Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - M/M/M, Character Study, Catholic Scott Hunter, weird feelings about parents, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Car Sex, Anal Sex, Rimming

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-02 Completed: 2026-10-14 Words: 23,483 Chapters: 6/6

Exegetic Chains

Summary

Scott is lucky, apparently. Ilya suggested picking him up in a sports car—he’d get tossed in the trunk with the rest of the baggage. Shoved in the back of Shane’s practical British whatever the fuck, knees bumping Ilya’s seat, headrest not adjusted for his height, Scott’s having flashbacks to growth spurts in mom vans driven by church volunteers. 

“How is our princess, hm?” Ilya ducks over to look at Scott in the rearview, and Scott already has a middle finger ready for him. 

“It’s damsel, Ilya,” Shane corrects. 

“Not helpful,” Scott interjects. 

...

It's only a week. Scott can survive a week, can't he?

Notes

Chapter 1

Scott was supposed to be in a hotel. 

When St. Peter is reading off the CVS receipt length list of all his sins, Scott is going to make it very clear. He was supposed to be in a hotel. 

“An absolutely nasty storm. I’m glad you didn’t try to fly in a day earlier,” Shane is saying. He’s been talking about fronts and air pressure and maybe Mercury in retrograde since the airport. 

“I didn’t know they made hotels next to trees,” Scott mumbles, and Ilya barks a laugh from the front seat. 

Scott is lucky, apparently. Ilya suggested picking him up in a sports car—he’d get tossed in the trunk with the rest of the baggage. Shoved in the back of Shane’s practical British whatever the fuck, knees bumping Ilya’s seat, headrest not adjusted for his height, Scott’s having flashbacks to growth spurts in mom vans driven by church volunteers. 

“How is our princess, hm?” Ilya ducks over to look at Scott in the rearview, and Scott already has a middle finger ready for him. 

“It’s damsel, Ilya,” Shane corrects. 

“Not helpful,” Scott interjects. 

“You looked overheated waiting outside of that small airport. You need AC adjusted?” The car is already cool from their drive in, so Ilya’s only trying to be an ass instead of trying to help while being an ass. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Scott says with a flash of teeth. New York is a million times hotter than fucking Ottawa. 

“Ah, I am always saying this, Hunter, but is more fun if you’re there,” Ilya says, and he reaches back blindly to pat Scott’s trapped leg. 

“I think your husband would disagree,” Scott says as he swats Ilya’s hand away. 

“I would,” Shane says sternly, and Scott thinks maybe, finally some sense is going to enter back into the world. Except he can see Shane in slight profile, see the way his lips twitch up despite how they press together. He says, “He’s not always saying it. You’re such a drama queen.”

Shane snaps his knuckles against Ilya’s thigh, and with hockey-ready reflexes, Ilya grabs the hand, brings it to his mouth to plant a smacking kiss. 

“I think maybe we have a usurper in the house,” Ilya says with a fondness Scott isn’t ready to admit Rozanov is capable of. 

And when did he learn usurper anyway?

Scott remembers when these two were barely nineteen, shoved in each other’s faces at every monetary opportunity. When Shane had a haircut that screamed my mother decided this and Ilya had a two second delay in all his English language interviews. When Scott himself felt like the dinosaur Ilya always liked to chirp him for being, despite only being about nine years older, give or take. There are still older guys in hockey. 

“I’m getting out. Stop the car. There has to be another hotel that doesn’t have a tree on top of it,” Scott says, and then a plastic clunk echoes through the car. 

“We have a perfectly good guest bedroom. It’s just the week,” Shane says, pragmatically. 

“Besides, who will hear you if you fall and break hip?” Ilya says, assholishly. 

“Did you just engage the child locks?” Scott tentatively pushes at the door latch. Upon finding it useless, he tugs on it like a broken slot machine. 

It probably isn’t, but this could be a convoluted plot to murder him and further the Centaurs’ chances for the Cup next year. He could buy a whole fucking house in Ottawa just for the week and then donate it, and it wouldn’t make a difference. There’s no reason to crash at the Hollander-Rozanov household like he’s a rookie. 

“Are you seriously trying to get out? We’re on a highway.” Shane raises an eyebrow at Scott in the rearview. 

Then again, there’s no reason not to, right?

Ilya will be infuriating, and Scott’s not the biggest fan of dogs—his one bona fide serial killer trait according to Kip. It could even be fun. Scott doesn’t spend a lot of time with guys from other teams. Even less so since he came out. Kip is always subtly prodding at getting him more friends, and by God, he’s doing it like a real boy. 

Ilya flattens Shane’s hand to his thigh. It’s innocent, if disgustingly romantic. It reminds Scott that they both have thighs and pants and things above those thighs and things inside those pants, and therein lies the problem. He’s supposed to shack up with Russia’s Greatest Love Machine and Hockey Baby Jesus for a whole week, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear them down the hall and hasn’t thought about what they look like together. 

“I think I’m being kidnapped,” Scott says to complimentary scoffs from the front seat. 

He would never do anything, of course. He loves Kip with a fierceness that should probably be medically studied. So there won’t be a problem, right?

“Is for your own good, old man,” Ilya replies. 

Scott supposes he’ll explain this to St. Peter too. 

…

The house is tasteful. It looks warmer than he expected, somehow. More exposed wood and earthy tones than glitzy rich-guy minimalism. He can see what are the designer’s choices and what are Ilya’s choices and what things have come about simply by living in the space. 

His first impression, though, is that the doormat is crooked, largely due to the dancing pitbull just inside the door. 

“Anya, my love! I have missed you!” Ilya goes in first, bending down on one knee to sweep up the wriggling pitbull like she’s a chihuahua. She accepts it with a responding yip, tail spinning madly next to Ilya’s hip. 

They’ve had to move the credenza further into the entrance hall. Scott can tell this happens a lot, and he watches Ilya kick off his shoes and pivot into the living room, just missing a keys bowl and a stack of mail like it’s a choreographed dance. Shane steps forward and sheds his flannel, dropping his keys in said bowl with a clink. He grabs Ilya’s shoes, tucking them in a neat line with a couple other pairs. Scott takes the hint and bends down to undo his laces. As he’s doing so, his suitcase and duffel are swiped out from under him. 

“You’ll be in the real guest room,” Shane says.

“I can take—”

Shane’s already gone. Ilya is having a saccharine conversation with his dog. Scott is two steps behind. 

“We have another guest room, but it’s mostly just the office with a bed in it. This one should be more comfortable, and we shouldn’t need anything out of here while you’re staying,” Shane narrates. 

It’s not a room so much as a suite. It has a kitchenette. 

“Jesus,” Scott mutters. 

“The bathroom is through here. Technically, it shares with the other guest room, but it’s not like there’s another guest,” Shane says with a shrug. 

At least the bathroom is a jack and jill.

“Do you two, um, host a lot?” 

Shane puts Scott’s duffel down on the bed, rolling his other bag to a perfect at-attention alongside. His lower lip shrugs up, and he says, “Not really, since my parents have their own house. We’ve hosted a few drunk rookies. The coffee machine is stocked, but of course, you’re welcome to the one in the main kitchen. It’s a little nicer, but let Ilya show you how to use it because he’s protective of it.”

“Sure.” Scott misses New York already. He hates making his own coffee, and Kip will have a cup ready no matter the ungodly hour. It’s always the best cup of coffee he's ever had, too, with all of Kip’s years of barista experience. 

“There’s a towel warmer in the bathroom. If you want to wash off some of the airport, I’ll go ahead and switch it on,” Shane says, and Scott plants his feet to ground himself from this hospitality merry-go-round. 

“Is there a machine that’ll suck my dick, too?” He asks because he can’t scrape off the grooves twenty years of locker rooms have left on his tongue, and also he’s thinking about Kip. 

That last part is why he’s totally unprepared for the conversational backcheck—

“Nah, that’s my job,” Shane says with an innocent half-shrug. Scott’s mouth drops open like a drawer pulled out too far left to hang. 

“Okay, so this is the window, right?” Scott takes a few steps towards the far wall. “The window I can throw myself out of if I get tired of you?”

“It’s a one story house,” Shane snorts.

It’s so different to see him like this. Relaxed. Scott wonders if he’ll be able to do the same; it’s usually not possible without a heavy dose of Kip or half a dozen Blue Moons. They have Blue Moon in Canada, don’t they?

There’s an approaching skitter of nails on hardwood, and then Anya the dog is wiggling circles around Shane’s calves. 

“Yes, hello, Anya. What a good girl you are, yes,” Shane says patiently, and he bends down to rub her back for a half second on every go-round. 

“Shane has real estate fetish,” comes a low, teasing Russian accent just behind Scott’s ear. 

“You need a fucking bell,” Scott spits out, jerking himself away from Rozanov who’s already skirting around him to squat and pet his dog some more. 

Ilya squints, tilting his head towards his husband. He says, “You must tell him is nice house, or he won’t come for me later.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane snarls, and he sends Ilya to his ass with a well-placed shove. Anya is enthusiastic about this and gets her paws on Ilya’s chest to go after him tongue first. 

“Wow, you both are just as bad as I remember,” Scott says. “Worse, even.”

“Yes, is called being funny. You could try sometime,” Ilya says. 

“I think I’ll leave the clowning to you two,” Scott replies.

Anya decides she’s had enough of her second helping of Ilya, and she crawls over him, stabbing her paw into his liver, to come and plant her wagging butt in front of Scott. The tip of her tail hits Ilya’s hip with every frantic pass, but she dips her head, looking up at him like an ingenue peeking from behind the red curtains. 

Scott’s mouth fishes open, and his palms trace wards in the air before he drops them onto his thighs. 

“She’s looking for a treat. Here.” Shane pulls an individually wrapped dried bacon strip out of his pocket. Anya’s breathing catches a few snuffles as she sits still in her excitement. 

Scott takes the treat, scent of barbeque cardboard making his nose wrinkle, and he pivots to hold it out to Anya. 

She’s very well trained. 

Her teeth get nowhere near his fingertips as she snatches it out of his grasp, tucking her chin to chew happily. Scott slides his hands into his pockets, his eyes flicking up to make sure he did that right. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ilya asks. “Don’t you know how to pet a dog?”

“I guess it’s not one of my strengths,” Scott admits, but he gives it a good college try. There’s a jolly sort of valley at the top of her tan head, so he rubs his fingertips there, earning a push that flattens his hand. He gives one long pet that goes down her neck, and then he abandons the gesture. 

“Man, I thought you were American,” Shane says, thighs working as he pushes himself to his feet. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Scott’s eyes stay firmly northward. 

“Americans. You like dogs,” Ilya explains. 

“Are you a cat person?” Shane offers a hand to his husband, and it’s not as if Ilya actually needs it. It’s a ruse though because Ilya takes the hand, and he uses the leverage to pull himself into Shane’s side, tucking them together like reunited bookends. 

“I don’t really do animals. Or kids,” Scott says. Ilya stared at him like his alien bits are poking through his skin. 

“I take back invitation. Shane, he is not allowed near our babies. I do not care if Freya has been looking forward to it. She should have new favorite anyways.”

“I’m fine teaching kids. Jesus!”

“You will teach them terrible things like how to hate fluffy, adorable animal.”

“Oh, get off my dick, Rozanov.”

“You will not be saying this later—”

“Okay! Come on. He probably wants to unpack.” Shane tugs on his husband’s arm. 

“Dinner in hour and a half. I am making pasta,” Ilya declares. He lets Shane steer him out, but Scott catches them in the door with a begrudging—

“Thank you.” His mother didn't raise a heathen. “For opening up your home to me. Which is lovely by the way.”

The grin across Ilya’s face spreads like fire over oil. He pivots to nearly put his teeth against Shane’s cheek, and there’s a familiar fabric-dulled slap that makes Shane’s hips jump. Ilya croons, “You hear this? You have done so well.”

“Stop it,” Shane grits, elbowing Ilya away from him. To Scott, he says, “We won’t bother you while you settle in.”

“Anya.” Ilya snaps his fingers, and it echoes in the bedroom. Anya lurches after him, earning a litany of murmured praise, and finally, the door shuts. The quiet closes around him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Scott says out loud. 

I’m going to hell, he texts to his husband immediately. 

Things going that well?

Scott smiles even though it’s only his phone screen that sees it. He types out, Scratch that. I’m in hell. Currently. There’s a dog and a towel warmer

You love our towel warmer

Scott’s phone lights up with a picture of Kip, blurry for how he’s mid-fall onto the blue line at Madison Square Garden. He hadn’t stopped cackling as he stole Scott’s phone and made that his contact picture. 

“Have they gone shirtless yet?” Kip asks with an inappropriate glee. 

“As my husband, I’m not sure you’re striking the proper tone,” Scott replies. 

“My eye candy is gone for a whole week! Let a girl have her fantasies.” Kip sighs like a Disney princess about to start her ballad, and Scott shakes his head, smiling at the hardwoods. 

“I better be topping in these fantasies,” Scott huffs. 

“Oh, don’t be such a caveman.”

“Ugh, ugh,” Scott says, tucking his phone to his ear to start unpacking his duffel. “Me like cock.”

Kip’s laughter is more of a screech that fuzzes out the line for a second before coming back in full force. Scott doesn’t even mind the assault on his eardrum; it’s been too many hours since he made Kip laugh. It’s always been too many hours. 

“Was your flight okay, babe?” Kip asks, the blanket of his mirth still swaddling his tone. 

“It was fine. Short,” Scott says. “Shane texted me a lot. The landing time was delayed ten minutes, and I had more notifications in that ten minutes than I’ve had in the past month.”

“Well, you can’t blame him,” Kip says. 

“Yeah, I’m not. Just thought it was cute.”

“It is cute. He’s cute.”

Kip was so excited the first time Scott joined in on Hot or Not with what they both now call the Gay Gang. Kip treated it like a new vein of gold in the mine of their relationship instead of the third deadly sin that of course only applied to Scott because Kip was literally an angel and the rules warped themselves around such divinity. This revelation led to the discovery of the little known eighth sin of liking Ilya Rozanov’s mouth. For symmetry, Kip decided to start crushing on the other side of the rivalry. Not that Scott has a crush—that sounds so juvenile. 

It’s only gotten worse since Ilya and Shane were outed. 

“You’re cute,” Scott says, tucking his carefully rolled clothes in the dresser. 

“I am, aren’t I?” There’s a rustle and a sigh, and then Kip says, “The bed still smells like us.”

Scott’s desire for Kip sort of works like a tap. There’s something municipal in his brain that manages the constant pressure through the pipes, all so Kip can reach out and poke the faucet, and it’s right there for him. It starts to drip lazily. 

“You haven’t changed the sheets yet?” Scott asks lowly.

“I haven’t gotten up yet,” Kip replies. “Not since you left.”

That was hours ago, but to be fair, Scott did wake him from a sacred afternoon nap. 

“You’re in the perfect spot, then,” Scott says. He abandons his half-unpacked bag. 

“Perfect for what?” A hundred of Kip’s expressions flash across Scott’s eyelids, but the one that Scott snags and keeps for himself is from just a few hours ago—

Kip, eyes heavy lidded, mischief dancing along the seam of his lips as Scott coaxed him awake. 

“Perfect for the present I left for you in my nightstand,” Scott says. 

“You motherfucker.” The insult fades as Kip lunges across the bed, and Scott imagines those flexing muscles underneath his fingertips. With his free hand, he rubs down his thigh. 

