heated rivalry: explicit collection
-
“Fuck yourself,” Ilya said without shame. “With me. Right here. Right now.” He pulled back just enough to look Shane in the eye. The suggestion was so blunt, so depraved. They were in a public facility, for fuck's sake. They could get caught. “I can’t,” Shane whispered, the denial tasting like shit in his mouth. He felt his own cock stirring, thickening against his thigh, and he winced. “You can,” Ilya insisted. He leaned against the tiled wall, one hand moving down his own body. “Look at me, Hollander. Watch.” All Shane Hollander wanted was to shower off the stink of a loss. He didn't expect Ilya Rozanov to join him, let alone to call him out on the hard on he'd been trying to ignore. "Fuck yourself," Rozanov dares him. And, God help him, Shane does. Shane Hollander kicked off the ice, chest tight, legs burning. The game was over, and they’d lost--again. He’d left everything out there, and it still wasn’t enough. The locker room door slammed open. He needed the shower, get the smell of his gear off of him. He peeled off his jersey, tugging it over his head, and felt the fabric cling to his skin from sweat. The thing he hated most about hockey was how disgusting you felt afterwards. Relief came as he stripped the rest of his gear. Socks, skates, his cup, and he immediately felt better. He moved toward the row of showers at the back, looking over his shoulder the locker seemed to be empty, and he was grateful for it. He stepped under the first head, flicking the lever and letting hot water hiss to life. The sudden spray hit him, shoulders first, then back, chest, arms. He tilted his head under the pounding stream, closing his eyes. The heat pressed against his skin, loosening the tight coil in his muscles, but the frustration stayed. “Still brooding, Captain?” Hollander kept his eyes closed, face up into the spray, letting the hot water fan down over him. “Go away, Rozanov,” he said. Rozanov’s laugh came. “Is that how you speak to me after a hard loss? We should be bonding,” he said, and Shane could hear the other shower turning on somewhere across the room. “Sharing our pain, no?.” Shane’s jaw clenched beneath the water. There was nothing he wanted to share--not with Rozanov. The memory of the final shot hit him again, the puck teasing the edge of the net, his blade missing it. He’d fanned on the shot, left the game on the ice, and no amount of ice baths or post game analysis would fix it. Nor would being harassed in the shower by Rozanov. “There’s nothing to share,” he said, the sound almost swallowed by the hiss of water. He wanted the isolation. And sharing it with Rozanov... felt like opening the wound and inviting someone else to poke at it. The water beat down on his shoulders, tracing the lines his bruises and Shane let himself sink into it. He didn’t need Rozanov’s commentary to make the bitter pill of failure any harder to swallow. He had enough voices in his own head for that. “I disagree,” Ilya’s voice was closer now, right behind him. Shane could feel the heat from his body, a separate warmth from the steam. “I see much pain. In your shoulders. In your jaw... In your cock.” A finger, warm and calloused, traced the line of Shane’s clenched jaw. “Is bad for you to hold so much... tension.” Shane flinched away, turning finally to glare at him. “Don’t touch me.” But his protest felt weak, even to him. Ilya stood there, completely unashamed, water sliding down his broad chest and over the hard muscle of his stomach. “Why not?” Ilya asked, his head tilted. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” He took a step closer, invading Shane’s space. Shane’s breath hitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, his voice rough. Ilya’s smile was slow, knowing. “Yes, you do.” He let his gaze drop, pointedly, to Shane’s cock. “See? Your body knows. It is honest.” “Fuck you,” Shane breathed, but there was no venom in it. “Maybe later,” Ilya said, his voice a low purr. “For now, there is simpler way to… release tension.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Shane’s ear. Hollander’s heart hammered against his ribs. “What?” “Fuck yourself,” Ilya said without shame. “With me. Right here. Right now.” He pulled back just enough to look Shane in the eye. The suggestion was so blunt, so depraved. They were in a public facility, for fuck's sake. They could get caught. “I can’t,” Shane whispered, the denial tasting like shit in his mouth. He felt his own cock stirring, thickening against his thigh, and he winced. “You can,” Ilya insisted. He leaned against the tiled wall, one hand moving down his own body, slow and deliberate. “Look at me, Hollander. Watch.” His eyes never left Shane’s as his fingers wrapped around his own cock, already thick and hard. He gave a slow, lazy stroke, his breath catching slightly. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”
