to position him right, and Scott comes like that, feeling it in the soles of his feet, his fucking hips, his shoulders. It’s all over Rozanov’s face, up his fucking nose, all over his gorgeous mouth. Rozanov pants, ruined, eyes blinking open slowly through the come on his eyelids. “One of your best ideas, Hollander.”

“That’s why I’m in charge,” Hollander says, leaning over to wipe his thumb through the come on Rozanov’s cheek. He pushes it into Rozanov’s mouth and Rozanov sucks obediently. Jesus fucking Christ. “I’m good at planning. That’s why they’re gonna give me that C.”

Rozanov bites his thumb at that, and leaps up to tickle Hollander into submission. How the hell they have the energy for it, Scott doesn’t know. He could sleep for a million years after an orgasm like that.

Scott Hunter flops back while Hollander and Rozanov yap at each other. Fucking kids.