“Come on!” Kyle shouts from across the rink, the blades of his ice skates skidding along the ice. He skates gracefully, with rhythm, moving to an invisible beat; faced with him, Stan feels like a big oaf. “Put your hips into it!”
Stan stumbles after him, keeping up only due to his longer legs; in the technical sense, Kyle is a much more skilled skater. He’s lithe and quick, trained for sharp movements and fancy jumps, the hallmark traits of an advanced figure skater. As a hockey player, Stan’s less concerned with grace and more concerned with force; unfortunately, in his recent games, that hadn’t been enough. That was why his hockey coach hired Kyle, who claimed to be trained in teaching hockey players to move quick on their feet; Stan had doubted him at first, offended by the implication that he needed work, but he realized now that it had been a good decision.
Mostly because he got to stare at Kyle’s perky ass as he skated.
Throughout the hours Stan’s spent skating behind Kyle, he’s discovered that he really does have an incredible ass, but that’s not the only feature he finds appealing about him; he’s petite, barely coming up to Stan’s shoulder, slim and slender and very proportional. Stan wasn’t surprised by how small he was - he had heard in the past that smaller people made better figure skaters - but he was surprised by how much he liked it. And how much he liked being that big oaf on the ice.
“I am!” Stan grunts, pushing forward with his blades, his hamstrings straining and aching. He tries to mimic Kyle’s movements, but nearly trips over himself; he rights himself before he slams down and loses a tooth. By the time he gets within ten feet of Kyle again, he’s panting, and he slows to a near stop, resting his hands on his knees. Kyle effortlessly spins around, skidding to a stop.
“Maybe we should be done for the day.” he offers, and Stan nods rapidly; the chill in the rink hasn’t been enough to stop him from sweating through his thick jersey.
“Good plan.” he pants, and Kyle laughs, like something about this charms him; Stan feels a familiar flutter in his chest, and he straightens himself up as Kyle approaches him. He looks like something you’d see in a dream, pretty and delicate-looking, and Stan blinks a few times as he extends his hand. Stan reaches out to take it; his fingers are thick and long compared to Kyle’s. He interlaces them automatically; Kyle smiles at him.
“You need a shower.” Kyle notes, beginning to pull him along and off the rink; Stan lets him guide him along. Stan’s sure he weighs at least 50% more than Kyle, but Kyle pulls him along with ease, assisted by the slick ice. “You stink of sweat.”
“Who’s fault is that?” Stan asks, and Kyle snickers. He lets go of Stan’s hand once they’ve stepped off the ice, and Stan misses it immediately; he sits down to take off his skates so he has something to do, mostly so he doesn’t reach out to try and take it again. He can enclose Kyle’s whole hand in one of his own, and subconsciously, that thought always sends a little shiver through him; maybe because he starts wondering what else of Kyle’s he could hold fully in one hand. He fumbles with the laces, distracted, until Kyle kneels down to help, having already gotten both of his skates back. Stan sits back, feeling kind of like an idiot.
“You’re off your game today,” Kyle observes, glancing up at him. He pulls the double knot free on one of Stan’s skates, tugging it off his foot and setting it off to the side. He doesn’t even look down as he frees the second knot; Stan can’t help but consider potential other usages of Kyle’s dexterous fingers. “Is something up?”
“No,” Stan lies, lifting his foot to let Kyle pull the second skate off. He stands up in his socks, taking the skates from the floor, picking up Kyle’s with his other hand. “Just having an off day, I guess.”
Kyle eyes him disbelievingly, but doesn’t question him. He heads towards the locker room, and Stan watches his ass shake in the spandex of his uniform; it’s like his figure skating teacher was hand-picked to torture him, to make his concentration ten times difficult than it would otherwise be. He’s gotten better at being graceful on the ice, but he’s gotten worse at everything else; Stan loves hockey, loves the thrill of the game, but the thrill of chasing Kyle down is so much better than chasing down a puck.
“Okay. Just tell me if there’s anything I can do to help,” Kyle says, opening up the door to the locker room. “You’re not going to improve much if you’re not focused.”
“I know,” Stan says. “I’ve got it, Kyle. Seriously.”