“I’ll be gone for a whole week. I couldn’t leave you—”

“—with the dozens of other toys you’ve bought me?” Kip interjects. 

“For us, babe,” Scott says. And it’s true; he’s the one that uses them the most, usually when his husband is already red faced and sweating and swearing. 

“Oh,” Kip says. “Oh, Scott.”

They have plenty of dildos. Vibrators. Plugs. Etcetera. But somehow, they’ve never had one they can ride hands-free. Scott was a little selfish in his shopping, and he told himself it was compromise. He likes his husband’s thick cock. Kip is generally ambivalent about dick size, but he has strong opinions about shape and/or motion. Scott found the perfect in-between. Thick, curved, and with a suction cup base. 

“I want to hear the headboard,” Scott says, and Kip’s soft moan is picked up perfectly by the mic.

He has plenty of time before dinner after all. 

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

CW: This chapter ruminates on parental death. It has no incredible bearing on what little plot this fic has and can be skipped.

Scott remembers hockey camps with the same bittersweet crispness as remembering how apples tasted different when he was twelve. The thing maintains its shape, could be pointed at in a picture book, but when he takes a bite, there’s a newness to add on top. It doesn’t make him sad, per se. It makes him want an egg cream. 

He works with them on their skating form. 

Shane covers the rules, the strategy, and the puck handling. One of his old teammates is here too—Boizau—and is in charge of the skrimmages. Ilya teaches them about safety. How to put on their equipment properly, how to fall on the ice, and for the older kids, how to take a hit into the boards. 

Then he turns around and lets the kindergarteners act like giggling pucks flat on their backs, sliding them side to side on his stick and sending them into the net from the face off dots. 

Scott hates how it makes him laugh. He thinks Shane will put a stop to it eventually, but Shane skates up, lets Ilya brag about his “shots,” and then he suggests a speed competition with three kids each, and the kids fucking love it, and Scott hops off the boards where he was waiting like a pinned ref, and Scott has to be the wet blanket. Luckily, it’s time for electrolyte popsicles, so the kids aren’t too disappointed. 

“I would have won,” Shane mumbles under his breath, shoulder to shoulder with his husband. 

“You picked lighter kids,” Ilya shoots back. 

Scott runs headfirst into a memory so hard he thinks he needs to get concussion checked. 

After hours, cold seeping through his pants as he parks himself on the red line and traces his gloves through the grooves practice has left in the ice. His parents, padded silhouettes dancing circles near the net, and a metallic ping that’s unfortunately very familiar to him now. 

I would have gotten that one! His father chases down his cackling mother, stopping her and the puck sails away from them both. 

It’s cute that you think that—

And here he’s already surfacing. He tries to cling. What happened to the puck? Did he get another shot? Did she win whatever competition? The memory sinks down beneath the waves like he never had it at all, like the weight of it is the real thing and he’s just reading the splash. 

Scott has one skate off the ice. The mischief husbands have gone quiet, and the echoes of JJ leading the charge down the tunnel bumble, honey-drunk, around their heads. 

“I need a minute,” Scott says, and they don’t respond, and Scott doesn’t wait for one. He pivots and heads into the visiting team locker room where there are more memories from after. Where he’s a rookie on a points streak, where he’s a fresh Captain exhausted on the road, where he’s tearing through games like Kip is waiting for him in the Cup, Dita Von Teese style. 

He shucks his helmet and then his skates, and he doesn’t have the full game day padding of course, but he’s got the shinguards because there’s plenty of children with pucks primed to take him out of maybe his last season on the ice and—

He really doesn’t want to think about that right now. 

He reaches down to wrap his hands around his calves, pressing the familiar sweaty weight into his skin, thumbing over the thick socks printed with dancing broccoli. Kip has branched out heavily since the initial bananas—which Vaugn still gives him shit about their incredibly phallic overtones. Kip had reasoned that the vegetable era of socks had to come to hockey camp on the off chance it got kids eating vegetables. Blessedly, Kip doesn’t really know what to do with kids either. He thinks printed socks could translate into dietary habits. 

Scott puts his cheek against his knee.

He wishes Kip was here. 

Kip would know what to do with the boy in the back of his head. It would be something simple but so effective. Something that his dad taught him. 

Skates crash to the concrete, and Scott nearly jumps out of his jersey. His neck cracks, head whipping to the side to find what he thinks for one wild moment is himself. Like some sort of fucked up ghost of Christmas Past bullshit, his own knock-kneed tween face slackjawed and growing paler by the second. He’s spent so much time putting distance between before and after, and he’s from New York, so he’s prime morality movie material. 

“Sorry,” the boy spits out, and it might be familiar if he’d ever heard a single Russian hockey player apologize. 

“It’s alright,” Scott says, trying to put on the same voice he uses for when the rookies shit the bed in skrimmages. He nods his head down in one slow swoop, and he rocks back on the bench, slats letting out a single anemic creak. The boy hasn’t moved except for the trembling in place thing, so Scott says, “I needed a place to get some quiet. You can join me if you want.”

The boy tucks his chin and beelines for the opposite bench. 

He faces away from Scott, but it’s not a full minute before the sniffling starts. Scott doesn’t even know if the building has tissues, despite the inevitable amount of nose bleeds. He knows where to get toilet paper, he supposes, but then there’s the issue of the transfer which involves him talking to a crying child. He’s done that exactly once in his life, and it blessedly didn’t last that long because DeWitt’s wife had swooped in after a minute of stunted fumbling. 

Scott's about to get off the bench. 

Really, he is. 

Then he hears footsteps coming down the tunnel, and he realizes it hadn’t even taken twenty four hours for him to recognize Ilya Rozanov’s surprisingly quiet swagger. 

It’s another thing Kip uses to tease him about being a born killer, but Scott grew up around a lot of people. After. He needed to know who was coming to check lights out or if Billy was trying to put frogs under his pillow again. He knows where people are. Always. Predictably, it helped him out a lot when he was in the closet. 

Shane walks like a movie sound bite. Perfectly aligned hips, even gait, and not too heavy. 

Ilya walks like he grew up sneaking out of the house. Light for a man of his size and general demeanor. Two steps of a jog, and then he’s rounding the corner into the locker room. His brow unknits when he spots the kid. 

“Galynin,” Ilya says. Scott vaguely remembers the name from introductions this morning. 

“Coach Ilya?” The words wobble out of the boy’s mouth like they’re still learning how to skate. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya strides over and crouches in front of Samuel Galynin—Scott remembers it now. 

It’s a little comical how Ilya’s bulk sticks out on either side of the kid. Scott is head on for Samuel’s back, so he can’t see Ilya’s face. It’s probably for the best. 

“Okay?” Ilya prompts, and Samuel gives a wet sniffle, probably to buy himself time. Scott used to do that when he cried. And then one day, he stopped crying, and he didn’t need that trick anymore. 

“I am sorry, Coach. I—I need some, uh, quiet,” Samuel says. 

“Quiet is okay,” Ilya says seriously. “Not quiet is also okay.”

“Quiet is okay,” Samuel repeats, and he sniffles again. Scott learned better than to stare in locker rooms, but he’s still watching when Samuel turns his head to the side to mask the tears carving pink paths down his cheeks. This, of course, just shows his face to both of them which he notices immediately and buries his face in his hands. 

“Hey,” Ilya says, soft enough to slip past the veil of time and reach out to the kid Scott used to be. 

Fourteen and doing a showcase at Madison Square Garden, and the only thing he could think about was how his mother always said Gardens instead of Garden, and how it would lead to the inevitable correction from his father. 

“What did we talk about last summer, hm? Only one place you are allowed to hide tears,” Ilya says, and he opens his arms. 

“I’m not a baby,” the boy spits, wiping his palms furiously underneath his eyes. Ilya’s curly bangs flop into view as he cocks his head. They’re long. Scott thinks he cuts them for the season. 

“Okay. You are big strong man now. I understand,” Ilya says. “Would you like to see how a man wipes away tears?”

The boy swivels back, not fully facing Ilya again, but obviously paying attention. 

“Okay, so here. Make a fist.” Ilya demonstrates, and Samuel copies him. “Then you drag knuckles across face like you are punching.”

The kid lets out a surprised snort. Elbows crooked out, he says, “Like I’m punching myself?”

“Exactly,” Ilya says, deadly serious. He reaches up, and Scott watches his meaty fist tap Samuel’s face and move, dragging the kid’s face with it. 

He makes a cartoon punching noise. 

Scott might actually be having a panic attack. 

Samuel giggles, a childish noise that he probably wishes he didn’t have access to anymore. He probably wishes he could cordon off those things that the older, less talented boys sneer at. Like a bathroom in the back of a dingy bar in Brooklyn, always Out of Order. 

He’d been congratulated.

When the condolences started to make other people feel uncomfortable, they told him—

Good to see you on the ice, buddy. 

Never seen focus like this kid. 

Don’t think; just shoot. 

And it’s all the advice he’s ever needed. 

Scott pushes his palms over his face, but he can’t keep his eyes off the way Samuel drags his fists across his cheeks. Ilya laughs, a thing from his chest, and Samuel does something with his face to draw another one out. 

“You are natural at this technique. This is how professional players cry. Learning it is first step into NHL,” Ilya says, and Samuel gives a waterlogged laugh. 

“I can’t go to the NHL,” Samuel sniffles out. 

“Hm. Why not?”

“Because nobody likes me.”

Ilya’s tongue clicks against his hard palette. Scott scrunches his nose up, trying to fight off the mist in his eyes like he might try to avoid a sneeze. 

“That is not requirement for NHL. You can ask Coach Scott,” Ilya says, peering around the boy’s shoulder to grin at Scott. 

God, what a bastard. 

Scott’s stomach squirms at how it feels like tightening the strings on a marionette, like Ilya has wrapped a firm hand around him and plugged up any leaks. Scott gestures vaguely towards the kid, and Ilya cocks an eyebrow, smugness settling across his face in a way that would usually end in dropped gloves. Scott rolls his eyes and takes a calculated risk—

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” he chirps back, and the kid’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. The tears stretch out and no longer usable in his eyes. 

“See? Bad mouth for a bad hockey player. Nobody likes him, but he is still employed,” Ilya says, and it makes Samuel laugh. Ilya’s good at that. 

“You’re kinda crazy, Coach,” Samuel says. Ilya stands, and he knocks his forehead against Samuel’s as he does. 

“Yes, but Coach Shane still loves me,” Ilya says with a grin. 

“Lord knows why,” Scott mutters under his breath. Sometimes, he’s not sure why Kip still loves him, but then he’ll find another cheesy trinket squirreled away in his bag. 

“Okay, you know what Coach Shane also loves?” Ilya asks, patting Samuel on the back. “Popsicle time.”

An excuse to keep the kids’ talkative mouths busy and send their sticky hands home with their parents? Scott sees the appeal too. 

“Yeah, I like popsicle time,” Samuel agrees amicably. Ilya keeps a hand on his shoulder as Samuel slides off the bench, and Scott catches a low murmured word in Russian, which Samuel echoes. He drifts along next to Ilya as the fully grown man starts to list all the things he’s made popsicles out of in the name of science. Gatorade. Tea. Ranch dressing—he got half the Centaurs to try one of those before word spread in the group chat to avoid him. 

Scott rubs the dry calluses on the edge of his hands. He’s alone again, thoughts bleeding out of the wounds that never really closed. He puts his elbows on his knees, and he knocks his thumbs against his forehead. 

He has pictures of his parents where they’re younger than he is now, arms at each other’s waists, laughing and grinning. Scott’s never been big on pictures, on evidence. With privacy a delicate, fickle creature, it’s easier to live in the moment and soak up the sun of Kips’ smile until he turned pink, but God, he should have more photos. One day, someone will look through all their shit, and there won’t be any evidence for the vastness and righteousness of Scott’s love. It’ll be a popsicle, and all that’s left is the stain on his teeth. 

It’s visceral, the way his hands curl with the need to leave a mark on something. 

They uncurl to the unexpected sound of a subtle gait down the tunnel. 

“Scott,” Ilya greets, pausing in the door frame like a lazy cat choosing its sunbeam. It’s worse than Hunter. Scott swallows down the cauldron’s bubble of his emotions, exactly how his therapist tells him not to, and he lifts his head. 

“Rozanov,” he answers. 

Instead of accepting the distance Scott put between them, Ilya ambles forward and drops onto the bench next to Scott. 

“It was hard for me, the first year,” Ilya says quietly. It’s incongruous with how a locker room should sound. “Playing with kids is fun and nice, but being Coach… We are responsible, yes? We tell them what to do. We scold them when they fight. It was hard for me.”

“Your dad died a few years ago?” Scott asks, and it’s almost the hammer cocking back, the cannonball rolling into place. But there’s a solemnity to Ilya’s face that only comes after the battle, when the field is muddy and red and haunted. Scott puts his anger away, if it ever existed at all. 

Scott’s dad died more than a few years ago. 

“Yes,” Ilya hums. “He was old. And strict. First time I raised my voice at a kid for being careless with his skates, you know, for kicking after going down on the ice—”

Ilya laughs at himself, a hollow, decaying thing. 

“—I could not speak for the rest of the day. You, I think, are hiding here for a different reason, but for same one, yes? It is hard.”

Scott scrubs his palm over his face, the scrape of his beard stubble loud bouncing off the concrete. Everyone knows about his parents. He’s made sure of it; the NHL has made sure of it. Before it was Hollander and Rozanov, it was Scott Hunter, boy wonder. Like some kind of fucked up advertisement for the American Dream. Propaganda on skates for what you can achieve with the hockey love in your heart. He held the beacon before they scrabbled and fought over it—give me your tired, your poor, your season ticket holders.

“I was supposed to be in the car,” Scott says, apropos of nothing. Apropos of everything. He’s never said it out loud to anyone, even to Kip. 

Ilya’s quiet. A deferent emptiness that Scott can’t help but fill. 

“They had tickets to a game in Buffalo. They were driving up, and they wanted to take me, but that was right after Cronauer announced his retirement. I was so mad at him, at the team for letting him go. I was protesting,” Scott says. “I made them pay for a babysitter. Worst night of that girl’s life, getting the call and answering the door for the police—”

“They are not so helpful, are they?” Ilya rumbles, and Scott glances over, spies a mirror’s flash in the sad tilt of Ilya’s eyes. If he looks closer, he might see too much of himself. 

“The guy didn’t even really try. The social worker was a little nicer.” 

“Did you wait?” Ilya asks, his thumbs rubbing together in his lap. “After the police left, did you wait to see if anyone would come and tell you something different happened?”

Scott tries to remember it in bits and pieces, not the whole thing at once. He shuffles through his Rolodex and puts away the Officer’s name and how he smelled like mint and cigarettes and how Jessica got to call her parents to pick her up. He takes out that awful doppelganger hope. 

He nods. 

Ilya raises his fist to knuckle tap his cross, and then he slides a touch over Scott’s shoulder. Scott used to be so afraid of this. The touching. He’s not sure when that got bigger than the gaping maw of his grief, and after that, he’s not entirely sure when it got smaller again. 

“Did you pray?” Scott asks. He has his mother’s rosary. She never used it when she was alive. 

Ilya squeezes Scott’s shoulder, and he rasps, “It did not matter.”

No, Scott thinks, it didn’t then. 

