#mountrain

"Watch close now," he calls toward the net. “You might miss it.”

Mountain doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just crouched in position—massive in full pads, the rise and fall of his breath barely visible through all that gear. A silent, looming wall in his crease.

The kind of stillness that dares him: you want me? Come earn it.

Rain shifts, hungry. Lucifer, he loves a challenge.

He fakes left. Spins. Backhands from between his legs.

Clink. Thunk. Net.

Rain smirks, skating a lazy turn toward the boards, basking in the echo of it.

“Fifth one tonight,” he says. “You could at least pretend I’m giving you a challenge.”

Still no answer.

So he lines up another. This time he makes a little show of it—drops into a low crouch, drags his hand up the stick slower than syrup, then flicks it hard toward the net.

Whap. Goal.

He turns toward Mountain this time, skating backward, tongue poking out between his teeth.

“You awake, big guy? Or just enjoying the view?”

He drifts back and forth with idle flair, blade kissing ice with every smooth flick.

“Alright,” he says, almost to himself, almost to the mirror-glass above the zamboni bay—right where Mountain can see his every move.

“Let’s try something loud.”

He pulls back. Winds up full extension, hips twisting, legs spreading wide. The slapshot cracks like a gun going off, the puck a blur of black—

WHUMP.

Snatched mid-air. Caught dead in Mountain’s glove.

Rain slows. “Oh?” he says, laughing breathless. “Ohhh. Did I wake the bear?”

Mountain doesn’t speak. Just holds the puck there for a long beat—glove closing, slow and deliberate—before he drops it to the ice and lets it roll.

Lets Rain come fetch.

Rain’s tail flicks once.

“Mm.” A curl of a smile. “We’re playing that game now.”

And fuck, does Rain want to lose.

He glides toward the puck slow, hips swaying with theatrical arrogance—like he’s making love to the ice itself. His tongue flicks the corner of his mouth as he nears Mountain’s crease, crouching to scoop it—and stays there.

Legs wide. Back arched. Tail flicking lazy behind him. He doesn’t even glance up when he murmurs just loud enough to carry.

“So stoic. So silent. Gotta be exhausting pretending you’re not hard every time I take a shot.”

The glove tightens.

Rain turns his head a little, offering that wicked, too-sweet grin. He taps the puck on the blade before he spins away, ice flaring up under his blades as he skates off again, humming.

The slap of skates echoes sharp as Rain glides toward the tunnel, still grinning, high on the taste of his own performance. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, just to check, and catches the slow flare of Mountain’s breath in the cold.

Visible.

Heavy.

He doesn’t call out… but he follows.

By the time Mountain steps into the locker room, Rain’s already dropped to the mat with a satisfied little huff. He lets his helmet roll toward the bench and strips his gloves off with his teeth, slow and deliberate and entirely obnoxious. He lets them fall to the floor with a soft thunk.

He stretches long. Arms overhead, spine arched, one leg cocked high to the side like a dare.

He knows Mountain’s watching.

Knows exactly how deep that stare burns.

So of course he makes it worse.

“Might need a little help stretching out again,” he murmurs, gaze all big and sweet. “Feeling awful tight."

He sighs, mock-exhausted as he folds forward, forehead nearly kissing his shin. Wiggles a little as he holds the stretch, purely for show.

Purely to be punished.

And then—still folded in half, voice muffled against his own thigh—

“You coming over here, or are you just gonna stand there panting?”

The door hisses shut behind him, low and final.

Mountain doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t comment on the tossed gear or the pose—ankle flexed, hip tilted, spine arched in a perfect line of tension. A body trained to provoke. A target dressed as a tease.

He just starts unstrapping his pads.

One buckle at a time. Methodical.

Chest rising and falling as he peels the bulk of his armor away, setting each piece down with devastating quiet. Glove. Blocker. Leg pads. Helmet last, the mask clinking soft against the bench.

And the whole time—he watches Rain.

Hard stare. No smile.

Like he’s deciding just how much trouble to make of him.

Then, with a grunt, Mountain kneels on the mat and starts stretching.

First his arms—interlacing thick fingers behind his back and rolling his shoulders with a low, satisfying crack. Then one leg out to the side, the other bent, leaning into the stretch with a sharp exhale through his nose. His compression shirt strains faintly over his chest as he moves.

Rain props himself up on his elbows to watch.

Not discreetly.

“So flexible for such a big guy,” he purrs, voice gone soda-pop sweet.

Mountain doesn’t look over. He shifts deeper into the stretch, jaw ticking once.

