Chapter Text
Luca’s not unused to the impossibility of desire. He’s felt it all his life; the odds that he’d ever play hockey professionally were always framed as a pipe dream, even as it got closer and closer. The idea of being good at art—his tiny, silly dream—is something that he's still chasing after. The concept of playing on a line with either Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov was something that was utterly inconceivable until it wasn't.
But this new—or rather, not new, but crushing—want is ruining his life. It's hard not to want so ardently and desperately when the very thing he craves is everywhere he looks.
He should have known his doom was approaching as soon as he signed with Ottawa. He should have read the signs in the stars when Ilya Rozanov became his Captain. He should have known that things never go his way, not when he’s got everything to lose on the fucking line.
But nothing could have prepared him for the season when Shane Hollander joined them. Nothing could have primed him for the unspooling of such aching hunger in the pit of his stomach like watching Ilya and Shane come together game after game, a merciless storm of wins unrolling from beneath their skates. Even the losses, of which there were the fewest the Centaurs had ever had, weren't tragic; no, the team was thriving as it never had under Ilya's pre-marriage leadership, his whole body aglow with love for his husband.
But, truly, the burn of desire doesn't actually catch beyond thoughts he can somewhat shove aside, until after they win the Stanley Cup.
The night they win passes as a blur, shots pressing into his hands, laughter and joy thick enough to taste blanketing the room. He's happy, truly and wholly, delighted to be alive, full of so much goddamn cheer he thinks he might explode from the force of it.
Wyatt’s smacking kisses against everyone’s cheeks, and Bood’s wearing a crown he got from somewhere, and Luca’s lost sight of Bergie and LaPointe in the crowd as he bounces around the room, thrilled and beaming, unable to contain any of his excitement.
He's drunk, veering towards a dangerous sort of mindlessness, by the time he realizes he could stand to get some air. They’d won in game five, after nearly sweeping the San Jose Squids, and the only thing that made their near miss of a shutout worth it was the fact that they had won in Ottawa.
It makes him far more comfortable to be this drunk when he knows he's relatively home; he understands the streets, and he knows these buildings, knows these people.
The fresh air feels amazing as he stumbles over his feet, heading for the darkened alleyway next to the club. He just wants to be out of view from the street, and doesn't want to be bombarded with questions when he's just trying to take a moment.
Not that he really thinks he would be—he's basically still a rookie, according to the whole team—but still. He scored tonight, assisted Shane; he's not the face of the team, but he's still someone. He shakes his head, laughing at his own thoughts, only to groan as his stomach sloshes uncomfortably.
The world is only a little blurry as he drags his hand down the brick wall, the cool summer air a balm against his skin.
Further down the alleyway, someone mutters something, faint laughter rising on the gentle breeze, and Luca follows the vaguely familiar sounds, only to freeze as he rounds the corner, his gaze settling on his captain and his husband, entangled in a deep, filthy kiss.
He almost doesn't want to see this. He can't look away.
It feels blasphemous to see Shane undone like this, to catch the shine of spit in the dull sputtering overhead light that clings to his lips as he sloppily kisses Ilya.
He feels insane, watching as Ilya leans back to take another drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke straight into Shane's slack mouth, held firm in his other hand. He can't tear his eyes away as Shane whines, his hands restless as they slide across Ilya's back, dipping in and out of his waistband, before they ruck up the back of his shirt, dragging across bare skin.
A heat unlike anything Luca's ever felt sparks to life in the pit of his stomach.
He knows that they're attractive; hell, the whole team knows that the two hottest players in the NHL have locked each other down. Ilya never lets anyone forget how hot he finds Shane, and even Shane has dished out his own smug compliments about Ilya's attractiveness as he's become more comfortable with the team.
It's almost unfair how dazzlingly intoxicated they are with each other. If their tiny gestures day in and day out at practices and games hadn't proved that, then anyone who was unfortunate enough to room next to them on the road did.
Luca has been kept up more than once by such incredibly distracting noises next door, his cheeks hot and his eyes wide as he tries his best not to listen. He's met Young's gaze in the mornings after, and they both have shared that same dumbfounded expression of maybe we don't talk about whatever that was because it was a little too embarrassing to think about how hot under the collar it got them.