“I know! I know you do. I just really want the best for you. That’s all.” Kyle squeezes Stan’s shoulder, and Stan’s extremely aware of how small his hand is compared to Stan’s broad shoulders, his neatly filed nails a sharp contrast to Stan’s dirtied jersey. He longs for Kyle as soon as he pulls away to head to his locker, and he watches as he fingers at the lock. Something stirs in Stan, and he swallows.
“I’m going to go shower,” Stan announces, mostly to get away from Kyle before he risks popping a boner, and he tugs his towel from his own locker, tossing it over his shoulder. Kyle glances back at him. “Thanks for today.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving yet,” Kyle assures, and Stan notices then that he’s holding his own towel - shit. He’s going to shower too? Usually Kyle goes home right after their training sessions, complaining about the nastiness of locker room showers, and Stan struggles to think of why today might be an exception. “The hot water in my place is fucked. I’m showering here until it’s fixed.”
“Oh. Kay.” Stan says, like the idea of seeing Kyle nude, stripping out of his tight costume, isn’t making his brain go absolutely haywire. “I have extra shower shoes if you need them.”
“Yours probably wouldn’t fit me,” Kyle teases, and Stan most certainly doesn’t think about their size difference again, until he does. “Besides. I brought my own. But I appreciate it. You’re sweet.” he tugs off his socks and slips on his shower shoes, turning on his heel, and Stan blinks a few times; by the time he opens his eyes again, feeling a little more composed, Kyle’s disappeared behind the shower curtain. Stan takes a deep breath, releases it through his mouth, and goes to the second shower on the left to strip free of his clothing.
Stan’s slow-creeping arousal has just started to stabilize when he hears Kyle’s voice.
“This shower isn’t working.” Kyle peeks his head out past the curtains, a towel wrapped around him; it can cover his nipples and still fall nearly to his knees, which Stan finds way too cute. Stan’s so distracted by his outfit that when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, and he has to close it to mentally reset before speaking.
“It’s not working?” he asks dumbly. Kyle snorts.
“Yes. I mean, the water won’t turn on.” He pauses, shifting between his feet. “Do you mind if I share your shower? Just for today?”
Stan stares at him, unable to believe that he actually asked that; Kyle hurries to make amends.
“You don’t have to, obviously! I can handle cold water at home if you need me to. I just thought I’d ask-”
“No, I mean. Of course I don’t mind.” Stan cuts him off, too quickly to seem natural. “You can come in. Just, uh. I’m already naked. So keep that in mind.”
“I would be shocked if you weren’t naked,” Kyle says, a little dryly, and Stan’s embarrassed once again. He pulls his head back into the shower and thinks of his naked grandma, determined to keep his cock soft; the thought is gross, but maybe not gross enough to overwhelm how fucking hot Kyle is when he drops his towel.
He’s imagined how Kyle looks naked hundreds of times by now, at least ten times per day on the ice, but it doesn’t live up to how he actually looks. When he lets his towel fall, Stan’s struck silent; with his uniform on, he’s the cutest person Stan’s ever seen. Without it, he has to be the cutest person anyone's ever seen. His slender, freckled shoulders lead down to a slim waist and wider hips; his thighs are a little thick, muscled from skating, and his cock is cute and proportional. Stan was right; he could probably hold most of it in one hand. He doesn’t realize his eyes are subconsciously wandering until he sees redness gathering on Kyle’s upper chest; when he looks up, he realizes that he’s blushing.
“My eyes are up here.” Kyle says, and now Stan’s the one who’s blushing. He stumbles back in the shower to let Kyle in; it’s a fairly small shower, but Kyle doesn’t add that much mass to it, compared to Stan. Stan pretends to laugh, high-pitched and awkward.
“You need to borrow my shampoo?” Stan asks, trying to change the topic. Kyle shakes his head.
“It’ll fuck up my hair.” Kyle explains, and Stan nods, like he knows anything about maintaining curly hair. “And I have my own body wash. You just might need to help me get my back.”
