When P.K. had dreamed of the Olympics as a kid, he pictured staying in fancy hotels and practically living in luxury. Nothing could have prepared him for Sochi, he thinks, as he stares at the tiny room situated next to their beds.
“Is that...” He feels Carey come up behind him, resting his chin on P.K.’s shoulder, “Your shower?”
The entire bathroom’s a shower, toilet and all, and hastily tiled. An picture of the Kremlin hangs directly across them, as if to remind P.K., you’re in Russia now, kid.
P.K.’s come to expect a certain standard of luxury, being a NHL player in Montreal. But there’s something kind of awesome about this shower and he’s looking forward to testing it out.
He reaches into his pocket to check his phone--his roommates are off watching Women’s Half-Pipe, so he has the place to himself for at least another couple of hours. Carey’s silent behind him, and P.K. lets himself lean back a bit, settling against Carey’s chest and tilting his head a bit to brush his lips against the clean, white expanse of his neck.
“Mmm,” he replies, “Wanna test it out?”
He feels, against his lips, Carey swallow, his hands coming around to rest against the hard lines of his abdomen. They do this sometimes, when the mood’s right. Plus, whoever was in charge of the Olympic committee had tossed, like, two hundred condoms at them as they got off the bus. Plus, fuck Putin.
He strips at the doorway, still against Carey’s front, feeling the other guy harden against the small of his back. He helps Carey out of his team jersey, watching the pool of red fabric grow bigger at their feet. Escorting them into the bathroom, he admires the contrast their skin colors make against each other, reflected in the mirror above the sink. Carey, as usual, has that slightly dazed, okay-I’m-game-for-this look he usually gets when P.K. takes the reins, and P.K. takes full advantage, pushing Carey into the corner of their tiled room before turning on the shower.
It comes out freezing cold, and they both jump, shrieking. The mechanism looks nothing like what he’s used to, and hopping up and down whilst shivering, he adjusts the dial until the warm turns warm, then hot.
Carey laughs behind him, in relief, and he looks so good like this, easy and loose and grinning. Sharing the starting job agrees with him, takes the pressure of him a bit, which P.K. likes to see. He steps up to his goalie, watching the grin fade into something anticipatory. Usually, they like to kiss a bit. P.K. is a master at the making out, but he feels hungrier right now. He’s worked hard his whole life, his career had taken off, and he’d won the Norris. Yet, still, there had been debate; still, there had been the question of his attendance at these games. But he’s here, and he’s going to rock the Olympics, starting with Carey’s dick.
He gives Carey a look he knows is sure and smug. Carey leans in, expecting the press of mouths, but P.K. smoothly gets to his knees, nuzzling into Carey’s groin.
Carey groans, softly, and P.K. takes his time, laving his cock with his tongue, getting it wet, wetter than the shower’s making it. He kisses the ridge of it, right underneath the head, and flicks his tongue into the slit. Carey hisses and P.K. allows himself to feel awesome, cause this is awesome, before taking it into his mouth.
It’s a point of pride and amusement between them that he can go all the way to the root, letting the weight of the cock rest against his tongue. It takes clean and heady, and P.K. loves it, loves the way he needs to grasp onto Carey’s hips to control his movements, using his hard-earned strength to pin the man against the wall.
He sucks slowly, drawing Carey’s cock in and out in what he knows to be a maddening rhythm. Contrary to what people may think, he’s never been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of lover--he prefers it slow and deep. Carey, with his easy-going attitude and quiet smiles, does it for him like nothing else. Feeling a hand on his head, massaging his scalp without pushing, P.K. adjusts his grip on Carey’s hips to let him thrust a little bit, taking him deeper. Carey’s tiny groans, the way his head tilts back, eyes closed as water streams down his body is hotter than P.K. can fathom. He’s getting hard, might even be able to come from this. Just in case, he speeds up a but, letting himself play with Carey’s head every so often as he withdraws, before plunging back down.
He takes one hand off Carey’s hip to reach down and handle his balls, already sensitive, before reaching back further to play with the pucker of Carey’s ass. He hears a choked off noise, his only warning before Carey comes, and P.K. takes it, cause that’s the kind of classy guy he is.
He gets on his feet again, watching in satisfaction as Carey gasps and breaths heavily, and lets himself lean forward, thrusting against Carey’s muscled thighs, perfect and his. Carey wraps a hand around P.K.’s neck, his other hand reaching down to grab P.K.’s ass, encouraging him to move harder, faster. And he does, until he comes, grunting, against Carey’s body.
Grinning like a loon, he catches Carey’s smug look and then catches his lips in a deep kiss. They kiss and kiss until the water runs cold again and they’re shivering. P.K. thinks, as they towel off and make plans to head down to watch some snowboarding, he could get used to Olympic living.