He knows he's not alone in that either: their group chat has been incredibly informative about how flexible some of their straight teammates are.
So it's no secret that they're in love and so undone for each other.
But those were all small moments, or plausibly denied through walls and closed doors; they weren't ever this—the blatant, public claiming of each other.
Luca can't stop watching Shane palm his husband's ass. He can't stop looking as Ilya crowds in against Shane, shamelessly grinding, his grin clearly smug even from behind, at the tight, faint whines leaking from Shane's throat.
He feels drunker than ever. He feels obliteratingly sober. He can't tear his gaze away, even as Shane's eyes open and meet his, his cheeks going bright pink.
His mouth dries out as Shane keeps his eyes on his, his jaw dropping wider, flashes of wet tongue in the damp caverns of their almost connected mouths. He's abruptly so hard he's dizzy, unable to look away as Shane coaxes Ilya's tongue into his mouth and sucks, the sounds loud to Luca's ears.
He should leave. He needs to go.
He's pretty sure he's forgotten how to walk.
Shane doesn't look away, even as their lips separate, something dark and heated in his gaze.
He can’t hear what Shane murmurs over the rushing in his ears, but he recognizes the smirk painted across his mouth; a smear of shark-toothed danger in the glint of his canines, the curve of his lip.
He sort of wants to drop to his knees and crawl; to beg for something he can't even name as he stares at them.
Ilya doesn't even turn and look—no, he just gestures, an impatient crook of his fingers, the cigarette still burning in between his fingers, and Luca's moving towards them on instinct, accustomed to listening to his captain without fail.
“Haasy,” he greets, as Luca stumbles over his feet and stands beside them. His head is spinning. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He can't stop staring at Shane's mouth, at the touch of Ilya's fingers against his throat. “Do you smoke?”
The question is so far from what he had expected that it takes Luca a moment to reboot his brain. Shane is watching him, his eyes dark, his mouth still curved into dark satisfaction, liquid honey soaked through.
“Uh—not during the season, Captain,” he manages, falling back on formality, feeling utterly useless. Ilya twists, ignoring the way Shane groans as he grinds against him and only smirks as he sees Luca's red-hot face.
“Is a good thing we are off-season, then, no?” he asks, but Luca can't follow the thread of conversation, his eyes drawn back to the lines of Shane's throat, the glossy tendrils of hair that dance around his face, the curl of his spit slick lips as he gasps underneath his breath as Ilya's grip on his neck tightens for a beat before it relaxes. He can't take all of Shane in, too haunted by the glint of his dark brown eyes, the long, lean lines of his body. He's as if a god has come to earth, too gorgeous for Luca to even hope to comprehend, too pretty for Luca to think he can understand. “Haasy.”
Luca snaps back to attention, his blush even darker. “I'm—I'm sorry, Captain.”
Ilya smirks, his mouth into a dangerous hedonism that even Luca can spot despite the haze in his mind, the greed in the pit of his stomach. “Haasy,” he coos, the sound dripping down Luca's spine. He can feel his cock twitch, a humiliating addition that he thinks Ilya knows about despite his eyes never slipping from his face. “Open your mouth.”
Luca drops his jaw before he even thinks about it, his tongue useless behind his teeth, drool pooling in his mouth. He locks his knees as he trembles, uncaring that it strains his muscles. He can fix that later, and they just won the Stanley Cup. Listening to his captain and standing is way more important.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Ilya grins and twists his wrist, setting the filter of his mostly smoked cigarette against his bottom lip, his fingers pressing against Luca's damp mouth. Luca's lashes flutter for a moment before he forces them open, meeting Ilya’s darkened eyes.
“Hold that, Haasy,” he orders, his lips curling into a leer Luca's only ever seen directed at Shane before—normally when he's gotten cocky and arrogant after a drink or two—when he immediately complies. “Good.”
Luca gasps around the end, inhaling a small puff and groaning when Ilya arches a brow. “Oh?”