“Right.” Stan says, like this isn’t giving him heart palpitations. “Sure. I’ve got you. Just let me know when.” he brings his hands up to his hair to pull water through it, as casually as possible, and soon realizes this is a terrible mistake; within the minute Kyle’s been in the shower, he’s gotten half hard, and if he doesn’t cover up, Kyle’s going to get an eyeful. He turns around immediately, and he’s only halfway into thinking about naked grandmas again when Kyle, in all of his bad-timing glory, calls for him again.
“Okay. You can get my back now.” Kyle snaps his fingers, and Stan turns around, slowly, reluctantly; Kyle pushes the container of body wash into his hand, and Stan grips it like he has a vendetta against it. “Just be gentle. I’m sensitive.”
Stan’s cock throbs.
“Right.” he says again, because there’s nothing else to say. How the hell does he respond to something like that? He uncaps the body wash and pours some out into his hand, rubbing his palms together. He presses both of them against Kyle’s skinny back, who shudders for a moment before stilling; Stan would be happy to die doing this, and he probably will, if Kyle happens to glance back. His half-hardness has evolved into full hardness, thick and heavy and straining towards Kyle’s plump ass.
He chooses not to focus on Kyle’s ass, and instead works on slathering body wash all over his back; he has a feeling hands aren’t the most efficient way to do this, but he’s not about to complain. Kyle lets out a shaky little sigh, and Stan watches in slow motion as Kyle steps back, as his cock bumps against his ass.
Kyle stops immediately. Stan wonders how he’s going to explain losing his trainer to his coach. He’s just about to start spilling apologies when Kyle presses back against him, and Stan groans.
“I didn’t say to stop,” Kyle says, and Stan lets out a loud puff of air; his cock is dragging against the base of his spine, sliding between Kyle’s ass cheeks, and he looks so small in front of him; Stan wants to see how that small, slender body can take his cock more than ever. He presses a little harder on Kyle’s back, and Kyle moans; he arches back, subconsciously causing Stan’s cock to slip along his skin. The light friction of Kyle’s soft skin against his cockhead is driving Stan crazy, his self control starting to fail him. Kyle notices. He turns around, pressing his hands to Stan’s chest. “I have other ideas for how you could use that body wash.” he breathes.
Re: Stan/Kyle - size difference (1/2)
“Come on!” Kyle shouts from across the rink, the blades of his ice skates skidding along the ice. He skates gracefully, with rhythm, moving to an invisible beat; faced with him, Stan feels like a big oaf. “Put your hips into it!”
Stan stumbles after him, keeping up only due to his longer legs; in the technical sense, Kyle is a much more skilled skater. He’s lithe and quick, trained for sharp movements and fancy jumps, the hallmark traits of an advanced figure skater. As a hockey player, Stan’s less concerned with grace and more concerned with force; unfortunately, in his recent games, that hadn’t been enough. That was why his hockey coach hired Kyle, who claimed to be trained in teaching hockey players to move quick on their feet; Stan had doubted him at first, offended by the implication that he needed work, but he realized now that it had been a good decision.
Mostly because he got to stare at Kyle’s perky ass as he skated.
Throughout the hours Stan’s spent skating behind Kyle, he’s discovered that he really does have an incredible ass, but that’s not the only feature he finds appealing about him; he’s petite, barely coming up to Stan’s shoulder, slim and slender and very proportional. Stan wasn’t surprised by how small he was - he had heard in the past that smaller people made better figure skaters - but he was surprised by how much he liked it. And how much he liked being that big oaf on the ice.
“I am!” Stan grunts, pushing forward with his blades, his hamstrings straining and aching. He tries to mimic Kyle’s movements, but nearly trips over himself; he rights himself before he slams down and loses a tooth. By the time he gets within ten feet of Kyle again, he’s panting, and he slows to a near stop, resting his hands on his knees. Kyle effortlessly spins around, skidding to a stop.
“Maybe we should be done for the day.” he offers, and Stan nods rapidly; the chill in the rink hasn’t been enough to stop him from sweating through his thick jersey.
“Good plan.” he pants, and Kyle laughs, like something about this charms him; Stan feels a familiar flutter in his chest, and he straightens himself up as Kyle approaches him. He looks like something you’d see in a dream, pretty and delicate-looking, and Stan blinks a few times as he extends his hand. Stan reaches out to take it; his fingers are thick and long compared to Kyle’s. He interlaces them automatically; Kyle smiles at him.