Rain hums, dragging a hand down his thigh, not even pretending anymore. “Bet I could get you to bend a little further. If I tried real hard.”

That gets him a measured, dangerous, glance.

“You keep running your mouth,” Mountain says, quiet and low, “and I’ll show you what real flexible looks like.”

Rain shifts, slow and sinuous, like a cat circling something warm.

He crawls closer, jersey riding up enough to tease the waistband of his leggings.

“You need help with that one?” he asks, all wide-eyed innocence as Mountain bends into his hamstring stretch.

He doesn’t answer.

Rain reaches anyway, bold as ever, brushing the underside of Mountain’s thigh—fingers skating toward the crease where fabric meets skin.

“Feels tight,” he murmurs. “Want me to work it out for you?”

Mountain moves fast.

One sharp grab—Rain’s wrist caught, body flipped.

The thud echoes off tile and cinderblock. Rain lands on his back with a startled gasp.

Mountain’s already above him. One knee between his thighs, face unreadable, eyes burning.

“I said,” he growls, cold, “keep running your mouth.”

Rain’s pupils blow wide.

And he smiles.

Breathless. Victorious.

Mountain doesn’t give him time to gloat.

He grabs the nearest thing with a handle—Rain’s stick, still warm from practice—and presses the blade down across his chest.

“Turn over.”

Rain blinks up at him, that cocky lilt faltering for half a breath.

Then he laughs, delighted, and rolls onto his stomach like he’s been waiting all damn day.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Mountain doesn’t answer. Just drags him up to his knees, manhandling him into position with one massive hand. He shoves him forward, ass high, palms braced on the mat.

A perfect fucking picture.

“You wanna act like a brat,” Mountain growls, pressing one palm to the small of Rain’s back, “you get treated like one.”

He leans in close, breath searing at Rain’s ear.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart. You're not coming until I say.”

Rain groans, thighs twitching.

“Yes, sir.”

Mountain shoves the leggings down in one hard pull, baring Rain’s soaked cunt to the cold air and harsh lights. The sight alone is enough to punch the breath from his lungs.

“So proud of yourself, huh,” Mountain mutters, voice gone ragged.

Rain huffs a breath, his smile daring. “You tell me.”

He arches shamelessly—tilts his hips and shows off like he was made for it.

Mountain fucking growls.

“Stay right there.”

Mountain peels the leggings off the rest of the way in one swift tug.

“Got a better use for these.”

The stick’s still warm in Mountain’s hands when he shoves it between Rain’s thighs—shaft pressed snug right against his cunt, blade braced behind him for balance. Rain whines, hips twitching as the tape catches on his slick.

He loops the leggings beneath the stick and yanks hard. One knot cinched behind Rain’s ass, and he’s trussed clean: bent forward, cunt flushed and dripping, stick locked tight between his thighs so every breath grinds him harder against it.

Mountain’s palm slides up his spine, broad and steady.

“Slutty little show pony,” he breathes. “Can’t even stretch without begging for attention.”

Rain lets out a ragged laugh, hips twitching against the friction of taped wood. “Not my fault you’re always staring. Maybe you should’ve done something about it sooner.”

Mountain leans in again, voice all gravel and threat.

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

He grips Rain’s waist, lifts him slightly and adjusts his angle. The shaft shifts just enough to press tight between his folds.

“But first? You’re gonna grind that stick like you mean it.”

Rain tries to sass, but the words catch.

Because that’s when he sees it.

The mirror.

A long panel above the lockers, tilted just enough to catch their reflection: his flushed face, the flex of Mountain’s arms, the obscene curve of his own back, the way he's spread and bound and dripping, all for show.

“Oh fuck,” Rain whispers, biting down on a grin. “You set this up on purpose?”

Mountain doesn’t answer.

Just tightens the knot again. Watches him writhe.

Rain shifts instinctively and groans—the tape drags over his slick folds, angled just so. Not enough to get him off.

Only enough to ruin him while trying.

Mountain sits back on his heels, admiring the view.

“You wanted to show off?” he says, voice rough with hunger. “Go on then. Show me how well you handle a stick.”

Rain flushes, but he’s already grinding down slow and desperate, rhythm building as the tape catches just right, again and again. He whimpers.

Mountain smiles.

By the third grind, Rain’s trembling. Thighs tense. Slick coating the grip tape in a glossy sheen. Every roll of his hips drags it right through him, catching where he’s swollen and aching, where it hurts not to have more.

And it’s loud. Wet, filthy little sounds echo off the locker room tile with every roll of his hips.

Slap. Drag. Whimper. Slap. Drag. Moan.