But somehow, with this tenuous string vibrating between them, it matters now. 

“Do you think popsicle time is done?” Scott doesn’t even panic as he pats Ilya’s thigh. As they leverage themselves up, standing too close by a mile. The ache between them soothes itself into something like after a good workout. Ilya squeezes one more time before his hand flattens and traces down Scott’s shoulder blade, the curve of his ribs, then skipping out to bump his elbow. 

“What, your boyfriend is not in the country, and your mouth hasn’t done enough sucking?” Ilya chirps, summarily obliterating any kinship that had attempted to grow in the last five minutes. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“No, no. Is fuck me, Rozanov. Is what you meant to say.” Ilya brushes past him, and Scott lands a check to his back that would have gotten called on the ice. 

Chapter End Notes

I just need Scott and Ilya to bond over losing family young okay

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Scott should really put his dick away. 

“You should get up,” Kip voices the thought, though his voice is compressed into electric data then re-expanded into something small enough to come out of phone speakers. 

“I wish you were here,” Scott says instead of following the very reasonable advice. 

“Hm. I don’t.”

Scott makes a wounded noise, but it comes out more amused. By day three, he’d been mentally pacing the neighborhoods of his mind to find a serviceable gutter. The hour to himself before dinner has become somewhat of a teenage tradition revivification, but not even a teenage tradition he had. He didn’t do this suburbia thing, had to frantically jerk himself off whenever was available which too often happened to be late nights at the rink, entwining hockey even further into his psyche. Kip says he’s making up for lost time. Ilya doesn’t say anything when Scott slinks off, just gives him this innuendo-filled smirk. 

“It’s been pretty hot for me,” Kip says, like he’s admitting to something. Scott’s brow twitches and he glances at the dim facetime. 

“You hate phone sex,” Scott reminds him, and on the screen, Kip rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t hate phone sex. I hate that we have to do it all the time because I can’t be with you. Phone sex itself is not the problem.”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. He always knew retirement would be a massive improvement in his sex life; he just hadn’t expected it to be such a visceral future, something he could grab the sides of and pull in close. He wants it. But he still wants hockey. 

“No, I meant—I mean, you being there. With them. The Boys Wonder,” Kip says. 

“Oh, so it’s a title?”

“Surgeons General. Courts Martial. Boys Wonder,” Kip jokes half-heartedly, and Scott is selfish, needs that whole vibrant, beating heart, so he takes a deep breath and reaches out to Kip’s earlier statement. 

“It’s pretty hot that I’m getting annoyed to death by a subtly flamboyant Russian?” Scott asks. On the screen, Kip glances up, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“No! It’s just—Babe, they’re really hot. And like so are you. You’re all hot together.”

Scott swallows his first reaction and his second. He says, “So you’d like a calendar or something?”

“Oh my God,” Kip mutters, the slap of his hand hitting his face audible through the call. A flush starts at the tips of his ears, a red sky in the morning, and Scott is definitely taking warning. 

“Mr. Hunter,” Scott says slyly. “What exactly have you been thinking about while I’m away?”

Kip’s hand slides down from his eyes like an old hand crank car window. It settles on his mouth, and he implores Scott with those cherubic eyes. His gaze flicks to the side once. 

“Me?” Scott asks with a grin that’s only slightly cocky. He has to make sure. 

Kip rolls his eyes—of course. 

“Hollander?” 

Kip groans quietly, his hand pressing tighter over his mouth. Scott’s lips are suddenly dry. 

“Rozanov?” Scott’s hand is free, and he finds it thumbing over his soft cock without his permission. 

Kip nods, squirming the way he does when Scott gets him hard again too soon. 

“Hollander and Rozanov?” Scott jerks himself lightly between two fingers, not enough to chafe but enough to satisfy the heat building back up in his gut. 

Kip furrows his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut, and if Scott didn’t have a beat on both his hands, he’d think Kip was pushing something inside. When his eyes reopen, they’re marble-glossy and waiting, and Scott works up the courage to slowly, carefully, say—

“Me, Hollander, and Rozanov?”

“Yeah,” Kip breathes, his hand melting away from his mouth. 

“Yeah?” It feels wrong like walking into the smoothie shop the second time felt wrong, but there’s a grin across his face. “Hollander stays so fit, even in the off season.”

“They’re so fucking hot together,” Kip admits. “And you’re so fucking hot, and I am not responsible for where my brain takes that.”

“No, I think you should come here and take responsibility—” 

Scott cuts himself off with a chuckle, angling his camera down for an unflattering view of his slowly stiffening cock. 

“I’m not young like them, but you make me feel like it,” Scott drawls. He hits on young because Kip is closer to Hollander and Rozanov than he is to Scott, and Kip already likes that kind of thing in bed. Scott said a stern, offhand young man once, and Kip had dragged him into the bedroom in five seconds flat. 

“I bet you could show them a thing or two,” Kip says. 

“Think Rozanov would call me sir?”

As if summoned, a hefty knock reverberates through the door, and Scott nearly flings his phone off the bed grabbing an extra pillow to put over his lap. The nice cotton flakes a little bit of dried come off his sensitive cockhead, and Scott cringes in on himself. 

“Stop jerking off. Dinner is ready,” Ilya says, still just as much of an asshole through a half inch of plywood. 

“I’m not jerking off,” Scott lies just to be contrary, and then an extra decade of his already too-short life is chiseled away when the door pops open. 

Just a crack, big enough for Ilya to shove his pouting lips through. 

“Are you sure about that?” Ilya mumbles through his duck face. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Scott says, and he hefts his pillow at the door. Before the thing has the chance to slap the door closed and sever Ilya’s stupid fat lips, Ilya pulls back, and the door bangs shut. 

“Tell Kip I say hi,” Ilya calls through the door. 

Scott, not that much older but infinitely much wiser, says nothing in response. Instead, he digs around the haphazard topography of his sheets and finds his previously flung phone where Kip has muted himself to donkey-witch cackle.

The girl across the hall from Kip’s first apartment in grad school named it that after one too many of their dates interrupted her viola practice. 

At least he muted himself. 

“Very funny,” Scott mutters, and he watches Kip’s face start to go red from exertion. Kip waves his hand in front of the camera; once the donkey-witch cackle has come out, it takes a minute to wrap it back up. 

Scott uses that minute to find a tissue for his unfortunately sticky dick. He hadn’t managed to catch very much of his release, instead spurting a subtle Jackson Pollock across eggshell blue sheets. The tissue turns into snow against the head of his cock, and he rolls his head against the headboard. He has to actually clean off his dick now, all because Kip was so needy, already three fingers deep before the call even began.

And all at the thought of Scott shacking up with the First Husbands of Hockey. 

He takes Kip into the bathroom with him because it’s oddly comforting to share this stupid moment. The sinks are obviously designed for the general populace and not the hulking monstrosities that probably utilize the guest room the most. It’s easy to stick his thighs to the sink and gather a cold stream from the faucet to pour over his tissue-frocked cock. 

Kip takes himself off mute, but he’s still giggling a little bit. 

“You really think it’s hot?” Scott asks, manly and unflinching at the sluice of cold. His dick definitely doesn’t shrivel up to hide like a flesh-colored seal settling into its haunches, and he definitely doesn’t have to rub and tug at the foreskin to get at the stubborn white fuzz. 

Kip quiets down and regards him lazily, sort of like if a vulture could be in love. Scott was certainly roadkill when Kip found him. 

“We talked about hall passes,” Kip offers up. A liferaft or an electrified fence, and Scott, like an idiot, reaches out to confirm which. 

“Would it bother you if I added them?” Scott asks. 

“Are you?” 

Scott runs through his checklist. Tone: open and inquisitive. Face: thoughtfully neutral. Subject: not inherently insidious. Just because the question makes him feel like he’s taken off his wedding ring to go hookup gallavanting, doesn’t mean that’s how Kip means it. 

Scott gathers a breath, and he fiddles with his ring for comfort. 

“No,” he says. “But we haven’t changed our lists since we made them years ago, babe. I thought you were joking.”

“I was like half-joking. I just want you to know we can talk about this stuff. Thinking Shane and Ilya are hot is not the end of the world. Of our world,” Kip says, and then his eyes crease at the edges. “Besides, yours was pretty short.”

Well, yeah. If Gretzky happened to be bi and happened to want Scott’s ass, who could say no to that? Even the nuns would forgive him. 

“Yours was slightly longer,” Scott agrees. 

“Yeah I put the normal three names.” 

Scott still has them memorized: Justin Timberlake, Wayne Brady, and Greg Craig from high school. Scott’s never worried about Timberlake, Brady is on the other coast, but the possibility of running into Greg Craig at the supermarket is not zero… Scott’s had his feelings about it. 

He towels off his crotch and goes to tug on the clothes he was wearing post-shower, pre-Kip. 

“So if I added two names,” Scott hedges, trying to figure out how to make a mountain look like a molehill. 

“Then we’d be even,” Kip says like it's not looming above him, casting its nefarious shadow. This other desire that Scott drags behind him. 

“Okay, I’ll—if that happens,” Scott says. “I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, babe,” Kip replies gamely. “Say hi back to Ilya.”

“No.”

“Okay, then just tell me you love me.”

Scott grips the phone with both hands, squaring it to his face. It feels like stating a fact of the universe at this point. Stars are born every day, and somewhere someone laughed this morning, and—

“I love you,” Scott says. He thought after a while it would lose its meaning, just become words back and forth, but it hasn’t yet. 

“I love you too,” Kip replies with a smile that nearly stops Scott’s heart. 

…

As things often do, it starts with a glass of wine. 

…

The taste of some truly exquisite salmon is lingering in his tongue. Ilya pours him the last of their bottle of white as they migrate over to the couches. Shane on one, Scott at a ninety degree angle from him, and Ilya cleaning up their dishes in the kitchen. 

They’ve probably fucked on this couch. 

“Got any promising rooks this season?” Rookies are always a safe topic, and that’s what they used to be. 

“We got that shutdown defender from Minnesota. He’s got to work on his skating efficiency, or his time on ice is going to kill him, but otherwise, we’re pretty excited to shore up our defense,” Shane says. There’s a porcelain clank from the kitchen and the sound of water. 

“Yeah, I think everyone went defense heavy. Can’t imagine why,” Scott says. 

“Oops.” Blank-faced, Shane sips the last of the wine he’s been nursing through dinner. 

“We’ve got a new second string goaltender who’s supposed to be a shootout savant. Now, the goal would be to never get to shootouts, but…” 

Ilya appears over Scott’s shoulder, a little golden in the light from the setting sun through their massive windows. He holds out what appears to be a full glass of white wine, and on polite instinct, Scott grabs it. Ilya snatches his respectfully drained to one-thirds other glass of wine, and he winks. 

“Is no good to drink this warm,” he says like it’s enough explanation.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Scott swirls the wine and takes a much better sip, the bitter edge taken off by the coolness. 

“Um, you are joking, right?” Ilya’s face contorts like he’s in a pantomime, eyebrow nearly scaling off his forehead. “Is not possible to be drunk with wine. Very funny, though.”

Scott scoffs as Ilya disappears back into the kitchen. There’s something about this that’s so familiar. He tries not to name it when Shane leans forward, elbows on his knees, gripping his glass a little too hard. All he’ll say is, Shane should have whiskey instead. 

“It’s not like you’re going to sub him in after Carmello has played the whole game, so you, what? Got a second string based on a performance which may never show up? I guess he’s probably good at breakaways too,” Shane says, continuing their conversation. Scott shakes his head back into hockey. 

“Well, honestly, he’s a fine goalie for a second, but I think we picked him up for the social media hype. People like watching him do saves at practice, so even starting fewer games, I bet he sells jerseys.” He probably shouldn’t be saying this to an A of the hardest team in the league to beat right now, but it’s nothing that minds like Hollander and Rozanov won’t pick up in the preseason coverage. 

“If he’s good in shootouts, that means he can read the puck and the player. He just needs to learn how to see it through traffic. Run screening drills, and he’ll be poached in a couple seasons,” Shane says, and he’s right. 

“You two are so boring,” Ilya says as he waltzes back in, a can of ginger ale dangling between his forefinger and thumb. Anya trots behind him. He skirts in close to Shane and plops down, knocking their knees as they vie for manspreading space. They’re pressed ankle to shoulder in one long line like someone’s glueing them together and has left the cinch on for them to dry. Anya disappears under the coffee table. Ilya trades drinks with Shane and downs the rest of the wine in one go. 

“You spent all of dinner trying to convince us Karnilov deserved the MVP in 1965,” Shane says without missing a beat, and Ilya purses his lips. Scott’s tongue rubs against his hard palette. 

Hypothetically, he knows what Ilya’s mouth tastes like right now. Scott swallows. Sour. 

“Yes, and this was interesting conversation. Now you are just talking about work.” Ilya sticks his tongue out. 

“Well, what do you want to talk about?” 

Scott regrets asking as soon as Ilya’s tongue pivots and pokes into his cheek indecently. His gaze drags up from Scott’s regrettably open thighs at the same time his head drops sideways onto his fist. 

“Salmon,” Ilya says, rolling his tongue around the word. 

“Salmon,” Scott repeats. Ilya cocks his eyebrow and goes into it. 

As Scott sips the freshly chilled wine and listens to Ilya describe the searing technique to get the proper crispiness on salmon skin, he zones out for a minute. Shane’s thumb runs idly along the hem of Ilya’s shorts. Scott’s apartment in New York is on the Pride parade route, and before, when he was in town, he would crack open a beer and watch the colors float by all those stories below. Now, he’s gone to parades and clubs, and he owns a gay bar for fuck’s sake, but something about this makes him feel more level than he’s ever felt. Swimming in all that color.

He’s not grasping at light on the air; he knows how to do this. 

He relaxes. Just a little. 

“The skin does have a lot of good omega threes,” Shane chips in, a gentle tap on the rump of the conversation. 

“Exactly. Is very nutritious,” Ilya says, enunciating like it’s a taunt. 

“I still prefer them grilled,” Shane says. 

“Yes, Mr. Grillmaster. You are allergic to everything in the kitchen except the blender.” Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane huffs out of his nose. 

“I’m sorry. We didn’t all date a chef at a Michelin star restaurant,” Shane says, and Ilya slices his hand through the air. 

“No, we did not date. Only hooked up. And I had a better kitchen than her so she fucked me a few more times.”

Scott’s wine glass is sweating. 

“Do you two have hall passes?” He asks. 

It’s not out of nowhere. It’s relevant, somehow. It’s out of the crumbs of their argument. It’s out of the distant Pride parades none of them went to. It’s out of that filthy sludge that leaks out of the cracks in his head that aren’t supposed to be there. 

“Sure,” Ilya says with a shrug, but the hand lingering on his knee slides up to join where Shane’s has been on his thigh. 

“Doesn’t every hockey player?” Shane slides the balls of his socked feet against the floor. 

“Are we every hockey player?” Scott asks dryly, and not because of the Sauvignon Blanc parching his tongue. 

“Do you have one?” Shane counters. He really is such an annoying guy. Always blocking, swiping, not being where he’s supposed to be. Two strides ahead, and Scott better haul ass. 

“Sure.” Scott echoes Ilya’s earlier shrug by draping one arm over the back of the couch. He feels it distantly, the clang and drum of his anxiety’s marching band. He’s hidden away from it right now, but who knows which way it’s traveling. 

