Rating: PG-13 probably
Original Date of Completion: June 2004
Pairing: Ville Nieminen/Marcus Nilson
Disclaimer: Don't own them, never will, which is kinda sad because they grew on me this year. This is all fake, conjured in the confines of my demented little mind. That means its fiction and you can't sue me.
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I fucking hate him.
He's such an infuriating bastard, I want to just punch him in the face. But it wouldn't do me any good. I glare at him, and he just grins. I flip him off, and he laughs like I should be on Comedy Central, and just strolls casually over to me. He sits down beside me like nothing matters, slipping his arm around my back and kissing my cheek. Apparently the last 20 minutes of insults, glares and hand gestures I threw his way never happened. That frustrates the living hell out of me, no matter what I say or do, he never gets angry. I can insult him for hours and he'll just grin. If he insults back, it's always through laughter, as if he wasn't hard enough to understand to begin with. I just don't get him, at all, and more often than not that makes me want to kill him. But he'd probably just laugh at that too. Stupid Finnish bastard.
"You're a moron. A big fished mouth, goofy looking Finnish moron," I hiss, wriggling free of his touch to lace my skates, shooting a glance up at him to see his reaction.
As always, that rage inducing grin graces his lips, and I grumble to myself, taking my frustration out on my skate laces. He snickers, moving close to me on the bench and slipping his arm this time around my shoulders. I sigh with annoyance, turning to him with a glare. This time there is full blowing laughter, right into my face as he leans forward and kisses me firmly on the lips.
"You act like this is something new," He speaks through giggles, making me strain to understand him. "You already knew I was stupid."
I glare and shove him away as I stand, reaching into my locker for my shoulder pads. He grabs hold of them as I do, igniting instantly a game of tug-o-war to complete his annoyance for the day. If I didn't already have my skates on, I'd start kicking him and end this easily, but I did so I was left instead to play tug-o-war with a laughing, grinning Finnish bafoon. It's things like this that make me realize why the rest of the world wants to kill him, and I sympathize with them. I really do, because I want to too, and I'm dating the guy. He's just that fucking annoying. And stupid. And Finnish.
"Give them to me, you big mouthed bass, *I* have a game to get ready for."
He smirks, tugging harder at the pads as he gets to his feet. I hold tighter onto them, struggling now to keep my balance. This would be unfair at the best of times, he had a strength and weight advantage on me, and on skates it was even worse. If I hated him less, I'd just let go and let him win. But I'd made it a rule a long time ago to never let him win, regardless of the competition. He'd never stop bragging about it, and with a mouth as big as his, he's hard to ignore. So I'll keep battling, at least until he knocks me down. And then I'll hit him with the nearest thing I find. I hate losing, especially to him.
"Give it up," He laughs, clutching the pads tightly. "No scrawny little Swede is ever going to beat me,"
I glare, taking one hand from the pads and clamping it onto his groin. He gasps in surprise, relinquishing his grip on the pads and grabbing at my wrist. I jump back quickly, darting across the room and flashing a smirk back at him. This time, finally, he glares, reaching down to adjust himself through his pants. I shake my head with a snicker, turning my back to him to slip the pads on. He takes that easy opportunity to bound across the room and slip his arms around my waist and push me against the lockers. I laugh softly, reaching back to elbow him playfully in the side. He laughs softly himself, grabbing my arm and pinning it behind my back.
"That was evil," He whispers, leaning down to nip at my earlobe.
I shiver slightly at that, craning my neck back to flash him a grin. "I'd rather be evil than stupid,"
He laughs, shaking his head against my shoulder. "Still cheating,"
"All is fair in love and war," I shoot back in reply, flashing a grin.
He smirks, slipping his hands into my pants. Expert fingers work their way downward, through equipment until his fingers are brushing against me. I whimper softly, trying to slip free but being held still by his hold on my arm. I sigh softly as his fingers curl around me, leaning back against him and submitting to his touch. He laughs softly, his breath beating lightly against my ear, his hand traveling slowly, gently along my shaft. For all the bad things about him, there were a few good, like this one thing in particular. There was just something about his hands, so smooth and silky, so perfect around me. He had the best hands I'd ever encountered, myself included. That was why I found it so hard to resist this, why I submitted so easily and just enjoyed the ride.
It was never a long ride anyway, it couldn't be at most times. Especially not now, with a game just a short time away. Truth be told though, it was often too good to last no matter the available time. He knew just what to do, how to stroke, just the right grip, the right speed to drive me quickly to the edge. And he did every time, stroking and squeezing until I was whimpering for relief. This time was no different.
"Please," I whimper softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
His hand tightens around me, his strokes quickening as he licks around my earlobe. I moan softly from the dual sensation coursing through me, and again his soft laugh hits my ears. "All is fair in love and war?" He asks in a whisper.
I nod, thrusting my hips to meet his motions, gasping softly. "Please, Ville,"
He laughs again, loudly this time, and in an instant he pulls away from me. I gasp at the loss, trying to turn but finding myself pressed tightly again to the lockers. I struggle futilely to a chorus of his snickers, growling softly as he leans forward to bring his face level with mine.
"All IS fair in love and war," He says with a smirk. "But not in the playoffs."
Then with a snicker, and that soon-to-be homicide worthy grin, he dashes away from me, from the locker room, leaving me alone with one thought:
I fucking hate him.
END
