Want - Fantasize
Title : Fantasize
Author : Russian Torque
Team/Pairing : Chicago Blackhawks - Toews/Kane
Words : 548
Overall Rating/Warning : NC-17 - m/m explicit
Pat loves the way Johnny strains when he’s working out. He pushes himself to the absolute limit and then falls straight over the precipice every time they’re in the gym and it’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen to pieces yet. He goes at it, hard, for as long as he can before peeling himself up and stumbling to the locker room.
So Pat observes him from the row machine- watching the way all the muscles in his back tense up when he’s lifting the barbells or how his ass and thighs flex when he’s doing lunges. It’s a little perverted, spying on his teammate, not to mention best friend, like this, but Pat can’t really feel guilty about it because he’s caught Johnny looking at him the same way.
Maybe it’s mutual admiration and Pat’s just looking too far into it, but he knows in his heart that what he feels for Johnny isn’t just admiration. It’s desire in its purest and most potent form.
He throws a towel over his shoulder, sparing one last look at Tazer as he goes through the door into the locker room. Johnny’s still going hard, sweating up a storm and the muffled sounds of exertion that make it past his lips are almost sexier than actually watching him. Kaner thinks he could probably get off just listening to the captain sometimes.
But Pat doesn’t stick around. He can’t. It isn’t okay to have these feelings for his team mate and it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the team to go back in there and let his compulsions get the better of him. God only knows what it would do to the team.
There’s nothing wrong with fantasizing though, and Pat takes full advantage of having the locker room all to himself. When he gets into the shower, he’s already pretending that Tazer’s slipping in behind him. He tries to imagine how it would feel to have those strong hands running up his sides- Pat knows the touch would be gentle because the only time Johnny’s really rough is on the ice.
Pat can almost feel Johnny’s chest pressed against his back, lips on his neck and he lets his hand stray down to the growing hardness between his legs.
It’s with some measure of guilt that he touches himself, partly because he knows Johnny could walk in at any moment, but also because Pat wouldn’t really care if he did. He actually finds himself hoping that Johnny does walk in and the very thought of it makes Johnny’s name spill out from between his lips with a moan.
Seconds turn into minutes and Pat’s bracing himself against the wall with one hand, his breath coming in staggered pants from the effort of keeping his voice down. He works himself faster, his strokes actually becoming rough as he gets closer to climax and when he’s finally coming, it’s with a low whine in the back of his throat.
“Fuck, Johnny-” Pat grits out, his forehead coming to rest against the cool tiles. He opens his eyes just in time to see the white viscousness being washed away by the steady rain of water until every bit of evidence is gone.
Every bit, except for the hollow throbbing in his chest.
+ + + +
Author : Russian Torque
Team/Pairing : Chicago Blackhawks - Toews/Kane
Words : 548
Overall Rating/Warning : NC-17 - m/m explicit
Pat loves the way Johnny strains when he’s working out. He pushes himself to the absolute limit and then falls straight over the precipice every time they’re in the gym and it’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen to pieces yet. He goes at it, hard, for as long as he can before peeling himself up and stumbling to the locker room.
So Pat observes him from the row machine- watching the way all the muscles in his back tense up when he’s lifting the barbells or how his ass and thighs flex when he’s doing lunges. It’s a little perverted, spying on his teammate, not to mention best friend, like this, but Pat can’t really feel guilty about it because he’s caught Johnny looking at him the same way.
Maybe it’s mutual admiration and Pat’s just looking too far into it, but he knows in his heart that what he feels for Johnny isn’t just admiration. It’s desire in its purest and most potent form.
He throws a towel over his shoulder, sparing one last look at Tazer as he goes through the door into the locker room. Johnny’s still going hard, sweating up a storm and the muffled sounds of exertion that make it past his lips are almost sexier than actually watching him. Kaner thinks he could probably get off just listening to the captain sometimes.
But Pat doesn’t stick around. He can’t. It isn’t okay to have these feelings for his team mate and it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the team to go back in there and let his compulsions get the better of him. God only knows what it would do to the team.
There’s nothing wrong with fantasizing though, and Pat takes full advantage of having the locker room all to himself. When he gets into the shower, he’s already pretending that Tazer’s slipping in behind him. He tries to imagine how it would feel to have those strong hands running up his sides- Pat knows the touch would be gentle because the only time Johnny’s really rough is on the ice.
Pat can almost feel Johnny’s chest pressed against his back, lips on his neck and he lets his hand stray down to the growing hardness between his legs.
It’s with some measure of guilt that he touches himself, partly because he knows Johnny could walk in at any moment, but also because Pat wouldn’t really care if he did. He actually finds himself hoping that Johnny does walk in and the very thought of it makes Johnny’s name spill out from between his lips with a moan.
Seconds turn into minutes and Pat’s bracing himself against the wall with one hand, his breath coming in staggered pants from the effort of keeping his voice down. He works himself faster, his strokes actually becoming rough as he gets closer to climax and when he’s finally coming, it’s with a low whine in the back of his throat.
“Fuck, Johnny-” Pat grits out, his forehead coming to rest against the cool tiles. He opens his eyes just in time to see the white viscousness being washed away by the steady rain of water until every bit of evidence is gone.
Every bit, except for the hollow throbbing in his chest.
+ + + +