“Who is on it?” Ilya holds up his hand, counting down. “I have Keanu Reeves, Heidi Klum, Marie-Philip Poulin—”

“Captain Clutch?” Scott’s head cocks. “But isn’t she a lesbian?”

“I am very respectful. If she wanted—”

“That’s not even the main obstacle,” Shane interrupts with a smirk that only entered the room when Ilya did. “We did meet her at a fundraiser last year, and Ilya refused to even be on the same side of the room as her until I went and got her autograph.”

“I did not like the way her table was looking at you.”

“He said five words to her.” Shane holds up his fingers and counts them down. “‘You are good at hockey.’”

“I said true statement to a talented woman, and you laugh at me.” Ilya steals Shane’s ginger ale and pops it open, passing it back without taking a sip. 

“I was the one who got her number. We text about smoothies sometimes. She told me once about putting sweet potato in her smoothies, and it’s been a game changer for me.”

“Boring,” Ilya snaps. “Anyways, I also have Sophie Marceau and Victor Tsoi.”

“I also have Keanu Reeves, but only because Ilya was pretty convincing,” Shane says, accompanied by a loud sip of his ginger ale. He smiles at the can like he’s in a commercial or like he’s alone in the room with the can or like he wishes he was alone in the room with the can. 

Both of their eyes land on Scott, and this is the part where they’ve stopped their playful banter and remembered there’s a third in the room. 

“Wow,” Scott says, taking a mouthful of his now thankfully cool wine. “You honestly make me feel a bit like a prude.”

He wishes his wine was a bottle of beer. It would feel more manly and grounding, somehow, to wrap his lips around that long, slim neck and pull—

Jesus Christ, he’s been tracking the parade of his anxiety so closely that he didn’t even hear his arousal sneaking up on him, but it’s here now. And it has a saxophone.

“How long is your list, old man?” Ilya asks as if he hadn’t just listed half a dozen people older than Scott. 

Scott prefers not to admit it out loud and gives them an aborted substitute teacher finger wag. 

Ilya’s mouth drops open in a groan, and his head lolls back. Shane, at least, has the dignity to look understanding. He says, “Gretzky?”

“Yeah,” Scott replies and then busies himself with more wine. Maybe he is getting tipsy. 

“I thought about it, but weirdly, he reminds me of my dad,” Shane says. “I only have two. Reeves and… Andrei Vetrov.”

The name rings some rusted bell, so Scott takes a stab—“Goaltender?” 

“Yeah. I studied his style a lot when I was learning to shoot, and it’s not until recently that I fully understood the choice.” Shane jumps when Ilya grabs his thigh and shakes it, bearing his teeth in a rictus grin. 

“He is hot,” Ilya agrees, releasing Shane’s thigh. “But I am not the problem here. To spend that Hall Pass, you will have to get past Svetlana.”

“He knows Vetrov’s daughter,” Shane explains, and Scott nods accordingly. 

“She is also hot,” Ilya puts in. He smears a kiss across Shane’s cheek when Shane starts to glare. 

“Kip has three names,” Scott shares, and immediately his fingers start to itch with the urge to text him. 

“Sensible,” Ilya enunciates. “What is the word for a Hall Pass but like only if you are together and both get to fuck them?”

Like this?

“I think that’s just a threesome,” Scott says, and like he’s every nun’s fearful warning, just saying to word out loud makes him flush, makes that telltale stirring start in his gut. He glances around but feels like a throw pillow would be far too obvious. 

There’s a throw blanket, blood red and bunched into the back seam of the couch. Scott fishes it out, finding it slippery and heavier than he thought. It’s a comforting weight as he pulls it over his lap. 

“You are cold?” Ilya asks, and Scott shakes his head before remembering why he shouldn’t do that. 

“A little. The AC.” Scott waves his hand. He’s cold like lugging his equipment bag around in the hundred degree pavement heat of the city and then heading into the false winter of the rink. Sweat, holding to its evolutionary purpose. 

“You could be coming down with something,” Shane says, a little notch in his brow. “The first year we did the camps, I think I caught a dozen different things from the kids.”

“No, I’m fine—”

Ilya hums as he leverages himself off the couch. He skirts the coffee table and is suddenly there, knee bumping the cushion between Scott’s legs, hand bracing on the back of the couch, leaning in. To put his lips against Scott’s forehead. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Scott asks lowly because if he doesn’t freak out, he’s not anxious. 

Ilya hums again, moving down to press his cheek against Scott’s stubble. 

“Checking for temperature,” Ilya purrs, the words slipping past Scott’s ear, making a shiver tingle down his spine. When Scott puts his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, there’s no purchase, and it slides down to press against Ilya’s firm pec. To shove. 

“The forehead’s not very accurate, you know,” Scott says, doesn’t know why he says it. God, he doesn’t know why he says it. “I always got the under the tongue technique.”

Ilya’s upright but still has one leg between Scott’s, and he bends like a sunflower in a stiff breeze. Scott can already taste it, Ilya’s tongue, warm and wet, sliding against his as they share what the wine does to them. His lips part, just to take a sliver of a breath. 

The edge of Ilya’s mouth kicks up, and he rocks back to stand fully. He says, “Mouth is not most accurate. That is somewhere else.”

Scott’s gaze jumps to the side, and that’s a surrender, a weakness, but Ilya’s got this presence like a cloak. Like a lampshade. Something that shrouds and makes Scott open his eyes wider. He just shouldn’t look; it’s trying not to stare at his ninth grade English teacher’s tongue piercing all over again. Scott’s cock swells against his thigh, and hopefully it takes some of the blood away from his face. 

“I’m tired,” Shane cuts in. “I might be coming down with something too.”

“I am also tired. Goodnight, Scott.” Ilya turns abruptly and follows Shane out with a hustle usually reserved for line changes. Anya darts out from under the coffee table, and Scott lets his head fall back, listening to the low Russian commands and then the skitter of paws.

Their door shuts loudly. 

Scott has one fleeting moment to try and think about anything else. Hail marys or playoff stats or heating the pan with the oven before putting the salmon on it, and then the door rattles. Starts to rattle. In rhythm. 

Someone must have a hand over his mouth because that’s all Scott hears. And he listens harder. 

He doesn’t get up to check their feet under the door. 

Instead, he pops the button on his shorts and flicks open his phone. He pulls up the love of his life’s text thread. He types—

I’m adding them. 

He sends it, and he slips his other hand into his boxers. 

Chapter End Notes

Be forreal did anyone expect them to actually talk about anything. Also, the discussion of hall passes was purely for my enjoyment lmao. Fangirl Ilya is my Ilya

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The sun hasn’t quite penetrated through the linen button up hanging open over his undershirt, but he is already sweating. Scott’s a modern boy for a modern age; sue him if he’s spoiled on AC. He’s had a lawyer good enough to handle that accusation since he was seventeen. 

“It’s just a flat,” Shane says, already headed for the trunk. “You’re as bad as Ilya.”

“I am not,” Scott retorts although he’s not entirely sure what the implication is. There’s a metallic clack, and Scott drifts to the rear of the car where Shane has unearthed a secret compartment of the car that has another, smaller tire in it. He’s not sure he’s ever actually seen a spare tire before. 

“It’s only a couple miles to the house and then from there, a couple to Ilya’s tire guy. It’ll do fine riding on the spare until then,” Shane says, and he braces his knee on the bumper, grabbing the spare by the spokes. 

His ass is criminal in those workout shorts. Shane lifts the spare tire out with ease, muscles in his back rippling. Sweat has started to dapple his shoulderblades. 

“Grab the jack?” 

Scott bends over to tug at what he’s pretty sure is the carjack, but it’s stuck in the thick plastic grooves it’s been nestled in. He braces his knees on the bumper and pulls harder, sunglasses slipping down his damp nose. Awareness tingles across his skin, some sort of ingrained New York instinct to know when someone’s come up behind you while you’re in a compromising position. 

Shane’s hand brushes Scott’s lower back, off to the side. 

“That thing is really tricky. Pull straight up,” Shane advises, and he rests his forearm against the top seam of the car, pulling his sleeve taut across his bicep. 

Scott swallows hot, unsatisfying spit. 

They’re on the side of the road, and anyone could drive by with their grandma, but all Scott can think about is Shane pressing up behind him, reaching over him—

“There you go!”

The jack pops free, and Scott can see the scrapes from where this has happened before. The space is just wonky enough to cause problems. Scott can relate.

Shane scoops up a wrench that was hiding under the tire, and Scott supposes that’s all they need. 

“Can you get the jack ready while I start to unscrew the tire? Ilya’s going to be worried if we don’t beat him home.”

Ilya, who set off in the camp’s new mom van to take some of the kids home after the usual volunteer broke her finger at practice. With how long it took to clean up, Scott wouldn’t be surprised if Ilya was already at home. Waiting for them. 

“I don’t think you want me to do that,” Scott says, the jack dangling off of his fingers. Crouched next to the sad, deflated tire, Shane glances up, and Scott can pinpoint the second it occurs to him. When the mirth flashes across his face, as bright as the glint of sun off the passing hatchback. 

“You’ve never changed a tire before?” Shane asks. 

“I’ve lived in New York my whole life,” Scott snaps. Great public transportation, only two places he needed to go anyways. “I’ve never even owned a car.”

The wrench slips out of Shane’s grasp, falling to the roadside with a cinematic clang, and he gapes. He has the audacity to gape.

“I’ve never owned a car, Hollander,” Scott repeats. 

Fassler, one of his old Assistant Coaches, tried to teach him to drive once. Unfortunately, Dassault, one of his rookie buddies, had bet him two hundred dollars he wouldn’t scratch Fassler’s car, and well, Scott was kind of a shit back then. After the first parallel parking mishap, Fassler rescinded the offer.

To be clear, he does know how to drive. Now. 

“It’s a good skill anyone should know,” Shane says, and his right knee cracks when he stands. So does Scott’s, but his hurts when that happens. 

“It’s a skill I won’t ever need,” Scott replies. “I already have a husband. I don’t need to impress boys anymore.”

“You’re gunna change this tire,” Shane says, a grin that should have been Ilya’s spreading across his face. 

“I’m calling an Uber.” 

“No! This is a good chance—Scott!” Shane can’t stay in his hockey coach voice for long. He pitches off into a stern whine as Scott turns his back and rounds the car. The gravel access road that Shane pulled into drops steeply on either side into a culvert and beyond the little moat bounding the street into its own world is a great swath of greenish brown and even further, what could be the back of a Target. 

It’s a decent landscape for his betrayal. 

He makes it as far as opening the Uber app before his phone is snatched out of his hand. He still has his hand splayed, cradling nothing, thumb hovering when he looks up to find Shane skipping back and then slipping into a ready stance. It’s the same brace to his thighs, same watchful look, that makes Scott feel like he’s about to commit to another go at the boulder. Maybe that’s what they left out of Sisyphus’ story. The boulder always slipped because it’s made of ice. 

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Scott says. 

“I’m very serious about auto care,” Shane replies, and even his face is flatly serious. 

“I believe that,” Scott says. He tucks his sunglasses into his flannel pocket. He lunges. 

Dodge, block, parry. Gravel shifting under their feet, throwing up dust that tickles Scott’s nose. Shane darts and twists, and Scott’s pretty sure he fucking pirouettes at one point, all keeping Scott’s phone out of his grasping fingers. They’re an even match in strength and speed, but Shane is coyote-wily with an unsportsmanlike streak. He’s not afraid to dig his claws into Scott’s thigh as they wrestle, thrusting his weight back and keeping Scott off kilter. 

It’s fun. 

He’s laughing. 

They both are, even as they tumble into the sharp gravel, Scott’s borrowed flannel doing a lot for his elbows in the moment. He’s got his legs locked around Shane’s chest, heels digging into Shane’s lower back to keep him down enough so he won’t get better leverage, and he’s almost got the upper hand on Shane’s flailing arms, but he does get the better leverage, digging his knees in and lifting Scott like he’s—

Fuck.

His vice grip on Shane slackens in surprise when his hips lift off the gravel, and he slides down Shane’s shifting body until Shane’s thighs hit his ass, and Shane’s blocking out the heavy sunbeams. Scott blinks, stunned, on his back with Shane Hollander’s hands catching one arm at the bicep, the other at the elbow. Scott feels the bulky frame of his phone where Shane’s hand is big enough to wrap around it and still pin him down, but he can’t remember why he should care. He can’t hear anything past the roar of blood and arousal. Shane’s heavy on top of him, and as he settles, Scott can feel the soft bulge of him through their loose workout shorts. 

“Shane,” he says. Is it sternly? No, it can’t be. With the way Shane’s lips part, his eyes darting down. There’s a bead of sweat on his temple that Scott wants to lick. If he looks harder, there’s a question there, caught between Shane’s teeth. Maybe the same question that’s clumping at the back of Scott’s throat. 

“Scott,” Shane says back. He doesn’t move. He’s got Scott wrapped around him like it’s prom night, and he doesn’t move.

There aren’t other cars on the road. For now.

“Sh—ah,” Scott gasps when Shane’s phone in his pocket, shoved against the underside of Scott’s thigh, vibrates hard twice. It’s close enough that Scott can feel it in his cock, or maybe he’s been teased enough by his husband that the sensation comes from pure memory. 

“You kind of suck at wrestling." Shane’s not even breathing hard, that motherfucker. 

“You have my phone hostage,” Scott says, deniability thin as egg whites across a frying pan. “Am I supposed to suplex you?”

Shane straightens his arms, putting more pinching pressure on Scott’s and letting the summer heat in between their bellies. His fingers knead into Scott’s muscles, and someone might call it nervous, and he says, “I just didn’t think you’d go down so easy.”

“I’m not easy,” Scott lies, and it’s a lie because he apparently is. He’s half-hard in his shorts right now, and if Shane can’t feel it, all he’d have to do is look down. 

There’s some kind of barrier here, though. Scott’s found the outskirts of his mind, and he’s feeling along the thin shell for any cracks or chips he might use to wriggle out and just fucking ask what the hell they’re doing here. What Shane wants. 

“No, I guess not.” It’s hypnotizing, the way Shane’s eyes are shark-black and focused. Flatly, he says, “Okay.”

Then he moves. He lets go of Scott’s arms and sits back on his heels. Scott’s legs are still draped over his thighs, but he drops Scott’s phone onto his stomach. 

“You should learn how to change a tire,” Shane says, and Scott feels a childish thrill at the note of resignation in his tone. “But since Ilya’s already on his way to pick us up…”

“You fucker,” Scott hisses. Shane shuffles back with one of his almost-laughs, and Scott helps him go with a shove. His knees are a patchwork of indentations, of little scrapes. So is Scott’s everything, but they’re all used to some bruising now and then. 

“You know, if you protected your left side better, I wouldn’t have been able to get under your arm,” Shane says as they pad back over to the car. 

I think theyre gunna eat me, Scott texts to his beloved husband who’s no doubt balls deep in the book on Irish pagan art he said he absolutely wasn’t going to finish today. 

“I don’t accept criticism from thieves.” He stows his phone in his front pocket. 

“Do you and Kip ever—?” Shane shimmies his shoulders and bucks his arms and won’t lift his gaze off the gravel. “Me and Ilya do all the time, but you know. On ice, off ice.”

“Kip’s deceptively fit,” Scott says.

“Oh, I know.”

Scott quirks an eyebrow, and even still not looking at him, Shane catches it. 