Luca sways on his feet, unsure where to look. Ilya's face is settled into the expression he gets when he really wants to grind a win into the other team, his eyes sharp with power and brilliance, as if he's peeling Luca apart layer by layer. But Shane's no better, still tipped against the wall, his gaze heavy and hungry. He's set into artful disarray, and it's nearly more than Luca can take, as he drags his gaze over the blooming marks ringing his throat, the indents of Ilya's claim laid bare to the world.
“Haasy,” Ilya says again, and Luca snaps back to attention, meeting his eyes. “You did well tonight, shchenok,” he murmurs, as Luca's heartbeat thunders in his ears. Shane sighs against the wall, and Luca's eyes slide towards him, watching the edges of his mouth curl into something bladed and pleased.
He has no idea what the fuck is happening, but he never wants it to stop. He doesn't even know what Ilya called him; he just wants to hear it again, wants to hear Shane say it, wants to curl up at their feet and beg for attention and be good.
“I am going to give you a treat,” Ilya continues, and Luca can't help the whine he lets out, his mouth full of the ashy taste of cigarettes, smoke in his lungs. Heat singes his veins as he watches Ilya set a possessive hand over the bulge of Shane's dick, still tucked away in his sleek pants. “Be good, Haasy.”
He nods eagerly, careful to clamp the cigarette in his teeth, unwilling to find out just what being bad will bring.
“You can do it, rook,” Shane says, his voice somehow even, perfect control still laced into him. He sounds like how he does on the ice, firmly centered, unable to be distracted. “Be good for your Captain.”
Ilya's snarl of heated desire twines with the loud whimper Luca lets slip, his whole body shivering under their gazes.
He feels crazy, heat crackling up his spine, his whole body buzzing. He can't stop watching as Shane arches into Ilya's touch with a groan, his mouth parting around another soft sigh.
“The thing is,” Ilya says, conversationally, as if he doesn't have fucking Shane Hollander grinding into his touch, as if he doesn't have a hand on his—Luca's sure of it—perfect fucking cock, “you have not been subtle, Haasy.”
It takes Luca a moment to understand just what the hell Ilya's talking about, before he moans, low in his throat, humiliation sweeping across his body. It's not that he thought he had been actually subtle, but he hadn't expected this, of all places, to be where they confronted him. Not with Ilya's hand worming its way into Shane's pants, the soft blue of his briefs a flash color amongst the pale glow of his skin and the dark drape of his clothes.
“Mmm,” Ilya agrees, amusement dripping from his mouth. “It is cute, though—Shane and I agree.”
Shane's voice splinters on a groan, Luca's eyes widening at the slick noise of Ilya's fist around his cock, before he nods his head. “You're okay, Haasy,” he murmurs, heat under his tone, sloppy desire in his voice. “We're not mad.”
Luca whines, low in his throat. He wants to bury his face in his hands, wants to drop to his knees and hide his flushed cheeks against their thighs. He wants them to stop looking at him, wants them never to look away.
Ilya clicks his tongue, and Luca's eyes snap to his, trained on the rhythm of his Captain's disapproving noises.
“Keep your eyes on my hand, shchenok,” Ilya orders, and Luca's gaze drops immediately, electric covetousness simmering under his skin. His whole body jolts, teeth clamping down on the filter of the cigarette as he realizes that Shane's somehow wearing lace briefs, flashes of Ilya's hand clear with each slow stroke.
“So good,” Shane murmurs, and Luca has no idea if he's talking to him, but the words shatter against his frayed nerves, making him keen behind his clenched teeth.
He can feel drool growing under his tongue, the wet taste of paper mingling with the filmy taste of smoke. It's been burnt down to nearly nothing, the edges smouldering as it creeps closer and closer to Luca's lips, but he's—he's being good, he won't spit it out until his Captain has told him to, won't shift his eyes or move his feet until he's been unleashed from the heavy weight of their gazes.
“Haasy,” Ilya croons, as Shane moans in his grip, his hip thrusting into the tight heat of his palm. Luca can hardly imagine what it feels like, his whole body trembling at the mere thought. “Such a sweet, good boy.”
“Mmhmm,” Shane manages, and Luca's whole heart stops as Ilya drags his hand out of Shane's briefs, his fingers shining with precum. He feels like a fucking dog, locked onto a treat, everything floating put of his head as sheer want surges. He needs Ilya's fingers in his mouth so badly he's shaking. “Spit out the cigarette, shchenok,” Shane rasps, still looking completely put together to Luca's damp eyes. “Your Captain has another gift for you.”
