"I fucking hate you."
"You shouldn't really say things like that when my dick is up your ass, Norris."
Two hot-headed athletes with overflowing rage and unwinding sex drive is very much never a good combo.
Bryce and Ian never see eye to eye on thing...
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The next morning, Ian woke up with a raging erection.
That and the fact that he was obviously late for school, made him curse out loud, completely forgetting that he's got company. "Shit," he whispered as the sound of metal clanging erupted from the kitchen. He needs to move quietly or else he's gonna get his ass kicked brutally once his mom finds out he's not at school yet.
He covered his front with his hands and made his way to the bathroom, careful not to make any sound. Locking the door behind him as he leaned against it, Ian groaned while his rock hard member glared at him, begging to be taken care of. He tried taming it down by thinking of his distant grandmother Lucy in her favorite tank top, but even that didn't work.
"Damn it," he hissed, frustration directed at his dick.
After numerous feeble attempts of trying other ways, Ian sighed in defeat. He finally dumped himself inside the white tub and closed his eyes as he thought of something to get his problem over with.
Hot chicks, hot dudes, hot celebrities, he had already thought of every single hot person on the planet yet all of them rendered useless, except for a certain blonde with a certain hair and a certain talent in the aspect of tomfoolery he tried so hard to avoid that managed to invade his mind.
Even though he's opposed to the godforsaken idea, there's no use to fight it, his freaking penis already made that clear. Grunting "fuck it", he squeezed his mouth shut and began moving his hand.
This is all happening too fast and weird.
"Getting therapy doesn't seem so bad now," Ian exhaled as images of this week's shenanigans flashed before him.
"Your comebacks are getting drier, Norris."
"That's a lot coming from a slow-ass kicker like you."
"Ask that whiny little bitch who came untouched around my dick twice, he seemed satisfied to me."
His fingers tightened their grip, the sensation making Ian's sleep-riddled mind go crazy.
"Ian..."
"Can I?"
"Fuck," Ian cursed, fingers trembling around his length as he came.
He took a quick shower and got into his clothes while pondering over what the fuck could possibly be wrong with him. He could still remember wanting to choke Bryce Occonor to death before all of this happened; that and the urge to punch his stupid ugly face if not throw fits of homicidal rage whenever Bryce makes snide remarks during warm-up routines. Last month, Ian would've laughed and spat on someone's face if they'd told him that he'd be jerking off to his mortal enemy in an empty bathtub, yet here he was, pathetic and hopeless as ever.