“Ilya follows him on Instagram,” Shane admits. 

Fuck. Scott knew he should have been jealous about those gym selfies, but Kip’s profile is private, and once upon a time, he trusted Kip’s judgement for accepting friend requests. Or follows. Or whatever it is. In Scott’s opinion, the Internet has just gone downhill since MySpace. 

“We wrestle sometimes, mostly when he wants me to stop tickling him,” Scott says, wrinkling his nose at how saccharine it is. “It’s not like if I win, I top tonight, or anything.”

“Do you?” Shane hefts the spare back into the car, so very brutally casual. 

“Do I what?”

A hitch in Shane’s shoulder, and the jack is shoved back into place. 

“Top.”

Watching Shane’s face blush through the back window, Scott feels like he’s filming a bad cop show opener. It’s just funny, though, even if Scott gets it. How comfortable all the horseplay is, but then when you actually get down to it and talk about the gay stuff—

But isn’t this the blowjob machine?

It’s not like they’ve gone easy on him. 

“Ah. Looking for tips?” Scott lumbers his way to peek around the back of the car. He leans against the burning metal, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“No,” Shane says, a short laugh turning up the edges of his mouth. “Definitely don’t need those.”

“Oh, okay.” Scott flashes his palms. “Hockey and sex god Shane Hollander. Good at everything Shane Hollander.”

“No, it’s—fuck you. You didn’t answer my question,” Shane mumbles as tosses the rest of the kit haphazardly in the back and shuts it.

“I top,” Scott says. “I bottom. I fag out with the best of them.”

A laugh careens, high and broken, out of Shane’s mouth, and it makes Scott grin. Another car rushes by, ruffling the sweat-weighted hair draped across Shane’s forehead. 

“I’ve just always wondered,” Shane says, thumbs fiddling against the closed trunk. “Me and Ilya don’t do that.”

“Oh, yeah. People love to know who takes it up the—What?” He couldn’t have heard that right.

“What?”

“You don’t switch?” Scott’s tongue eases out over his bottom lip. “Ever?”

Shane brings his arms over his chest, mirroring Scott’s stance as he props his hip on the trunk. His face is an implacable cliff, the kind of practiced blankness Scott’s familiar seeing in interviews, but his cheeks are still tinged darker. 

“Not really. It’s just not that interesting to us,” Shane replies. 

“Do you fuck with the lights off too?” Scott doesn’t mean to be rude, but come on.

Is Shane Hollander really so jock brained? Scott has seen the prepared statements and the media scrums. Ilya’s anyways comfortable in front of the camera, that European allure excusing any of his odd behavior. Shane’s never been comfortable with the questions. 

“Um… Sometimes?” A skittishness breaks through Shane’s implacable defenses, but before Scott can chase it down its rabbit hole, a car pulls off into the access road next to them, purring to a stop.  

“I am not riding in the trunk,” Scott spits out because honestly. 

Hunting-season orange and glossy enough for the world to slip off of it—the kind of car that you just know is going to blow up by the end of the movie. A fucking two door BMW. It hums as it idles in a way that disconcerts Scott because it’s not the turn of machinery. That’s the whirring pulse of something that’s alive. 

Scott can’t see into the windows. He knows who’s car it is. 

“It doesn’t have a trunk,” Shane says, and the driver’s window rolls down lazily. 

“Roughhousing?” Ilya drawls, cocking an eyebrow behind his sleek sunglasses. 

“Just a little fun,” Shane answers as he strides towards the open window. He ducks down to drop a peck on Ilya’s lips; the car has almost zero clearance. One single pothole, and it’d be over. 

The image of Rozanov in his game day suit, hunched over a shitty podium at a city council meeting as he advocates for better road management doesn’t soothe the electric unease in Scott’s gut as he shadows Shane closer. They murmur something back and forth, but they’re both assholes, so it’s in Russian. Shane’s got a terrible accent, even Scott can tell, but he seems to be nyet-ing his way through the conversation. 

He ambles around the car, pretending like he’s admiring something about its aerodynamic slopes, but he just wants a better view of Shane’s sheepish pout. And admittedly, he needs to stop staring at Shane’s ass. He would never assume anyone is talking about him just because he can’t understand them, but—

Ilya wraps a hand around Shane’s nape, leaning out of the window to kiss him, open mouthed and languid. Less of a kiss, really, and more a claim. Scott’s arousal is already dry kindling from earlier, and he has to avert his eyes to stamp out the spark that threatens to burn him down. 

“Scott,” Ilya calls, and he jerks his head towards the passenger seat. Scott obliges, loping around the front at the same time Shane comes speeding around the back. 

“It’s weird,” Shane says apologetically, curling his fingers around the indent at the edge of the door. He tugs, and the car door swivels up and out like the machine has wings and will flap away, given the chance. 

The scent of leather reaches out like a siren drawing him closer, and he’s very much dumb enough to give in. The head rests reach almost to the ceiling, but he grasps it and ducks down, thumb worrying over the firm texture. Unlike most vehicles meant to convey something about the owner’s penis size, this one seems to have a back row. Maybe for all the girls the owner is supposed to use their penis on. The girls could stack up sideways like patties on a burger because there’s definitely no foot space. The passenger seat is cranked back far enough to make out with someone in the back. Anyone, really.  

“If you want me in the back, you have to put the seat down. I’m not Catwoman,” Scott says. 

“But you would look good in the suit, yes?” Ilya grins, but then he pats the passenger seat and says, “Backseat is for Anya. Sit. Talk to me before we go home.”

Shit. 

Oh, fuck.

“Fine.” Scott climbs in, cool wash of temperature control giving him a thousand peppermint kisses. That, more than any of his breathing techniques relaxes him. 

“Ilya—” Shane starts, forearms on the rim of the car as he blocks the rest of the sunlight from Scott. 

“Upbupbup,” Ilya tuts, and Shane’s mouth snaps shut. “We are talking. Shoo.”

Shane’s lips twitch, a blank irritation written across his face now that Scott has learned to read invisible ink. Ilya makes another shooing motion, and Shane pulls back. He stands, stacking his arms on top of the car. Boxing Scott in.

The low sling of his workout shorts right at eye height. 

Scott peels the stubborn Velcro of his gaze and adjusts his attention to Ilya who still has his stupid sunglasses on. Scott prefers eyewear equality when a conversation might involve dick-in-ass negotiation. 

“It is your last night in Ottawa,” Ilya starts with. Solid opener, we’ll see how it plays out for him. 

“Yes.”

And Team Hunter gives nothing away. 

“Your flight tomorrow is in the afternoon,” Ilya continues. It’s a defensive play for a guy known for his breakaways. We’re all still waiting for that explosive charge. 

“Leave by 1:30 was Shane’s advice,” Scott says. Now, he is known for his defense, but something’s off with his formations tonight. 

Ilya reaches up to take off his sunglasses, and Scott has reversed his position. He’d rather they stayed. 

Lazily, Ilya says, “I think you have more than one name on your Hall Pass list.” 

The announcer in Scott’s head goes unhelpfully silent. He’s alone in this car with Ilya Rozanov. 

“I didn’t when we talked about it,” Scott hedges. “But let’s say I do now.”

Ilya’s face goes from modelesque focus to glee turned on low heat and set to simmer. He moves with the kind of sinuous speed everyone expects out of their profession, cupping Scott’s jaw and leaning over the middle console. His thumb lands in the scruffy valley of Scott’s chin, parting Scott’s mouth for him.

“You do not have to make decision right now,” Ilya says with a cocky hitch to his mouth. “But maybe you let us convince you.”

Scott lifts his chin in a challenge, Ilya’s grip staying firm. 

Scott can safely say he’s never been kissed like this. Tongue first and with all the self-assurance of the young hothead he’s really not anymore, Ilya is downright bossy with Scott’s mouth. He takes what he wants, and it’s not suddenly Scott’s new favorite, but it is a mini-revelation. There’s very few people that have kissed him with this kind of bottomless desperation.

Underneath the powerful momentum of Ilya’s desire, that thin membrane separating Scott from his worst impulses shatters. Beak to shell, he cracks and falls through. He’s born, wet and wriggling, into a world where he’s kissed Ilya Rozanov. 

Licking his lips, Ilya pulls back, entirely too satisfied. 

“What else you got?” Scott says, and like on the ice, it’s nearly impossible to get under Ilya’s skin. He grins, somehow equally cherubic and threatening. 

“Hard to get better than my mouth,” Ilya replies, and he leans in again. Scott’s going to let this continue; his eyes flick down to the pink shine of Ilya’s lips, and then Ilya stops. 

His arm is stretched out, and Scott follows it to where he’s braced himself against Shane’s bulge. Which has grown considerably since Scott was last paying attention. 

“You like what you see?” Ilya’s words are heavier, dropping out of his mouth with less considered precision. “Maybe you want to see more?”

His hand shapes around Shane’s girth, dragging up to give Scott the rough dimensions. A muscle in Shane’s thigh twitches, and Ilya presses the pad of his thumb where the bulge tapers off. He rubs it, and like a magic trick, the fabric tints darker. Wet. 

“Maybe you want to touch?” Ilya whispers, and Scott really sympathizes with Eve right now. Maybe that’s how the snake did it. A touch isn’t so bad, right? That’s not what He said. How nice it would be to just touch the apple, to feel the glossy skin. 

The spot on Shane’s shorts spreads underneath Ilya’s thumb. Rough circles. It doesn’t look very nice. It looks really nice. 

There’s so few rules. The murder and the stealing, but those are always a given. Otherwise, everything is just ornamentation. Who gets a wafer and when do you cross yourself, but there is that one that haunts the halls of his old dormitory. The one that the younger nuns don’t have the conviction to say yet. No murder, no stealing, and definitely no cocksucking—

That’s about when God smites him anyway, right? Puts enmity between him and his husband, someone striking a head and someone striking a heel. Or maybe cursed is he among all wild animals? On his belly he shall go—oh, for sure. 

Anyway, Scott’s about to trade his blissfully domestic Eden for a taste, except he supposes this time around, he does have permission. 

Scott takes Ilya’s chin, pulling him in. Ilya meets him with a blasphemous enthusiasm, and Scott learns what Ilya’s teeth feel like from the back. He lays his hand on Shane’s thigh, carefully. He wraps his fingers around the back, squeezing the generous muscle. The passenger seat is angled away from the road. 

Shane’s knee quirks out, his hips shifting minutely. Ilya’s still drawing mean circles against the head of his cock, and Scott pushes his touch up to grope Shane’s ass.

“Shit,” Scott breathes, spit falling like spidersilk across his lip. 

“Yes.” Ilya swallows, pausing his torture to reach back and mimic Scott. “He has best ass in the whole world.”

Scott, at least, has more social graces than to argue right now, but he does know an ass all the way in NYC that has at least two hundred Instagram followers.

There’s a thunk above them, and Shane’s hips rock in the air. 

“Impatient,” Ilya mutters, voicing Scott’s exact thought. “You know he hates the beginning? Is why he loves plugs so much. He just wants to fuck hard all the time. He does not like my romance.”

Ilya pats Shane’s whole package once, harshly, and then he readjusts to knead at Shane’s balls for a moment. Sharing, if Scott had to guess. Politely, even. Scott traces a line around Shane’s hip, athleisure fabric wisping across his fingertips, and he pauses with his thumb at the edge of the wet spot. 

Shane’s hips shift minutely in Scott’s direction. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and he traces his thumb over the jut of Shane’s cock. Ilya makes a low noise and lets his hand fall, draping himself over the middle console like a cover art heroine. Carefully, his dangling fingertips brush Scott’s thigh. 

Scott slides deeper into the seat, opening up his legs for Ilya’s touch, and Shane is hot and damp through the fabric. Scott shapes his whole hand around the sizable bulge. He tries not to salivate, to give himself away as not much better than a bitch in heat. He likes them thick, though. And Shane seems ready to deliver. As he pushes the meat of his palm over Shane’s cock, he hears the first noise from outside their bubble of steel and leather oil. A moan, muffled and bitten-off. An old instinct rears its head out of the tall grass, and Scott checks his surroundings. 

“The windows are fully tinted,” Ilya says. “Trust me. We have tested.”

Scott squeezes his eyes shut like the sun’s just burst through the trees, and the afterimage is enough to burn away whatever nervousness lingers. He’s so fucking hard, and he careens headfirst into the fantasy. Parking somewhere discreet and Ilya leaning over the console to take Shane down his throat. Ilya climbing into Shane’s lap. The whole car rocking. His fingers are dipping under Shane’s waistband before he even realizes. When Scott opens his eyes again, it’s to the brilliant, shining landscape of Shane Hollander’s cock bobbing in the open air. 

And he can’t even see his face. 

The same thrill that used to live in between bass boosted Europop and glasses of sangria skitters up his spine, and it makes him stupid. Hedonistic. This time, it’s not that nobody recognizes him. It’s that these two spotted all the plumage Scott’s been trying to let grow back, and they lured him straight into a trap. 

Scott leans forward and takes Shane Hollander into his mouth. He’s not sure it qualifies as a trap if he enjoys it, but they deserve the accusation, and fuck, Shane tastes good. Scott’s gone a week without sucking cock before. Plenty of them in his life, but less of those were when he was being actively seduced. Boiled like a frog, obvious now what the steam meant. 

“Fuck, Scott,” Ilya says. “Deeper.”

A careful hand lands on the back of his head, and Scott gets it closer to Shane’s dick, jaw stretching wide as he tries to keep his teeth in check. It takes him two tries, but he’s a professional cocksucker in skillset if not in practice. He digs his nose into the soft strip of skin that he exposes as he rucks up Shane’s shirt. Now, he has quite the view, bobbing and sucking, Shane’s tan abs flexing in front of him. The sweat of the day clings to the creases in his skin, where his clothes leave their imprints, and Scott likes it. Send him to hell, but he’s always liked it. Masculine, not quite so forbidden anymore. Salty on his tongue and familiar musk spreading deep in his lungs. A breeze sputters up outside, buffeting the car and getting in through the open door. It carries the dusty scent of gravel and the desolate whimpers Shane is trying to muffle into his arms. 

Scott’s so focused on extending his senses, he lets a startled groan slip when Ilya palms his cock. It’s been so long since anyone but Kip touched him, and the guilt shouldn’t make this better, but it does. Like shifting states of matter, everything that leaks out of him turns to pleasurable fog.

The bang of a fist echoes through the car twice.  

“Do you want him to come in your mouth?” Ilya asks urgently. “Or do you want him hard for the ride home?”

What a fucking choice. 

Did Eve finish the apple?

Did she walk out of the garden, chin dripping with sweet juice, red skin caught between her teeth?

Ilya’s hand slips into Scott’s shorts, and it’s fucking hard to think like that. He knows he’s not ready for this to end, not yet. 

He pulls off of Shane’s cock. He catches his breath, convincing himself not to go right back on. Shane’s knees relax, turning into each other as he lets the car support him for a moment. 

“You are so mean, Scott,” Ilya says, and dazedly, Scott turns to catch the wicked grin. 

“No one’s blowing their load on the side of the road,” Scott says, raspy now that he’s had a cock reshaping his throat. 

Ilya blinks, and then he dog cocks his head. He says, “You are like Dr. Seuss for old people.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Their attention breaks off as Shane moves to put his pink face in the car’s doorframe. His lower lip is wet and swollen. 