The cigarette falls out of his mouth without a thought, his jaw unlocking around a desperate exhale. He keeps his mouth loose, doesn't so much as shift, except for the rapid shifts of his chest, his breathing stuttering with every lungful of air.
Ilya's fingers creep closer, the curve of his knuckles appearing in fragments. It feels like he's at a club, flashing lights breaking up motions into static photos. Here is Ilya's hand, steady in the air; there is the glossy sheen of Shane's precum; he's not even an arm's length away, and still, everything is slowed, broken into tiny bits as all of Luca's focus narrows in.
Ilya's damp fingers touch the edge of his mouth, and Luca stills even more somehow, every edge of him attuned to the gentle pressure of his calloused fingertips.
“Good,” someone breathes, but Luca has no idea who, all of his senses winnowing down as the tips of his fingers press against the flat of his tongue. Musky salt blooms, and it takes everything in him not to close his mouth around Ilya's fingers and suck. “You can go ahead and lick, shchenok.”
Luca’s dragging his tongue over Ilya's fingers before he realizes, soaking in the taste of Shane. He has no idea what he's done to deserve this, but he's not going to let it go to waste, even as tacky drool spills from the corners of his mouth, sliding down his skin.
Eventually, the taste tips from salt and musk into skin and heat; far more of a blend of Ilya and Shane, and he's whining for more before he can contain it, still carefully licking, his mouth cracked open, breathing shallowly around Ilya’s thick fingers. He's so hard he thinks if either of them touches him more than this, he'll fucking cum.
His eyes have slipped shut at some point, he realizes abruptly, and blinks them open, only to whimper at the sight before him.
They're kissing again, filthy and lewd, the wet sounds of their mouths meeting loud even over Luca's racing heartbeat, Shane's eyes fixed on his, as if he was just waiting for Luca to peek.
He nips Ilya's lip, and Luca sways forward, more of Ilya's fingers sliding into his mouth.
“Greedy,” Shane says, but he sounds more fond than annoyed, his mouth curled into a scythe of pleasure. Luca can't tear his eyes away; he thinks Shane should always look like this, decadent and lithe, danger in the set of his face, confidence in the shift of his body.
Ilya laughs, tilting his head toward Luca and slowly pulling his fingers out of his mouth. “He has tasted you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting back to Luca as he pants raggedly in the warm summer air. “Of course he wants more.”
Shane tilts his head, arching a brow imperiously at him, and Luca says the first thing that comes to mind.
“Thank you,” he rasps, and flushes even deeper, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he drops his gaze to the cracked concrete.
“So polite,” Ilya coos delightedly. “So cute, Haasy.”
Luca squirms, only for his attention to be caught as Ilya slides his spit-slick hand back into Shane's pants. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, staring as Shane moans at the touch.
“You gonna finish me off this time, Rozanov?” he asks, a layer of desperation soaked through his voice.
Ilya hums, his hand speeding up, and Luca wants to be touched by them both so badly he's shaking, his hands fisting into the sides of his pants so he won't touch himself or them.
“You would like that,” Ilya says, his voice shifting into a different tone, one Luca's never heard before. It sends a tremor through his body, listening to Ilya talk to Shane like this, watching the pump of his hand, the flash of his knuckles through the lace. “You want to cum in my fist, shlyukha? Watch me let Haasy lick it from my hand like a dog?”
Luca can't help the thin whimper he lets out, lifting his gaze to find Shane already watching him, his eyes dark with unbridled lust.
“I think he'd cum from the taste,” Ilya says, a tinge of mockery in his voice. He's not even looking at Luca, and still, the weight of his attention feels like a blanket of depravity, sinking into his skin. “Poor little shchenok, so pent up from watching his idols, hm?”
Shane hums, tilting his head to the side. The dull amber light hits the bruise of Ilya's mouth, set into the curve of his neck, and Luca twitches, swaying forward with so much hunger that for a second it feels as though he can't contain it.
