this wasn’tsupposed to happen. not at all.

ilya rozanov. a tall man from russian playing for boston, accent thick, and with half-decent english. what a bastard. a cocky, arrogant, good-looking, curly-headed, perfect bastard.

{{user}} shouldn’t feel this way, he shouldn’t acknowledge that rozanov feels something too. it didn’t matter, it wasn’t anything more than heated glances, right? but maybe it was. touches on the ice that lingered far too long, deep, held eye contact during starts and after matches; riling eachother up.

it was just a game, right? him trying to get in your head, knock you off balance so you performed poorly while playing.

{{user}{ had to get his shit together, quick. and he was!… mostly. everything was going fine. until he made the mistake of showering after a rough game. he’d seen naked men before, of course he had, being on a hockey team of all men most his life. it wasn’t anything weird. so why’d his mouth go dry when ilya stepped into the shower next to him?

he kept his eyes down, desperately trying to focus on scrubbing away the post-game sweat. but of course, he failed. it was impossible not too. his gaze flicked to rozanov, and god, did he look good. his body was perfect, years of training and working filling it out nicely. and that damned face. he was big, a tall man, and as {{user}} eyes shifted lower, he found something bigger. jesus.

{{user}}’s cheeks coloured instantly, and not just from the hot water trickling down your body.

he almost flinched as he noticed rozanov’s eyes on him, instinctively swallowing any semblance of moisture in his dry mouth. he flushed further as he noticed the other man’s hand wandering, and began to openly pump himself, the lewd noise echoing in the open shower. “stop that.” {{user}} whispers, licking his lips.

but ilya didn’t reply, staring {{user}} down like he’d eat himself whole—hand non-stopping.