“Ilya,” Shane whines—Shane Hollander whines. 

“Was not me. Today, you will be begging Mr. Hunter.” Ilya hooks a thumb at Scott’s chest and then rights himself in the driver’s seat. 

“I just—didn’t want things ending too soon,” Scott says, gaze dropping to Shane’s cock which was jutting towards him angrily. 

“Yes, the old man is going to fuck us all night long,” Ilya says sardonically. “Now, get in.”

“I thought the back was for dogs,” Scott chirps, prodding at whatever still mystifying dynamic they’ve got going on. 

“I’m not going in the back,” Shane says, and he shoves Scott’s legs apart. 

Fuck. 

Actually, he drags Scott’s right leg nearly out of the car, far enough that it doesn’t hinder him when he squeezes his bulk into the floorboard. Then he reels it back in, tucking himself between Scott’s shins. 

There’s no way they haven’t done that before. 

“Close the door,” Ilya prompts, and this time Scott swears out loud as he leans to grab the stupid fancy door. 

“Is this okay?” Scott asks as soon as the door clicks shut, and it’s just them and the purr of the engine. It’s a tight fit. Scott’s calves are completely squished. He can feel Shane’s ribcage expand as he breathes. 

“It’s great,” Shane says, gazing up at him with those big, dark eyes. He wedges his elbows next to Scott’s hips. 

Ilya puts the car in reverse, and gravel crunches underneath the tires. 

“Do not worry,” Ilya says as they transition from rock to pavement. “I will drive very carefully.”

There’s a little lurch as he picks up speed, shifting into second gear. It makes Shane’s head bob, and Scott guesses Shane takes it as some sort of sign from God, contorting and pushing his face into Scott’s lap. They both let out shuddering exhales, one trapped in layers of taut fabric and the other seeming to bounce around the tight space. Scott’s not sure he can see out of the windshield, not that he’s even trying. It’s next to impossible to pay attention to anything other than the beatific expression on Shane’s face. Scott’s been to a lot of churches, but this might be the first time he’s truly seen worship.

Shane turns his head and rasps, “Ilya.”

“He wants to suck your cock. Tell him you want this,” Ilya says, his knuckles white against the gear shift. 

Scott scrabbles along the cliff’s edge of the conversation, and he’s headed toward a freefall if he can’t wrest a bit of control back over himself. These rookies aren’t going to overtake him just because it’s a two on one. Licking his dry lips, Scott pushes his hips into Shane’s face, dragging the bulge of his cock over Shane’s pretty cheekbones. 

“I think he should tell me,” Scott manages to grit out, and Shane’s hands fist in his shirt, stretching out the cotton. 

“So mean,” Ilya croons through a smile that shows his canines. 

“Yeah, well,” Scott says, chin dropping as Shane mouths over his covered cock. “He started it.”

And Scott’s definitely going to see it through to the end.

Chapter End Notes

I just think Ilya has long anime arms okay. I’m short as fuck and I wanted Ilya to be able to reach across the car nobody @ me.

Also everyone can pull my King James bible quotes from my cold dead typing fingers. “On your belly you shall go” okayyyy 👀 haha what else 🫦

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

“Fuck, Shane, Jesus.”

Head tilted back, fingers knotted at Shane’s nape, Scott has the decency to let him bob at his own pace instead of fucking his face with wanton abandon. If he abandoned anything right now, it would definitely be wantonly. Whorishly, even. 

“This is not the way back to yours,” Scott snaps, just as Ilya shifts again, the engine growling and hurtling them forward. The momentum sends Shane to the root, throat convulsing around Scott’s cock, and when the rest of them catch up to the car’s new speed, Ilya’s hand flashes off the gear shift, catching the back of Shane’s head so he doesn’t pull off. 

“No, there is something we need before we go back,” Ilya says.

“Don’t tell me you’re out of lube,” Scott snarks, and Ilya glances away from the two lane highway long enough to smirk at him. 

“You think he would let me run out of lube?”

“Fuck!” 

Ilya finally lets Shane up, his throat retreating with a filthy squelch, and Scott’s blood is rioting in his veins. Shane drinks in gulping breaths, propping his forehead on the bottom of Scott’s ribs, so Scott can feel his weight every time his belly pushes out to breathe.

“Too fast,” Shane rasps, and Scott’s arousal tips over into panic. Did he do something—?

“I am only ten over,” Ilya says, petting Shane’s hair. “I am on the highway you like.”

“Shut up,” Shane mumbles and then shuts himself up on Scott’s cock. 

“Would not be good to get stopped right now,” Ilya purrs. “Yes, officer, this is Shane Hollander choking on cock. You are big fan? Autograph? Yes, I think we can work something out.”

And Shane moans around Scott, and ten years ago when they all met those first few times—fucking, no, Mr. Hunter, I wouldn’t in front of you—Scott might have lost it then. He’s a big boy now; he’s pretty sure, and he doesn’t come down Shane’s throat. 

“He likes this highway because it has highest speed limit,” Ilya says, the tent in shorts as obvious as it is tempting. “He likes to play a game with a blindfold. Guess how fast we are going.”

“Lemme guess. Doing other things at the same time?” Scott asks breathlessly. He’s trying not to crush Shane between his knees, but at this point, Shane would deserve it. 

“He likes to be bad,” Ilya croons, scratching his nails over Shane’s nape like trying to scruff a kitten. Shane’s arm untucks itself from Scott’s side to buck up, dislodging Ilya’s grasp and swatting him away. 

Scott would laugh, but not much other than a pathetic groan is accessible to him right now. Shane’s polishing the head of Scott’s cock with his tongue like he’s trying to get to the center of the Tootsie Pop before someone takes it away from him. 

“He likes to go fast,” Ilya says, and the car lurches forward again. Scott does check the speedometer, blinking at the numbers until they make sense. They’re cresting eighty which is usually when other people start to get nervous. He would have sworn, though, with the way his stomach flattened to his spine that they were blasting past a hundred, but Ilya’s always been one for mind games. Momentum vs speed vs velocity and all that shit he learned in sixth grade and lived on the ice. 

“Yeah, he fucking does. Shane, Jesus, let up or I’ll—uh.” Scott grabs Shane’s shoulders, meaty and flexing under his grip as Shane doubles down. He’s going to have to take down some—maybe later they can—his phone has a notes app and text to speech maybe he doesn’t even need his hands and Kip might really enjoy this—

“I remember what we need,” Ilya says brightly, and he slams on the breaks, downshifting into a full stop as he turns halfway into the other lane. Shane goes with the motion, popping off of Scott’s cock. 

A car crests the distant haze, puttering along towards them, but Ilya doesn’t move, suddenly occupied with something on his phone. 

“Ilya, there’s someone coming,” Scott says, trying to keep his voice at nagging instead of panicking, but he can’t just pick one thing out of the maelstrom. 

Especially when Shane huffs out an indignant laugh, ducking to leave sloppy, sucking kisses at the base of Scott’s dick, pressing his face into the leather to lap at Scott’s balls. The car, it’s like some minivan or something, like the kind that used to take him to the rink every day. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had a wooden racing stripe, but it’s not close enough for him to tell, but it is getting closer—

Ilya tosses his phone into the cubby in front of the gear shift, and there’s probably a more manly name for it than cubby, but Scott can’t really care. In between the next galloping heartbeats, two things happen. Ilya throws the car in reverse and loads them up like a stone in a slingshot. 

And the car’s speakers trill with the sound of a phone call. 

“Oh, motherfucker—”

“Hello?” Kip says, the distance between them amplified through what are probably ten thousand dollar speakers. 

Shane manages to suck Scott’s balls into his mouth, pumping a firm grip over his cock. Scott’s hand flies up, instinctual and ingrained. His teeth press against his palm in a silent shout. 

“Hello,” Ilya greets in his stead. “You sound busy.”

“Shawn had a server cancel on him last minute. I’m helping out for the night,” Kips says, the clink of dishware cutting into the call. Scott has a strong image spotlight behind his eyelids—Kip in his cheap polyester suit, kneeling in front of him, sputtering apologies. It’s taken a long time to unpack his sexual preferences to get to the dusty, airtight box labeled power fantasies. 

He has so much money. He’s so big and strong, good at taking hits and still swinging. He thinks about it more often than he’ll admit, even to his husband. Kip’s apologies, how Scott brushed them off. How he could have asked to go in the back, a little club soda and lemon to eliminate any stains. Hidden away from the bustle but only barely, he could have gotten Kip to his knees again. Waitstaff couldn’t afford a dry cleaning bill, could they?

“You may want to step out for a minute,” Ilya says while his devil husband squeezes the head of Scott’s cock. “Scott has a question for you.”

Scott almost lashes out to punch Ilya’s shoulder, something to get him to stop this barrelling train, but then he remembers how fast they’re going down the highway and just barely stops himself. 

“You are such a brat,” Scott hisses instead, and by Kip’s soft laugh, he can tell it wasn’t as discreet as he hoped. 

“Hi, babe,” Kip says, hot caramel oozing over a glob of ice cream. 

“Hi,” Scott replies breathlessly, and Shane takes it as a challenge to suck the rest of his vocabulary out of his dick. “Fuck!”

“You sound like you’re having a good time,” Kip says, and Scott wants to eat him. 

“They’re—fucking insane,” Scott grits out. Trees flash by like witnesses. Why is everything so fucking green here? 

“Shane? Is he—?” The sounds in the background are muted but not gone. Christ, Kip hasn’t even gone outside. They’ve never done anything like this before. Anything in public. Maybe if they go somewhere, they could have this again. 

“His fucking mouth,” Scott says. “I’m so close, babe.”

Shane lets out a whimper, hands fidgeting against Scott’s chest.

“Oh my God, was that him?” Kip’s probably getting hard right now, and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Just like he wouldn’t if he was paying Scott back. On his knees, just one more broke student who can’t pay his bills. He’ll have to calm down and work the rest of his night with Scott on his mind—

“You are not doing this right,” Ilya says, and then to Kip, “He is not doing this right. Is supposed to be asking you important questions.”

Scott’s really beyond keeping up with Ilya’s sass, and anyways, he’s right. Scott wants to hear it. Riding the knife’s edge, cock leaking down an unfamiliar throat, he wants to hear his husband say it. 

“Babe,” he rasps, muscles in his stomach flexing. “Can I—?”

It’s the same question he’s been asking all week, in one way or another. 

“Yes, fuck. Oh my God,” Kip groans.

“No specifics?” Ilya cuts in. 

He reaches over to snarl his fingers in Shane’s hair, and then he’s pushing, pulling, fucking Shane’s throat with Scott’s cock until the car is full of wet, squelching noises and Kip is swearing again over the open line. 

Ilya continues, “Is okay if we open him up for big, fat cock, and is okay if he fucks tight hole?”

“Yeah, shit,” Kip says. “I mean—I can’t repeat any of that—it’s whatever he wants. He’s pretty flexible. Just, y’know. Be safe.”

“We will wear condoms,” Ilya acquiesces. “Only one man gets his come inside Scott Hunter—” 

Scott comes right as Ilya is pulling Shane back. A little leaks out of his lips before Shane grunts and dives down, ignoring the grip that Ilya then abandons anyway. Shane tries to swallow the pulsing load, but his rhythm is off, and he ends up gagging, aborting a cough, and never pulling away. It’s the messiest thing Scott’s seen in years, tears welling up as his body fights him, cheeks turning red as he fights his body right back. 

It feels like it goes on for miles, literally, but then Ilya is downshifting, taking them off the highway. Scott is softening and sensitizing in Shane’s mouth. 

“I want pictures,” Kip blurts out, and Scott’s eyebrows shoot up. “When you’re done, I want to see.”

“You want us too?” Ilya asks. 

Scott does. 

“If you’re comfortable with that,” Kip says. “I—”

Another voice comes distantly over the line, “Girl, stop having phone sex. I need your help.”

Scott groans, and he pushes Shane off. He doesn’t go far, resting his face against Scott’s ribs. Smearing the spilled come onto Scott’s shirt. 

“Been caught. Have fun!” Kip says, and then the call ends. Scott tilts his head back, catches his breath. 

If hell is waiting for him, it’s because he lived out his heaven while on earth, and they just don’t have anything else to give him. At least, not until Kip gets there. 

“Fuck you,” Scott says perfunctorily. 

“Ah, no. You are always getting this wrong. Is fuck me,” Ilya replies. Scott pets his fingers through Shane’s hair. The guy gave a summer blowjob; it’s the least Scott can do. 

“I think you’re gunna have to wait for fucking of any kind,” Scott says. 

“Yes, old man needs, what? Two, three days to recover? He is very good,” Ilya says, eyes off the road for just a moment to glance at Shane with the same syrup-sweet reverence Scott feels on his own face every morning he gets to wake up in New York instead of whatever metropolitan backwater some multimillionaire thinks deserves an NHL sized rink. 

Shane turns towards the praise, limbs coming back online as he squirms between Scott’s thighs. Ilya rolls to an uncharacteristically full stop at a stop sign, and all that’s left is the whir of the air conditioning. The world stands still, a silent spectator. 

“Did you save some for me?” Ilya asks lowly, taking Shane by the chin. 

Shane isn’t exactly a chatterbox, so Scott hadn’t thought anything of it, how quiet he’d gotten. But then Shane nods, and he opens his mouth for them both to see the glossy pool of Scott’s come cradled on his tongue. Ilya groans, and he leans over, shoving his tongue in his husband’s mouth, hand spreading from Shane’s chin down over his throat. 

“Christ,” Scott spits out as a dull ache sparks behind his cock. Waiting suddenly seems as impossible as getting hard to those skin rags his high school teammates used to keep in the back of their lockers. 

Shane strains towards Ilya like a sapling bends to the sunlight, hand leaving Scott’s chest to tangle in Ilya’s hair as they devour each other. Ilya moans into Shane’s mouth and shifts, the car suddenly rolling forward before Ilya jolts away, pressing on the brake. 

“We are so close. Just a few more minutes,” Ilya promises, and then he puts his hands back on the wheel. 

“Have you ever—?” Scott nods towards the mouthwatering bulge in Ilya’s shorts that Shane is laser focused on as well. 

“Not while the car is moving,” Ilya says. He rolls forward again, and Scott actually does recognize the edge of their neighborhood. Ilya rubs his thumb down the quilted crease on the wheel, and he adds, “Cannot be distracted while operating beautiful machine. We have very precious cargo.”

“Have you ever?” Shane asks, and Scott blinks down at him. 

Barcelona, 2012.

“No,” Scott answers, tongue swiping behind his lower lip. 

He never goes on the same vacation twice so he can keep them all separate in his head. There are some faces, fewer names, but there’s always the sour tang of a Don Simón carton from the corner store to remind him which of his bad decisions this was. 

“Are you lying?” Ilya asks, one eyebrow kicking up that Scott pretends not to notice. 

“No,” Scott says again. 

“When.” When Ilya says it, it’s not a question in the traditional sense of a sentence, phrase, or word that invites information or response. It’s like the first part of a spell that Scott has to complete. He resists the effect. 

“It doesn’t—”

“When,” Ilya says again, and Scott drags his tongue between his teeth. 

“Technically… it was a moped.” 

There’s a stretch of absent city between the nightlife and the condo-with-view he’d rented for the week. Ridiculous giant on the back of a moped, he hadn’t thought anything of it when Celestino had drawn Scott’s hand down his pants. Looking back, maybe there were other things about that whole thing more ridiculous than Scott’s stature. 