“C'mere,” Shane says, dark intent smeared across the set of his mouth. He looks like he does when they're down three and he's somehow going to pull off a miracle; how he does when there's a nasty play that he's eager to see all the way through. Luca, like everyone on the team, knows never to argue with Shane when he looks like this: stern and unforgiving and mind-meltingly attractive.
Luca stutters into motion, drifting close enough to feel the heat from Shane's shoulder, the warmth of Ilya's arm.
“So good for your Captain,” Shane says again, the words tangling into the throbbing pool of want at Luca's core. “So good for your—fuck, Ilya—” His voice shatters into a whine, his head tilting back, and Luca wants to gnaw on his collarbones, wants to go to his knees and beg for a hand in his hair.
Please, he can imagine himself crying, syrupy humiliation at sliding through at the thought of being so vocal, so obvious with his needs, touch me, please, please, please. I'll be good, I promise, I'll be—I'll be whatever you want me to be. I can do it, I swear.
It sinks into him; the acceptance, the heat, the sheer audacity of his hunger. He's never wanted anything so badly, has never been so ravenous for another's hand. It feels like it's a seething mass inside of him, the slow mix of heat and pleasure, the tides of desire lapping at his nerves.
“Haasy,” Ilya says, gravel in his throat, shot through with liquid fervor. “Do you want a taste?” Luca nods so quickly his head spins, and Ilya grins, sharp-toothed cruelty spilling across his mouth. He looks like a fucking king, watching his prized possessions, his curls debached, his eyes bright with feverish lust. “On your knees, shchenok.”
Luca drops to the ground.
He's fairly certain his knees have split open underneath his pants, but it doesn't matter, not when Shane Hollander is peering down at him, a filthy smile on his face.
“So good for him,” he murmurs, and Luca nods, panting, unable to look away as Ilya twists his hand and a wave of pleasure crashes through Shane's face. He soaks it in, unblinking, watching as a fucking orgasm rushes through Shane, listening to the muted sound of his moans as Ilya leans in and drinks them down.
He doesn’t think he’s breathing as Ilya slides his hand out of Shane’s pants, his eyes dropping to take in the cum pooled and dripping between his knuckles. He doesn’t even wait for the order, his mouth already open, his eyes wide.
“So good, Haasy,” Ilya croons, before he slides his prize between his lips.
Luca’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his hand rising to latch onto Ilya’s wrist, desperate for more as he sucks Shane’s cum off of his fingers. The taste of it: lightly bitter and creamy, salt and Shane, floods his mouth, until it’s all he knows. He whines as Ilya presses down on his tongue, as he laves at the webbing of his fingers, scrapes his teeth carefully over the ridge of his knuckles.
Someone’s hand lands in his hair, and he can’t stop himself from twitching into it, his eyelashes fluttering open to find Shane watching him closely, a teasing grin on his face.
“C’mon, Ilya,” Shane murmurs, as Luca struggles to understand just what he’s talking about. He can’t think outside of the coiling heat in his stomach, the thrumming desire in his veins; he has the taste of Shane in his mouth, and he thinks he could die happy, soaking Ilya’s fingers just like this. “He deserves it.”
Ilya shoves his fingers deeper, and Luca swallows around them, frantic as Shane tugs at his hair. He’s so fucking close he could cry, as his eyes start to water, the wet noises of his mouth filling their tucked-away corner.
Ilya grins, and Luca wails around his knuckles as something nudges under his hard dick, before he realizes it’s Ilya’s foot, as he slides closer, his leg a line of heat as it settles in against Luca’s body.
“Go on, shchenok,” Ilya purrs, his eyes flashing with heat. “Earn your reward.”
Luca slurs a thank you around his fingers and rocks forward, sobbing at the brush against Ilya’s shin.
Waves of simmering pleasure shiver up his spine as he grinds forward, his cock heavy and leaking in his pants. Shane tugs again at his hair, and the ache of it zings up his nerves, spilling into the pool of heat crackling in his navel.
He’s never felt pleasure like this, had never known it could feel so blisteringly good.