“You need a shower.” Kyle notes, beginning to pull him along and off the rink; Stan lets him guide him along. Stan’s sure he weighs at least 50% more than Kyle, but Kyle pulls him along with ease, assisted by the slick ice. “You stink of sweat.”
“Who’s fault is that?” Stan asks, and Kyle snickers. He lets go of Stan’s hand once they’ve stepped off the ice, and Stan misses it immediately; he sits down to take off his skates so he has something to do, mostly so he doesn’t reach out to try and take it again. He can enclose Kyle’s whole hand in one of his own, and subconsciously, that thought always sends a little shiver through him; maybe because he starts wondering what else of Kyle’s he could hold fully in one hand. He fumbles with the laces, distracted, until Kyle kneels down to help, having already gotten both of his skates back. Stan sits back, feeling kind of like an idiot.
“You’re off your game today,” Kyle observes, glancing up at him. He pulls the double knot free on one of Stan’s skates, tugging it off his foot and setting it off to the side. He doesn’t even look down as he frees the second knot; Stan can’t help but consider potential other usages of Kyle’s dexterous fingers. “Is something up?”
“No,” Stan lies, lifting his foot to let Kyle pull the second skate off. He stands up in his socks, taking the skates from the floor, picking up Kyle’s with his other hand. “Just having an off day, I guess.”
Kyle eyes him disbelievingly, but doesn’t question him. He heads towards the locker room, and Stan watches his ass shake in the spandex of his uniform; it’s like his figure skating teacher was hand-picked to torture him, to make his concentration ten times difficult than it would otherwise be. He’s gotten better at being graceful on the ice, but he’s gotten worse at everything else; Stan loves hockey, loves the thrill of the game, but the thrill of chasing Kyle down is so much better than chasing down a puck.
“Okay. Just tell me if there’s anything I can do to help,” Kyle says, opening up the door to the locker room. “You’re not going to improve much if you’re not focused.”
“I know,” Stan says. “I’ve got it, Kyle. Seriously.”
“I know! I know you do. I just really want the best for you. That’s all.” Kyle squeezes Stan’s shoulder, and Stan’s extremely aware of how small his hand is compared to Stan’s broad shoulders, his neatly filed nails a sharp contrast to Stan’s dirtied jersey. He longs for Kyle as soon as he pulls away to head to his locker, and he watches as he fingers at the lock. Something stirs in Stan, and he swallows.
“I’m going to go shower,” Stan announces, mostly to get away from Kyle before he risks popping a boner, and he tugs his towel from his own locker, tossing it over his shoulder. Kyle glances back at him. “Thanks for today.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving yet,” Kyle assures, and Stan notices then that he’s holding his own towel - shit. He’s going to shower too? Usually Kyle goes home right after their training sessions, complaining about the nastiness of locker room showers, and Stan struggles to think of why today might be an exception. “The hot water in my place is fucked. I’m showering here until it’s fixed.”
“Oh. Kay.” Stan says, like the idea of seeing Kyle nude, stripping out of his tight costume, isn’t making his brain go absolutely haywire. “I have extra shower shoes if you need them.”
“Yours probably wouldn’t fit me,” Kyle teases, and Stan most certainly doesn’t think about their size difference again, until he does. “Besides. I brought my own. But I appreciate it. You’re sweet.” he tugs off his socks and slips on his shower shoes, turning on his heel, and Stan blinks a few times; by the time he opens his eyes again, feeling a little more composed, Kyle’s disappeared behind the shower curtain. Stan takes a deep breath, releases it through his mouth, and goes to the second shower on the left to strip free of his clothing.
Stan’s slow-creeping arousal has just started to stabilize when he hears Kyle’s voice.
“This shower isn’t working.” Kyle peeks his head out past the curtains, a towel wrapped around him; it can cover his nipples and still fall nearly to his knees, which Stan finds way too cute. Stan’s so distracted by his outfit that when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, and he has to close it to mentally reset before speaking.
“It’s not working?” he asks dumbly. Kyle snorts.