“How the fuck do you give road head on a moped?” Shane squawks, and absently, Ilya parrots—

“Road head on a moped.” 

“It wasn’t head. It was a handy. That’s why it doesn’t count,” Scott says. 

“Did the jizz get on you or was it gone with the wind?” Ilya asks immediately. 

“And frankly, my dear, I do give a damn,” Shane adds, and Scott considers bailing out at the next stop sign, dick and all when they snicker at each other. 

“Look, I don’t remember okay? It was a long time ago, and I was probably drunk.” It got all over his hand and the moped, and then it dried really quick in the wind, and his hand was kind of itchy for the rest of the ride.

“Yes, you are so old. Is practically end of life care we are doing here,” Ilya says, and finally. 

They arrive at the house. 

“Fuck you,” Scott says half-heartedly. 

The garage door is only halfway down when Shane shoves open the car door. He launches himself out like a canned spring on the loose, and Scott follows, tucking his dick back into his shorts. Shane stumbles over a bag of driveway salt because he’s turning, cinching his fingers in Scott’s shirt, and Scott crowds him against the door, and he doesn’t have to duck down to catch Shane’s lips. Hands roaming, footsteps approaching, they wrestle again against the inside door just like Shane and Ilya barely two days ago. Scott slots his leg between Shane’s and presses against his still hard cock, earning a wild moan poured between his lips. He drinks it down, down, and another body sidles up behind him. 

“So eager,” Ilya purrs into his ear, and like the vibration of the car as it picked up speed, it rumbles through Scott, subtle but complete. 

“I should—” Shane cuts himself off, arm bent behind his back to twist the doorknob. As one body, they lurch to the side, and the edge of the door scrapes Shane’s arm, and they’re spilling into the tiled mud room. 

Ilya gropes Scott’s ass, steering them since Scott can’t find it in himself to unlatch from behind Shane’s teeth. He wants to get on his knees properly—not the drive through glory hole—but he also wants about a dozen other things, bee-buzzing around his head, searching for the sweetest nectar. 

A bark and skitter of nails breaks him from his frenzy just as they reach the bedroom’s threshold. 

“Anya,” Ilya says quietly, and she settles her rump knowingly at his feet as if he’d just given a command. 

Unfortunately, Scott can relate. 

“You can take her outside while we shower,” Shane offers. 

Ilya’s lips curl impishly, his Cupid’s bow dipping in a very lickable fashion. A shower is a good idea. It’ll give him a moment to reset, give his dick a rest. Give him a chance to—

“Only if you promise to clean very well for us,” Ilya says, reaching up to swipe his thumb across Scott’s stubble. “We do not allow dirty boys into our bed.”

Scott’s eyes flutter shut, and he breathes in quickly through his nose, gritting his teeth. Wires cross and something is lost in translation and a yes ma’am almost slips out of his mouth. 

“You still want, yes?” Ilya asks, resting his hand at the side of Scott’s neck. Scott feels its weight when he breathes in again. 

Scott shoves him away and takes a step back from their hypnotic haze. The doubt on Shane’s face is far slower than Ilya’s immediate shutter. How Ilya draws himself up to attention. 

“Go walk your dog,” Scott says, and he snags the back of his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “And then I want both of you in your clean bed, and please, no dog.”

Shane’s grin splits his face like a sunset cutting under stormclouds. Ilya tries to smother his mirth behind his pushed out lips, his raised eyebrows. 

“Bossy,” Ilya half-mouths, and Scott throws his shirt at that pout. Ilya bats it out of the air easily, eyes roaming down Scott’s chest for one sticky-hot moment, and then he snaps, getting Anya’s already undivided attention. They trot off towards the back door. 

“Don’t take too long, old man,” Shane chirps, and Scott has a much more effective reply than the last time Shane decided to show his ill-used claws. 

Scott winds around, tucking a hand against Shane’s bulge through his shorts, and he shoves, putting Shane against the wall again. 

“You are exactly like him,” Scott says as Shane’s hips buck against him. 

“Always have been,” Shane replies. An admission of guilt behind those blown out pupils, and here and now makes for a poor confessional. Maybe they’ll talk about it one day, what it was like in Scott’s fallow loneliness and what it was like in their pressure cooker, but Scott’s had about enough of talk. 

He peels himself away, Shane sagging against the wall, cock still proudly stiff behind that widening wet spot. 

“You two better not start without me,” he warns, but it’s just an escape route. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll come check on you if we hear any loud bangs.” 

Shane’s not in striking distance anymore, but Scott whips his shirt off the floor and sends it snapping into Shane’s poorly guarded chest. Shane laughs as it hits him, and then they’re both stepping into doors or around hallways. 

Scott pulls his phone out immediately, tracing a path to his guest room by muscle memory. There’s already a text waiting for him. 

Yes I’m completely sure! If you waste this opportunity with me as an excuse, I’m not going to fuck you for a month! Love you and HAVE FUN

God, he has the best husband. It’s just pure Christian prophecy that got Scott to where he is today; suffer and ye shall be rewarded. And what a fucking reward. 

So Scott strips the rest of his sweaty clothes off and lets the water wash away whatever reservations he has left. It’s certainly not the most thorough clean job he’s done before gay sex, but the shower head is detachable, and he makes do. By the time he’s done, it feels like he has a chance of going again. With the proper motivation. 

He goes to find it. 

Entering their room is probably how the Ancient Greeks felt as they scrabbled their way up the siren’s rocks. Scott’s heard the call now, though, and he’ll not be stopped. Their huffed noises and bitten off groans draw him in until he’s watching them roll across the bed like feverish animals, rutting and biting at each other. Scott drops his towel—really, what was he thinking?—and he makes it to the bed as Shane finds himself on top. 

Shane reaches back, a sixth sense for when someone is coming up on him. He snags Scott’s hair just this side of too tight and crashes their mouths together, open and filthy. He can almost still imagine the taste of himself on Shane’s tongue. 

A single, irreverent touch is drawn down his limp cock, and a wounded noise rips out of him when his cock actually responds, starting to chub up again. 

He tilts his head back, surrendering to the pressure on his scalp, gasping in an unfulfilling breath. 

“Shane,” he breathes, hands finding purchase on whatever flexing muscle they can. “Will you fuck me?”

Shane stills. 

The spit on Scott’s neck dries. 

“What?” Shane asks, and he leans far enough back that he almost falls off of Ilya. 

“I—Don’t you want to fuck me?” Scott stands awkwardly at the end of the bed, palms glued to Shane’s delts. 

Shane’s face screws up like Scott’s just suggested they all move to Buffalo, and there’s Ilya, shoulders shaking against the bed. 

“I knew this would happen,” Ilya says. Gently, he urges Shane off of him and stands to put himself at Scott’s height. 

“He said you two don’t switch,” Scott clarifies, but maybe it was presumptuous of him to think Ilya would want his man fucking anyone else. Maybe this wasn’t the sharing experience he’d hoped it would be. 

“Did you?” Ilya glances down. Shane’s cheeks are still ruddy, and he peers up at them like a dog someone’s going to put in a purse. 

“I did.” Shane licks his lips. “I guess I didn’t specify which way.”

Scott’s dick worked very hard for the blood it has right now, and his brain is sluggish to request it back. Maybe he’s old fashioned, but there’s only two ways that could go, right?

“I will make it simple,” Ilya says, grabbing Scott’s chin, forcing their gazes together. “He is very manly, yes? Loves to change tire. Loves to have his big fat cock sucked.”

Ilya tilts Scott down, and Scott watches a glossy blurt of precome push out of Shane’s cock. And it is big. Ilya refocuses him, sharp blue eyes picking him apart at the seams until he’s spilling out, a wanton mess. 

“But in here, I am daddy,” Ilya says, and it’s utterly fucked up how it make’s Scott’s cock jerk and come to full attention. 

“I’m not calling you that,” Scott mutters as the last week is getting violently recontextualized. Maybe the last ten years. 

“You can call me anything when my dick is in your ass,” Ilya replies, and he lands a sharp smack to where Scott’s thighs meet his ass. 

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says. He’s still dizzy from the tectonic plates shifting so rapidly. How did he not notice it before?

“Yes, now on the bed.” Ilya pushes him, not even very hard, but Scott’s house of cards knees crumble, and he’s flat on his back, comfortable duvet deflating around him. He hefts himself onto his elbows and drags himself back as Ilya advances, crawling over him. 

“So that means—?” Scott points dumbly towards Shane because he’s not sure he can say the words Do I get to fuck Canada’s golden ass? 

“If you are very good, he will come on your cock, no hands necessary,” Ilya says, and Shane scrubs a hand over his face. 

Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways, and who is Scott to do anything other than gleefully embrace it. 

Chapter End Notes

I did it! I’m back! I started a bunch of projects, but I swear I’ll be finishing this one.

Oh also: so sorry if “Scott completely misunderstands the dynamics” wasn’t clear to everyone before this. I just think as the one seemingly more “uncomfortable” with gay stuff, people would assume Shane is still a Guys’ Guy and is the one who tops most of the time. Whereas biphobia and slut shaming could combine into the sexy little misconception that Ilya bottoms. And also Ilya loves the assumptions bc it always flusters Shane.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

So Rozanov eats ass like it’s his last meal. Last supper, though, would probably be funnier—

“Fuck, fuck. Okay, I’m ready, Ilya. Jesus Christ,” Scott moans into Shane’s mouth. Perched on top of him so their cocks rub together in staticky, dry friction, Scott has one handful of glorious slapshot-sculpted tit and his other elbow supporting all his weight which his rotator cuff will lovingly remind him of later. 

Ilya gives Scott’s asshole a milkshake suck before popping off and saying brusquely, “Did I ask?”

“What? Is your—is your dick still booting up? Need more time til you can follow through?” Scott asks, halfway delirious with how Ilya’s hand flexes against his ass. He’s obviously about to volley back something dickish when Shane pipes up underneath him—

“It’s really the opposite.”

Scott blinks down at him, distracted by the pink shine of his kiss puffed lips. He says, “What?”

“Your mouth has better things to do than talk,” Ilya says, slapping Shane’s thigh, and Shane shifts away from it, grinning, dragging himself up against the headboard. 

“He’s always had a huge crush on you,” Shane says, and Scott’s thoughts careen through six lanes of traffic and crash into a concrete barrier. 

“Shane,” Ilya growls, a flashing yellow warning that his husband gleefully ignores. 

“He was the one who brought this arrangement up in the first place,” Shane informs him. Scott’s still tamping down his mental air bags. 

“When we were fucking twenty years old does not count,” Ilya says. 

“At our first All Stars,” Shane says, grabbing Scott’s cock where it twitches between them. “He was in the room next to you. Do you remember? He said we should invite you.”

“I was joking. Shane would not let me fuck him because even the idea of you was a cockblock,” Ilya complains, and his fingers tease Scott’s wet hole. Shane’s thumb fidgets with the head of Scott’s cock. 

Can you die of blood loss if it all just goes to your dick? Scott can barely follow their asinine sniping. 

“I wish we’d done it,” Shane says, Scott’s gaze snapping to his face. Shane gives him a tight pump, too dry, so he spits into his hand and does it again. He says, “I wish you’d heard us.”

It’s the same kind of thing Scott’s said in the past—a useless prayer, but a necessary reminder. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time. 

“Fuck,” Scott spits out. “Rozanov, you have ten fucking seconds—”

A hand curls around his throat at the same time two slippery fingers push into him. 

“You are making a lot of demands, old man. Is this how you treat your husband? Rush through sex all the time?” Ilya’s thumb massages Scott’s jawbone. 

“Do not choke me,” Scott warns, and Ilya hums, petting over the long column of his throat. 

“You are not going to die tomorrow, I think. Maybe day after, but we have time.” Ilya squeezes his jaw, leisurely pumping his fingers in and out. 

“The age thing is a sex thing too,” Shane pipes up. “He likes to be the rookie when we play captain and rookie.”

The engine in the wrecked streetcar named Scott’s desire explodes. Thick columns of smoke billow out. It’ll definitely make the news. 

“Okay, enough. Shane,” Rozanov hisses. He tries to snap with the fingers that were inside Scott, but they’re too wet, but Shane gets the memo anyways. “You do not touch him anymore. Knees, face down. You know how.”

Color high on his cheeks, Shane lets go of his limp hold on Scott’s dick, nearly elbowing him to scramble out from under them both. Christ, it’s a good thing they’re on the same team now because Scott can see it. Even through the smoke-choke haze, he can see what it used to be. Fucking foreplay. 

“Wow, rook. And that makes you Daddy?” Scott grunts, directing the question over his shoulder not as luridly as he would have liked since Ilya decides just then to push back into Scott. Three fingers. 

“No. This does.” Ilya shifts, and the heavy jut of his cock lands against Scott’s asscheek. He’s fucking big; there’s no denying. Scott’s been to Amsterdam, though. He’s seen bigger. 

Doesn’t stop him from wanting it. 

“If the Admirals got you before Boston,” Scott gasps. “Nineteen. Fresh off the boat, on my second line. You still would have been thinking about him, wouldn’t you?”

Shane muffles a noise into his arm. His off-season bicep blocks most of his face, except his dark, watchful gaze. His ass is in the air, waiting, and Scott can finally say he understands Ilya Rozanov. 

“I would have been first line,” Ilya says because understanding him doesn’t make him any less annoying. 

“Maybe on my wing,” Scott shoots back. 

Ilya hums deep, and there’s a rustle of fabric as he frisks the sheets. He says, “You would ride me very hard, I think. Captain.”

“Fuck,” Scott spits out, his cock jerking hard enough to tap his abs. Maybe he has gotten too impatient. 

Scott knows what a condom wrapper sounds like. He lets his head fall, hanging between his shoulders, lets the pleasant soundscape wash over him. Shane’s hard breaths. Ilya groaning as he adjusts the condom over his cock. The rasp of the sheets as Scott adjusts his knees. His stupid fucking hip popping. 

“No, up. Come here.” 

Ilya pushes and pulls and positions Scott until he’s straddling Shane’s legs, Ilya looming behind him. He’s the extra meat in a multinational sandwich. 

“At the—” Scott gestures drunkenly between them. He hadn’t really—the single threesome he’d ever had, he wasn’t the main focus. Really, it was more like tag teaming, so this is uncomfortably new. 

“Not yet,” Ilya whispers, crowding in close, his cock latex-hot against Scott’s ass. “I will tell you when, and then I will fuck you both.”

Shane lets out a strangled groan into the mattress, his whole body swaying as he breathes. 

“I can’t believe I thought I was gunna fuck you,” Scott says. He rolls his head back, scrapes his stubble along Ilya’s cheek, and Ilya shudders. 

Ilya catches him at the awkward angle and does his best to check Scott’s tonsils with his tongue. It’s confirmed now, what was driving Scott crazy earlier. Ilya has a freakishly long tongue. The blessings upon Shane Hollander are many. 

“I—fuck.” Scott’s stomach tightens as Ilya guides his cock over Scott’s hole. He braces himself on the broad back in front of him, fingertips digging into thick muscle. 

“I know,” Ilya murmurs. Almost tenderly, if that word could ever be applied to two hundred plus pounds of cage free ragebait. 

