Boiling rage

**POV Ilya** Today’s game was unpredictable as hell. Every clash with Montreal felt like Russian roulette. You never know if it’s gonna fire or not. No amount of grueling practices could ever guarantee a win. I pressed my forehead into the stacked hands on the top locker shelf and let out a loud exhale. “Today I’m not letting them steal this victory” — the thought rang through my head like a gong. “Hollander’s gonna have to swallow it.” A crooked smirk settled on my lips. Hollander. Sweet, boring, fucking Hollander. The prude who makes my cheeks burn and my pants feel too tight. A perfectionist down to his goddamn bones — I noticed it when he folded his little briefs into a neat stack with the rest of his gear. He’s gonna be crushed when he loses. When. Not if. I turned to the team, scanned the guys, and launched into the hard, rough speech. Hockey’s a brutal sport, so this kind of motivation actually works — the boys feed off my rage. Now we’re ready. And if we’re not, I’ll light a fire under their asses after the first period. I’m the first to skate up for the face-off at center. A couple seconds later, through the clear plastic of my visor, I see Hollander’s narrowed, slightly slanted eyes. “Hope you brought tissues for your boys to cry into later?” “Afraid your team already bought them all out. They’re gonna need ’em more,” the Canadian snaps his stick against mine and presses his lips into a thin line. “Oh yeah, we’ll be wiping happy tears and joy with them when we lift the Stanley Cup, Hollander. Don’t let my guys down.” “Fuck you,” the poor guy’s nostrils actually flare. Oof, someone’s getting pissed. I don’t get to reply — the puck drops between us. Game on. We win the first draw. The guys and I aren’t skating anymore — we’re fucking flying across the ice, not letting Montreal cross center even once, keeping them out of our zone for as long as possible. The crowd is losing its mind; I can feel the scorching heat of home support. Games in Boston always charge me up, and today’s no exception. At the ten-minute mark I bury one top shelf. There it is — the taste of victory so close. I glide past their bench with my stick raised high, yelling “Da, blyat!” in Russian. In hockey, just like New Year’s — how you start the game is how you finish it. Superstition my ass, but a nice one. The rest of the game flies by. We pot two more on Montreal over the next two periods, though Hollander does manage to break through our third line and score late in the second. Apparently that lit a fire under him and his team. Third period they come out like fucking demons. Everything flips. Now we’re the ones fighting to break through their raging forwards, but they still manage to sneak two more in. Five minutes left. Face-off in our zone. And once again, number twenty-four is staring me down. The Canadian is on fire. If looks could kill, I’d already be a corpse. His cheeks are blazing red, making his freckles stand out darker; sweat runs down his temples. Without thinking I drag my tongue across my lower lip — and Hollander’s gaze snaps straight to my mouth. Fuck. That makes everything down south even tighter. Shit! “Rozanoff, not so cocky anymore? Wanna repent before the loss?” “Suck it,” the puck drops between us like it’s in slow motion, and then I hear it. “1022.” I freeze for half a second — and Montreal takes advantage. I feel a chunk of ice chip off under my blade from how hard I explode forward. The game turns into a war. Chasing the puck I slam Pike into the boards, take him out, and race after Hollander. He’s fast, but I’m more agile. Coming in from the left I knock him aside and flick a pass. Behind me comes a string of curses I rarely hear from the Canadian. When the puck’s back on my stick I catch a flash of blue jersey in my peripheral — no doubt who it belongs to. Speed feels illegally high. The passes are so quick you wonder how fans even follow the puck. But that’s later. Right now the only thing that matters is Hollander lining up for a hit — he misses as I hook the puck, slam on the brakes, spin, and roof it right between the goalie’s pads. Buzzer. 00:08 on the clock. 