“Yes. I mean, the water won’t turn on.” He pauses, shifting between his feet. “Do you mind if I share your shower? Just for today?”
Stan stares at him, unable to believe that he actually asked that; Kyle hurries to make amends.
“You don’t have to, obviously! I can handle cold water at home if you need me to. I just thought I’d ask-”
“No, I mean. Of course I don’t mind.” Stan cuts him off, too quickly to seem natural. “You can come in. Just, uh. I’m already naked. So keep that in mind.”
“I would be shocked if you weren’t naked,” Kyle says, a little dryly, and Stan’s embarrassed once again. He pulls his head back into the shower and thinks of his naked grandma, determined to keep his cock soft; the thought is gross, but maybe not gross enough to overwhelm how fucking hot Kyle is when he drops his towel.
He’s imagined how Kyle looks naked hundreds of times by now, at least ten times per day on the ice, but it doesn’t live up to how he actually looks. When he lets his towel fall, Stan’s struck silent; with his uniform on, he’s the cutest person Stan’s ever seen. Without it, he has to be the cutest person anyone's ever seen. His slender, freckled shoulders lead down to a slim waist and wider hips; his thighs are a little thick, muscled from skating, and his cock is cute and proportional. Stan was right; he could probably hold most of it in one hand. He doesn’t realize his eyes are subconsciously wandering until he sees redness gathering on Kyle’s upper chest; when he looks up, he realizes that he’s blushing.
“My eyes are up here.” Kyle says, and now Stan’s the one who’s blushing. He stumbles back in the shower to let Kyle in; it’s a fairly small shower, but Kyle doesn’t add that much mass to it, compared to Stan. Stan pretends to laugh, high-pitched and awkward.
“You need to borrow my shampoo?” Stan asks, trying to change the topic. Kyle shakes his head.
“It’ll fuck up my hair.” Kyle explains, and Stan nods, like he knows anything about maintaining curly hair. “And I have my own body wash. You just might need to help me get my back.”
“Right.” Stan says, like this isn’t giving him heart palpitations. “Sure. I’ve got you. Just let me know when.” he brings his hands up to his hair to pull water through it, as casually as possible, and soon realizes this is a terrible mistake; within the minute Kyle’s been in the shower, he’s gotten half hard, and if he doesn’t cover up, Kyle’s going to get an eyeful. He turns around immediately, and he’s only halfway into thinking about naked grandmas again when Kyle, in all of his bad-timing glory, calls for him again.
“Okay. You can get my back now.” Kyle snaps his fingers, and Stan turns around, slowly, reluctantly; Kyle pushes the container of body wash into his hand, and Stan grips it like he has a vendetta against it. “Just be gentle. I’m sensitive.”
Stan’s cock throbs.
“Right.” he says again, because there’s nothing else to say. How the hell does he respond to something like that? He uncaps the body wash and pours some out into his hand, rubbing his palms together. He presses both of them against Kyle’s skinny back, who shudders for a moment before stilling; Stan would be happy to die doing this, and he probably will, if Kyle happens to glance back. His half-hardness has evolved into full hardness, thick and heavy and straining towards Kyle’s plump ass.
He chooses not to focus on Kyle’s ass, and instead works on slathering body wash all over his back; he has a feeling hands aren’t the most efficient way to do this, but he’s not about to complain. Kyle lets out a shaky little sigh, and Stan watches in slow motion as Kyle steps back, as his cock bumps against his ass.
Kyle stops immediately. Stan wonders how he’s going to explain losing his trainer to his coach. He’s just about to start spilling apologies when Kyle presses back against him, and Stan groans.
“I didn’t say to stop,” Kyle says, and Stan lets out a loud puff of air; his cock is dragging against the base of his spine, sliding between Kyle’s ass cheeks, and he looks so small in front of him; Stan wants to see how that small, slender body can take his cock more than ever. He presses a little harder on Kyle’s back, and Kyle moans; he arches back, subconsciously causing Stan’s cock to slip along his skin. The light friction of Kyle’s soft skin against his cockhead is driving Stan crazy, his self control starting to fail him. Kyle notices. He turns around, pressing his hands to Stan’s chest. “I have other ideas for how you could use that body wash.” he breathes.