He presses inside. Scott’s so open, he hardly feels the stretch until he’s halfway in, hitting deeper. 

“I thought—oh—thought that I’d get to put you on your back, maybe hear you beg for it,” Scott says because if he stops talking, he might lose his grip on this mortal coil. 

The image comes so easily, with Shane right here as a guide. Broad, freckled back. Lethal Cupid’s bow red and swollen, puckered into a pout. His curls get frizzy and lopsided when he starts to sweat, but it wouldn’t matter if his hair is threaded between Scott’s fingers. He’s anything but reckless on the ice, lethal and calculated instinct, and couldn’t Scott stuff some of that out of sight? Make Rozanov pliant and needy?

“My back?” Ilya huffs. “What is, our wedding night?”

“I’d treat you right,” Scott says as Ilya sets up a rhythm. Good, deep strokes that don’t leave him overwhelmed. A considerate fucking—another word he wouldn’t have known how to stick to Ilya before this. 

“Would you have begged for me?” Ilya rasps, husky with exertion. 

No, is the immediate response. No way in hell, Rozanov, is the second consideration. 

“Guess we’ll never find out,” is what finally slinks out of Scott’s wet lips. 

It has the desired effect. Rozanov groans, weight shifting as he tosses his head back, and his thrusts come a little harder, a little more urgent. Scott’s blunt, glove-fucked nails dig into Shane’s back as the steady pleasure presses down on him. Shane lets out a breath, turning to peer up at them with one shimmering, lust-blown eye. 

“Will you beg for him?” Ilya asks, hand appearing around Scott to brace himself on Shane’s hip for a better angle, and fuck, Shane’s taking their weight so well.

“What?” Scott asks breathlessly. The soft impact of Ilya’s hips to Scott’s ass is a good distraction to how the world has gone round and glassy, like it could fit in a marble for Scott to roll around in his palm. 

“To fuck him,” Ilya says. “Ask for it.”

“Fuck.” Scott starts rocking back, meeting Ilya’s thrusts. It’s the kind of steady burn that can last all night, less than too much and more than not enough. Is he impatient?

“He’s serious,” Shane rasps, swaying with how Scott’s using him for leverage even with all his gorgeous muscles tensed. 

“Not yet,” Scott says back, and Shane groans, hands balling into fists. 

“Oh,” Ilya breathes, half-moans. “You are a mean man. Making someone so pretty wait for you.”

“You’re the one who made him fucking—fuck—”

Sue him if he likes getting fucked. Put him in sexy handcuffs and take him to sexy court, but Ilya’s good at what he does even if it’s best for everyone if he doesn’t admit that out loud. Except for the low grunts that occasionally, mortifyingly pitch into falsetto, or the way his breathing takes a funny shape. Ilya’s cock hits deep, his rhythm steady. Scott bows his head, sagging into Shane and tonguing at his sharp shoulderblades. Still, Shane stays up, stays positioned, even when the head of Scott’s cock nudges his sac. Scott could get really close like this. 

Not like Shane, though. 

Scott moans, shifting to rut against Shane’s perineum as the exact quote reads back to him from the official record—

If you are very good, he will come on your cock, no hands necessary.

No further fucking questions, your honor.

“Okay,” Scott says, lips suddenly too dry to carry the words. He smears his face along Shane’s spine, collecting the sweat between his vertebrae. 

“C’mon, Scott,” Shane huffs, and he does something, like a goddamn Kegel or something. Scott can feel where he’s draped over Shane where Shane’s sides tighten, his core, and without moving, Shane has his balls twitching against Scott’s cock. 

“Motherfucker,” Scott spits to the background chorus of Ilya laughing breathlessly. 

“He knows many good tricks. Maybe if you are good, he will show you another,” Ilya says. “And maybe if you are bad, he will show you more.”

Ilya has to break the streak to readjust their legs, and it’s so much nothing, Scott can’t stand it. So much skin, but it’s not enough, so he—

“Please,” he grits through his teeth. 

“Hm? I did not hear.” Ilya finds Scott’s hole with his thumb and guides the fat head of his cock back in. Different this time, Ilya works in and out shallowly like a boyfriend keeping his promise of just the tip. 

“Please, Rozanov,” Scott says. “I want to fuck him.”

“Nicer.” Ilya glides just a little deeper, adjusting until he’s rubbing over Scott’s prostate. There’s a prickle at the back of his neck, the kind he used to get when he was convinced someone was watching him. A guy on the street or his coach or God. He knows better now, has peeled back all those layers of tinfoil paranoia, so he knows it’s just them here in this moment, in this bed. And fuck St. Peter - the only person he’ll be recounting this for is going to get off on it. 

No camera demanding performance. 

No three act structure to take this away at a sign of weakness. 

Scott wants. So he says it. 

“Ilya,” Scott breathes. “Let me fuck him. Please let me fuck him.”

Ilya’s curse is in Russian this time as he yanks himself away, leaving Scott empty. Skimming his nose along Shane’s back, Scott has to assume it’s for a very good reason, and he’s proven correct when another condom comes out of its wrapper. Gentleman—another unfathomable word to add to Ilya’s bundle, but he spreads the condom down Scott’s cock with a kiss to the shoulder and a genteel ease. He spreads the lube with a much dirtier couple tugs. 

“Just checking you are still hard. Apparently, Viagra works for long time,” Ilya says, lining himself back up. 

What will it be? Tease or fuck?

“You think that even if I used Viagra, I’d travel with it? To here?” 

It’s tease. Ilya pushes in slowly until he’s nearly flush, and he says, “Yes, is such a surprise you come and fuck us.”

“Yeah, you probably wrecked the hotel yourselves,” Scott mutters, thumbing a glob of lube off his cock and smearing it around Shane’s rim. 

“Happy coincidence,” Shane says, eyes sparkling in the yellow lamplight. “I wanted to fuck you at the hotel. ‘S more authentic.”

“Fuck you,” Scott groans, but it’s impossible not to imagine. Shane’s golden grin, pressed into white sheets, and Ilya, prowling barefoot around the tight knit carpet. Another arm length fuck. 

“I like this,” Ilya says. It’s almost soft, until he gives Scott a dirty grind, and continues, “We can be as loud as we want. Already very useful.”

Scott prefers this too. 

He twists his wrist and gets his thumb past Shane’s rim, earning a shaky exhale. It’s an awkward angle, but Scott tucks his chin to his chest and watches the bony thickness of his thumb ease in and out. Shane’s body knows what it wants, sucking Scott in deeper until one little flex makes Shane gasp. Right on target. 

“No,” Ilya barks, grabbing Scott’s wrist, halting the movement. 

Still, Scott curls his thumb into Shane’s prostate again and says, “No?”

“No,” Ilya repeats, clipped. “He does not need to be stretched. He can take it.”

“Fuck.” Scott’s stomach clenches, bearing down on Ilya at the same time his cock jumps to hit Shane’s ass. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Ilya says, nipping at Scott’s neck. 

“Shane?”

“Mmhmm,” Shane says, tilting his hips to ride Scott’s thumb. “Ilya fucked me this morning. I’m usually still—it’s fine, the same afternoon. And I like it.”

Scott’s not waiting any longer. Ilya doesn’t make it easy, staying buried deep, but he shifts as Scott leans back and grasps his cock. Adjusts the condom. Presses against Shane’s hole. There’s always a little resistance. A schoolgirl blushing and crossing her legs. But Ilya doesn’t let him ease, bucks his hips and pops the head of Scott’s cock into his husband’s tight hole. 

“He will not break,” Ilya murmurs, this time hooking a hand around Shane’s hip and pulling him back. “Will you, Scott?”

Shane goes enthusiastically, and Scott lets out an absolutely pathetic noise when he’s taken all the way to the root. Yeah. Yeah, he’ll break. Bend. Whatever they fucking want, Christ. They’re everywhere. Deep inside and surrounding him and crawling into his brain pan to turn his skull into a pretty, empty casing for the kind of air right before a lightning strike. 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane groans. “Fuck, come on, Ilya.”

“He feels fucking good, yes?” Ilya asks, and Scott’s not sure who he’s talking about or to, but he nods anyways. Ilya shifts, and his thighs must be fucking killing him but who cares, and he slides a touch up Scott’s spine, grasping the back of his neck. He says, “You stay. Feel how nice. We will put you to work later.”

Scott doesn’t have time to spit out a weak fuck you before Ilya is bracing himself and moving. 

If Scott had to guess, he’d probably say it’s close to being a virgin and getting thrown in a volcano. And then losing said virginity to a volcano. 

Hot sweat and firm hands. Ilya fucks him like a force of nature, molten pleasure dripping from his grip on Scott, every thrust grinding them into Shane. There’s smoke for days before a real eruption, and deliriously, Scott thinks Ilya could keep this up for days, and Scott would take it. Fuck, Scott would take it. 

Ilya’s making these bestial noises, rhythmic, wounded things that Scott echoes in exhales. His stomach clenches, cock jerking, Shane sighing, hole fluttering, Ilya groaning—when he lets himself interpret it for the language it is. He’s been so fixated on letting himself have this, he’d almost forgotten to look their desire in the eye. 

A Swiss watch of a man, titanium and steel for the public to break their teeth on, and he’s here, whimpering on Scott’s cock. 

Self-proclaimed WAG of the century, everyone’s wettest dream, and he’s rutting into Scott like they’re in his wet dream. 

Power and pleasure twine in his gut, tighter, tighter, til the strands break open and fuse, and he’s just waiting until his bones succumb to the raw heat. Ilya’s cock drives over Scott’s prostate with each hectic thrust, hips jolting against Scott’s ass, Ilya’s heavy balls swinging forward off rhythm. Sweat, pungent and masculine, slicks the places where they touch which is everywhere, and Jesus fucking Christ—

Scott’s so fucking glad he’s gay. 

“Ilya,” Shane whines which, rude since Scott’s the one balls deep, but also fair. Scott can feel the indent of Ilya’s wedding ring dig into his hipbone. It’s distressingly hot. The only thing that could make it better would be Kip, hand in Ilya’s hair, cock in Scott’s face. 

“Fuck,” Scott spits, sucking in a sex-humid breath. 

“Oh, I am so selfish,” Ilya says. Mocks. “But. Was my idea so, maybe I just enjoy myself.”

“Such a brat,” Scott mutters, and he pushes off of Shane’s back, driving himself onto Ilya’s retreating cock. It takes him halfway out of Shane, but Ilya makes a noise between a growl and a laugh, and he drives forward again, regaining ground. 

The only word Scott has for it is wrestling, but MMA night brings a lot of cashflow to the bar, so maybe he shouldn’t have that association. It’s a fight, plain and simple. A struggle that makes Scott grit his teeth and then sigh, smiling breathlessly, and it feels so fucking good. Harsh but battle-blooded. Kip is in astounding shape, but even he couldn’t launch an offensive like this. 

“What is this? Does little Scotty want to come out and play with the other boys?” Ilya taunts. He has all the leverage even as Scott tries to push his leg out from under him. 

When he has an inch, Shane takes a mile, arching his back and riding whatever he can while keeping them all upright. It’s graceless, the total opposite of his knifelike execution on the ice. It’s desperate, which only makes Scott even more so. 

He’s going to come first. 

And he’s going to have to be okay with that. 

“Fuck, Ilya, I want to—” 

Ilya eases, giving Scott just a little space to rut back and forth. He bends, blanketing Scott, and says with a faux-stutter, “You want to—? To—? To play?”

Before Scott’s addled brain can parse what fucked up new shit Ilya is trying to pull, Ilya opens his mouth and bites. Scott yelps, driving himself hard into Shane, signals mixing. Ilya pulses like a dog with a bone, and then he lets up. The imprints throb. 

“Tag,” Ilya says lowly into the blushing, dented skin. 

He pulls back, grounding himself, cockhead still reliably lodged, and Scott ignores the ache in his shoulder. He snaps his hips, chasing that whiplash, that eruption. All that sin that nobody gives a shit about. Shane buries his face in the sheets, and Scott’s mouth falls open, his eyes screw shut. Dumbstruck, blind, nothing but the clench of holes and the drag of lube, and their noises. Gorgeous, guttural call and response. 

Scott comes into Canada’s Golden Ass, and he only whimpers about it a little. 

Ilya takes over as the dregs of his orgasm make him woozy, and of course he’s strong, pulling and pushing Scott’s hips. All at once, it’s too much, and Scott’s hand flies back to smack the side of Ilya’s face, sink into his hair. 

“Too sensitive,” he grits, but Ilya only slows to dirty, sensual rolls. Scott is softening in the messy condom. 

“You do not want to make him come on your cock?” Ilya asks innocently. Shane sobs, high and plaintive, his shoulders shifting as he squirms, and the hot desire that jackknifes through Scott’s belly doesn’t make him any better. 

He hesitates on his answer. He’s going to say no, fuck, no he can’t, but he hesitates. 

“Is alright.” Ilya pops out of him, guiding him gently to the side, laid out next to Shane. “I will show you how it is done, and then you will know for next time.”

Scott’s mouth fishes open, most of his vocabulary about to ooze out of the condom still on his dick. Then Ilya rips off his condom, spits on his cock, and drives into his husband. Shane tosses his head back, revealing his sheet-lined face, and Scott shimmies up next to him to watch the vacant bliss crease his forehead, drop his lips. Shane’s eyes, distant and hazy, wander down to look at Scott. His chin tilts out, and Scott meets him, mostly just resting his lips against Shane’s gasps. 

Next time. 

Fuck. 

…

Being back in New York is a relief. The dress code is easier, and he knows all the steps of the dance. With the added bonus of no dog.

Tired from his flight, two hours in bed, and two orgasms, Scott lies back in his sheets in his bed and lets his husband take what he wants. 

“And then what?” Kip breathes, riding him slow and deep. 

“And then Rozanov came like two seconds later,” Scott says, and Kip pouts like a theater kid. “I mean, he did give Shane a prostate orgasm. Then he came.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Kip moans. He increases his pace, grabbing his cock to jerk it in rhythm. Scott still hasn’t cleaned the last one off his stomach, and he’ll regret that later. 

“You saw the pictures.”

He’s not quite sure how Ilya did it, but somewhere in between fingering Scott open and fucking him according to the gospel of Nine Inch Nails, he’d managed to get a motherfucking picture of his fingers in Scott’s hole. Then later, one of Shane’s stretched out, messy hole. Then a mean one of Scott’s limp cock that was sent with the caption all used up :(( despite the fact that they went for another round. Or two. 

“Yes, I fucking did.” Kip starts to ride him harder. 

Scott’s not really sure if he’s going to come this time. Between yesterday and today, Scott’s balls are blinking on E. 

“I’m glad you had fun, babe,” Kip says offhandedly, and it’s so sweet. 

Scott rolls them; he’s had enough time on his back and needs to fuck his husband. 

“Ilya says—oh.”

“I’ve spent a week listening to him—”

“He wants a picture. Once we’re done,” Kip finishes because Scott’s never actually been successful interrupting him. 

Possessiveness springs on him like a big cat from a bush, and Scott grimaces as he works. He says through gritted teeth, “He’ll just have to get them—next time.”

“Sure,” Kip agrees with a laugh, and Scott can already see the wheels turning. While he’s on Scott’s cock, which is a little insulting. 

So Scott makes sure his husband’s not thinking about anything else. For now.

Chapter End Notes

I DID IT. IM ALIVE. AND I FINISHED IT