- Part 4 of heated rivalry: explicit collection
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,293
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75201741
-
Ilya is fairly certain that you don’t accidentally walk in on your roommate half naked this often. Shane, for his part, seems completely uninterested in correcting that assumption. The semester has only just started and Rozanov has lost count of how many times hes walked in on Hollander getting dressed in their dorm room. Its becoming a bit of a problem. "Stop making this habit, Hollander," he groans and raises his hand to his eyes. But he allows himself a small gap between his fingers to get a look without his roommate noticing. Across the room, Hollander stands in a white towel and is frantically pushing clothes around on his bed to presumably find something to wear. He shifts and leans awkwardly, his towel opening to reveal a long stretch of muscled leg and the curve of Hollanders ass. "I swear, Im not," he says defensively. "You just have terrible timing." "Change in washroom. Like others," Rozanov mumbles. And he peeks again despite himself but immediately regrets it and snaps his fingers closed when he catches a quick glimpse of the dark hair between Hollander's thighs and the length of his soft cock. Feeling like being an asshole, and also maybe hoping to see more, Rozanov drops his hand and gives Hollander a once over. Hes blushing now and piling a shirt and pair of trousers into his arms. "You could just knock, like a normal person." "Is my room too, Hollander," he says, temper rising at the notion. "I know that, but still. Ease up, eh?" "Easel up, eh?" Rozanov mocks his accent back and makes his way over to his side of the room. Hollander just huffs and with a final survey of his bed, he finds a white pair of socks and makes a beeline for their shared washroom. "I'm going to get dressed in the washroom, now." “Good job, Hollander,” Rozanov calls after him. “Here is gold star for you.” When the sound of water starts in the bathroom, probably Hollander brushing his teeth or shaving his non existent facial hair, Ilya takes off his own hoodie. His fingers dig into the dark green material and he pulls it over his head and tosses it down onto the floor beside his bed. Next he tugs off his shirt, a simple t-shirt, white and featuring a Canadian band he liked as a kid, Billy Talent. Something he listened to a lot on his walkman, enjoying the way the English rolled around in his mind. He rubs his rough hands down the center of his torso, up and down the planes of skin and then he thinks... Maybe, perhaps, Hollander could do with a taste of his own medicine. Rozanov would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t imagined it before. Hollander flustered and pink, probably caught off guard. Hollander looking at him like that. The sight of him in a towel alone is enough to wind something tight and aching in Rozanov’s gut. If Hollander pushed--if he teased-- Preferably beneath him. The bathroom door opens. Hollander steps back into the room, fully dressed now, hair neatly combed. He stops short when he sees Rozanov shirtless on his bed. “Why are you undressed?” Hollander asks. “You just gave me shit about that. Like, two minutes ago.” He smells like mint and coconut and Rozanov hates that he knows that. Rozanov pulls his hand from his abdomen which has by now trailed far lower than he intended, "Is nothing. Leave me alone, Hollander." Brown eyes fall to where Ilyas hips sit in his jeans and he catches onto Hollanders eyes to let him know hes been caught. "Okay," is all he says, and settles into his bed. The next evening, Rozanov waits in their room. He knows that Hollander is supposed to be back from an extra hockey practise shortly. And he also knows that he'll be filled with adrenaline, his hair and skin damp with sweat. Thinking about it has him half hard in his trousers already. Eagerly, he shimmies out of them until theyre pooled around his ankles and he unbuttons his shirt with trembling fingers. The shirt finds its way to the floor. In only his white boxers and socks, he sits up on the edge of his bed. From his nightstand, he takes out a magazine he keeps burried under a pile of nonsense school work.
- Part 7 of heated rivalry: explicit collection
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,589
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #76965581