4–3 our lead. The arena fucking erupts — I swear the sound wave should shatter the glass; I can see it vibrating, warping the faces in the front row. Hopefully the last face-off. I don’t take it, but Hollander — even angrier now — stops opposite me. He’s nervously tapping his stick on the ice, emotions leaking everywhere. No time for more trash talk — the puck flies toward our net. Eight seconds. Hold for eight fucking seconds. Sweat stings my eyes but I don’t care — I pick off a pass meant for him, snap it deep into their zone, and immediately get crushed into the boards. Hollander. He pins me to the glass and hisses fast: “Just try not showing up.” Anticipation zaps through me again, but it doesn’t last. Lucky for me — the final buzzer sounds. Victory! *** A couple hours later I’m standing in front of room 1022. Still don’t get why a hotel room. I’ve got a house in Boston — Hollander usually comes there. What, he planning to beat the shit out of me and didn’t want to ruin the memories of hot sex at my place? Mystery. I knock. The door flies open instantly — like he was standing right behind it. Before I can even make a sound I’m yanked inside by the front of my shirt. He’s not just mad. He’s fucking furious. Eyes throwing lightning bolts — and my dick jumps in my pants. “Mmm, that eager?” “Shut the fuck up, Rozanoff,” he drags me deeper into the room and shoves me hard onto the bed. “Wanna swing? Can’t handle losing that bad?” “Not one fucking word or I actually deck you!” He slams me down, wedges a knee between my thighs, fingers clamping around my throat. “Having fun, Rozanoff? Oh, I’m about to make your night real fun.” He rips my clothes off in seconds, hooks under my thighs and shoves me up toward the headboard. “Hands up.” “Maybe suck me first?” — his palm cracks across my lips. “Cho za hu..!” I don’t finish — he stuffs my own goddamn briefs into my mouth. “I fucking warned you — shut your trap!” He grabs my wrists, produces a scarf from nowhere, ties them to the headboard bars. Wait — since when do hotel headboards even have bars? “You’ve pushed it too far, asshole. Six months of radio silence, then you act like nothing happened? Oh no, that shit doesn’t fly with me. Tonight we play by my rules. You love being on top? Let’s see why.” His words make my eyes snap wide. I yank at the knot, try to shove him off, but he just presses harder between my thighs, letting me feel exactly how hard he is. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna rape you. But I do need to make the rules crystal fucking clear — otherwise you’ll bolt. Now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve come to your place after all. At least then the whole hotel wouldn’t come running if you screamed,” he scratches his chin, thinking for a second. “Y’know, I always thought bottoming was the only thing I wanted. But then I remembered — you never fucking asked, big Russian man. And today, while you spent the whole game trying to piss me off, it hit me: you under me. Obedient. Soft. Warm.” I’m shaking — and not from fear. From how turned on I am. While he talks, Hollander keeps running his hands over my body, deliberately avoiding my cock. Not that it needs attention — it’s trapped between our stomachs and I’m bucking up, chasing more pressure. “Ohhh, so you like it. Not such a pure top after all, huh?” A smirk twists his lips. “Guess I can free your mouth then.” “Wanna untie my hands too?” I work my jaw when he finally pulls the gag out. “Oh no. Way too early. I’ve got other plans.” **POV Author** Shane shifts higher until his knees bracket Ilya’s chest. He frees his cock from his pants and slaps it against the Russian’s cheeks. “Suck.” He presses on Ilya’s chin, forcing his mouth wider. Ilya drags his tongue hard along the frenulum, dipping into the slit. The taste is bitter soap and sharp Canadian. Shane hisses air through his teeth — but he doesn’t moan, doesn’t make another sound. Just grips the back of Ilya’s head hard, burying his hand in soft curls. Nothing left for Rozanoff but to take him deeper, let the head hit the back of his throat. He lets the hand guide him, sinking down as far as the tied wrists and position allow, hollowing his cheeks, trying to give maximum pleasure. The room fills with wet sounds, the clink of Shane’s belt buckle, and Ilya’s low muffled groans. Tears glint at the corners of his eyes — which only spurs Hollander on, makes him speed up. A vein bulges on his neck from holding back, shoulders tremble, a fat drop of sweat rolls down his temple. After a few especially erratic thrusts Ilya feels the pulse in his mouth — Shane’s close — but he doesn’t let it happen. He yanks Ilya’s head back, squeezes the base hard, stopping the oncoming release: “No. Not yet.” “Come on, we’ve got the whole night!” Ilya’s protest goes unanswered. Shane takes a few seconds to calm down, then leans over the edge of the bed and digs in his bag. Seconds later lube and condoms land beside the blond. “Bend your knees. Spread them.” “Look, I get it, big bad Hollander, but I can make it up to you. Just untie me and I’ll make you feel so fucking good—” Russians don’t surrender, right? Worth a shot. Dumb move. “One more word and the briefs go back in your mouth. Bend. Spread. I’m not repeating myself.” Normally soft voice now has a growl. Ilya’s never heard him like this. He didn’t notice how Shane’s fingertips are trembling — his self-control is hanging by a thread. “Hollander—” Mistake. It happens fast. The brunet grabs Ilya’s ankles, yanks his legs up and folds him, settling on his knees between his thighs. One hand clamps Ilya’s cheeks, roughly shoves the briefs back in. Muffled protest. No matter how hard Ilya tries to close his legs — it’s useless. Shane’s spent plenty of time in the gym and on the ice; moving him takes serious effort. He squirts lube on his fingers, warms it, presses a palm to Ilya’s stomach to keep him still. Locks eyes — and without breaking contact, touches the tight ring, just stroking, spreading the slick. He wants to see the tension in those hazel eyes, the realization of what’s coming, the surrender. And strangely, he sees it — feels the emotions crackling in the air. Shane presses his middle finger in slowly, stretching, sinking into heat. More lube — second finger, deeper. A couple minutes later he curls them just right — Ilya chokes on a gasp, arches hard, throws his head back into the pillow. Chest heaves desperately, hands grip the bars. No more fighting to move his hips — all focus narrows to that spot inside delivering sharp, incomparable pleasure. Now the room echoes with Ilya’s stifled moans and Shane’s sharp inhales. When three fingers slide in easily, he pulls out, yanks off his shirt but keeps the pants on. The contrast with fully naked Rozanoff shorts his brain, sends shivers of arousal across his skin. He rolls on the condom, looms over trembling, impatient Ilya: “I want to hear you — but try not to piss me off right now.” He pulls out the soaked gag. All he gets back is a groan. He lines up, presses the head in slowly. Muscles clamp down, ripping a low growl from his throat. Forehead to forehead he hisses: “You okay?” “Yeah,” a jerky nod, shaky breath, “untie me, I wanna touch you.” Shane loosens the scarf. Ilya’s hands immediately latch onto his sweat-slick shoulders. One smooth thrust — all the way in. Ilya moans loud: “Vot zhe zh, blyat'!” “What?” “Shut up and keep going, suka!” “Hey, that’s my line!” “Hollander!” After that — no more talking. Shane moves hard, angling to hit the prostate, and eventually nails it. Wet slaps, headboard banging the wall, moans, Russian swearing. Ilya doesn’t hold back — doesn’t care if they’re heard, doesn’t care if people guess who’s in the room with the Canadian. Nothing matters. Only this. Right now. After a while Shane pulls out, flips Ilya onto his stomach before he can complain, and slides back in. When he sees Ilya reach down to touch himself, he grabs both wrists in one hand, pins them above his head, keeps pounding: “No hands. Only when I say.” “ Da ty blyat' okhuyel? Blyayaya…more, come on Hollander, harder!” Gripping the blond’s side with his other hand, Shane goes as fast as he can, nailing that spot over and over. Feeling the edge, he breathes: “Come. Now.” “Aaah, chert, Shane!” Ilya shudders violently, clamps down hard around him, spilling onto the sheets untouched. “Oh god, Ilya!” Shane slams in one last time and comes, sparks exploding through every nerve. Exhausted, he collapses onto Ilya’s sweat-soaked back, gulping air, too wrecked to roll off. “Yesli by b znal, chto ty i tak mog, davno by tebya vzbesil. Khotya ne mogu skazat', chto ya etogo ne delal ran'she.” “What’re you mumbling?” “Oh, nothing. That was hot, dude, but I can do better,” Ilya smirks. “Fuck off, Rozanoff.” The blond doesn’t reply. It hits him — in the moment of orgasm they called each other by name. That’s bad. Really bad. This is supposed to be just sex. Rivalry with benefits. Nothing more. And maybe… maybe it’s time to end it. Ilya doesn’t know Shane is thinking exactly the same thing right now. Neither of them has the guts to say it out loud. And they won’t for a long, long time.