“Feel good, puppy?” Shane murmurs, and Luca moans in response, trying his best to nod and not lose any of Ilya’s fingers from his mouth. He writhes against Ilya’s legs, chasing the golden heat as it sizzles down his limbs, buzzes in the tips of his fingers. “Oh, Haasy, you’re so gone, aren’t you?”
Luca whines again, unable to do anything but feel, all sense knocked free from his head. The heavy drag of his dick melts through him, winding in his core, and he shivers as Ilya’s other hand tangles with Shane’s in his hair.
“Haasy,” Ilya drawls, his face dark with greed as Luca glances up at him, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Be good for your Captain and cu—”
Spots of white obliterate his vision as his orgasm rushes through him, as though it had just been waiting for Ilya’s command. Heat races down his spine, the world splintering into fragments; snapshots of Shane’s dark eyes, the curve of Ilya’s smirk, the feeling of their hands, knotted together in his hair.
Ilya’s hand slides out from his mouth, and he gasps, sucking down air greedily as he slumps forward into his thigh. Someone’s hand leaves his head, and he whimpers, unable to comprehend anything that’s happening, only to be tucked into someone’s arms; Shane’s, he’s fairly certain, given the way he’s still nuzzling against Ilya’s thigh.
“You did so well, Haasy,” Shane murmurs, stroking a broad hand down his spine. “So good for us, shchenok.”
Luca sniffs, his eyes damp, the heat of his all-consuming greed receding. “Thank you,” he manages, blinking dumbly when Ilya coos a wordless encouragement at him, and Shane slowly coaxes him to his feet.
He flushes, his eyes falling on the ground as soon as he’s standing, back to being awkwardly unsure of where he stands. “Uhm. I’m—I should—I don’t want to intrude.”
Ilya snorts before groaning when Shane’s elbow lands neatly between his ribs.
“You’re not intruding, you were invited,” Shane says firmly. “And neither of us is letting you go home and spiral about this, okay?”
Luca nods, his eyes still fixed on the ground, shifting on his feet. He can’t believe this just happened. He wouldn’t—he doesn’t want to change that it did, but he’s just—he’s never been good at the ‘figuring out how to leave’ part of things, even in the few hookups he’s had. To have this be happening with Shane and Ilya is almost more than he can bear.
He’s mapping out his escape route, which really is a turn and blindly run back to the front of the club, when Ilya murmurs something in Russian, too quick for Luca to parse with his limited understanding. All he knows is that whatever his question was, Shane’s answered yes, before Ilya’s hands curl under his jaw and knock his thoughts out of his head.
“Haasy,” Ilya murmurs. “I will kiss you now, yes?”
Luca blinks at him, heat sinking into his cheeks, before he manages a wobbling nod.
Ilya smiles at him, his eyes crinkling up, fondness clear. “You are so cute, Haasy,” he says, before he dips his head down and kisses him, a gentle, easy press of his lips, the faintest nudge of his tongue, before he pulls back, smiling. “So sweet, too.”
Luca flushes even deeper, glancing over to find Shane smiling at the two of them, before he nudges Ilya out of the way. “May I kiss you, too?” Shane asks, rolling his eyes when Ilya mutters about Mr. Perfect Grammar, even as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
He nods, still somehow feeling a little shy, and tilts his head back to accept the kiss Shane presses to his mouth, only to gasp when he slides his tongue in, far filthier than Ilya’s kiss. He groans into it, dissolving back into the stirrings of warmth at the firm touch of Shane’s tongue, the slick nip of his teeth.
“That’s for being an asshole, asshole,” Shane says, as he pulls back, twisting to narrow his eyes at Ilya.
Ilya grins at him, predatory intent clear. “You will regret that later, Hollander, when I am making you cry,” he croons, reaching out to sweep a thumb across Shane’s mouth, mere inches from Luca’s. “When will you learn, sweetheart?”
Shane tuts, pulling back, and Luca blinks at him in faint surprise as he winds an arm around his waist.
“C’mon, Haasy,” he murmurs. “We’ll take you home.”
“Home, home?” Luca asks, before all his courage deserts him. “Or, your home?”
Shane grins as Ilya settles in on Luca’s other side, tossing his arm over his shoulders. “Our home, shchenok,” he murmurs, his eyes dark. “What, did you think we were done?”