Rain dares a glance up and sees himself in the mirror.

The flushed wreck of his face. The arch of his back. The stick pinned tight between his thighs. Mountain looming behind him like some unmovable force, watching him fall apart.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on the reflection. “That’s so—fuck—”

Mountain exhales hard, like he’s trying to stay civil.

He’s not succeeding.

“Messy fuckin’ thing,” he growls, shifting forward until his knees cage Rain in. “Look at you, dripping all over yourself. That what you wanted?”

Rain nods fast, dazed and panting. “Mhm—yes—fuck, yes—”

“Not good enough.”

Mountain fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. His other hand slips between Rain’s thighs—palm heavy, fingers sliding in from behind, right along the slicked-up shaft. The pressure makes Rain jerk.

“Ohhh fuck—”

“There,” Mountain grunts. “Now grind for me. Earn it. Show me how that filthy little cunt’s gonna soak the whole fucking floor.”

Rain wails and obeys.

Mountain drags his fingers back slow, thick with slick from base to knuckle. He holds them up, lets the light catch on the shine and brings them under Rain’s chin.

“Open.”

Rain’s mouth parts on instinct, tongue curling up before the word even lands.

“That desperate for your own mess?” Mountain murmurs, voice all gravel and thunder, sliding two fingers into his mouth. “You like tasting how wet you are?”

Rain hums around them, eyes fluttering shut, halfway to a sob. He doesn’t stop grinding—can’t. Every pass of the shaft through his cunt hits deeper, filthier, another wet thwap off the tile.

He opens his eyes again, stares straight at the mirror, and moans around Mountain’s fingers.

Mountain twists them slow against his tongue as he pulls them out, watching the brat melt out of him like the ice chips melting off his skates.

“Greedy little thing,” he rumbles. “Better not come. We’re just getting started.”

Rain’s thighs are shaking now, but he nods.

Sweat clings to his skin, muscles trembling, his whole body flushed and dripping. Slick smears across the grip tape in glossy strands. The padding beneath him is damp, obscene, his leggings bunched low on his thighs like a frame, hips locked open. The shaft is still wedged tight between his folds, held there by sheer friction and Mountain’s cruel arrangement—threaded through the stretched fabric, angled to ruin.

Every grind jolts through him. Every drag down catches against his swollen clit, too sensitive now, already aching. The tape is rough, nearly abrasive, but Rain doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. He gasps with each pass, hitching forward to chase it, to beg it deeper.

His cunt parts wetly around the stick, lips glistening and swollen, soaking the tape with every frantic roll of his hips. Strings of slick stretch from shaft to thigh, snapping as he rocks messier, breath breaking into soft little pants, mouth open, eyes glassy, hair stuck to his cheeks.

Mountain stays crouched behind him, one massive hand braced to his lower back—steadying him, anchoring him, letting him struggle for it.

“Look at you,” Mountain mutters, dark and full of awe.

Rain whimpers. Can’t look away from the mirror.

Not with Mountain behind him. Not with the way his own body gleams in the harsh light, wrecked and spread, grinding with wet little slap-slap-slap sounds that echo each time he moves. Louder, filthier, more unhinged.

“What do you like better, sweetheart?” Mountain growls, voice tightening. “The what you look, or the way you sound?”

He’s not asking. Doesn’t wait for an answer.

Just fists Rain’s hair and pulls.

Rain yelps, breath caught as thick fingers twist into the sweat-damp strands at his nape and wrench him upright—spine arched, chest pushed forward, hips cocked just so the shaft drags brutal and deep through him.

“F-fuck,” Rain chokes, grinding down hard. The pressure stays this time, sharp and perfect. The tape presses flush to his clit and holds there, a filthy point of contact that leaves him shaking.

“Ohfuck—oh—fuck—”

“That’s better,” Mountain growls behind him, grip like iron. “I said grind, slut. Not fucking wiggle.”

Rain whimpers, cunt leaking, slick now pouring over the grip tape, smeared between his thighs in a wet, sticky mess. He rocks his hips like he’s possessed—like he wants to melt down the shaft and fuse with it, whimpering high in his throat with every slap of skin to soaked tape.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” Mountain rasps, and leans close, lips brushing Rain’s ear.

Rain gasps, mouth open, panting—he can’t even speak.

Mountain stands behind him, one hand still in his hair, the other reaching around to cup his throat, thumb pushing into the hinge of Rain’s jaw until it opens wider, obedient, wanting.

“That’s it,” Mountain murmurs. “Open that pretty mouth.”

And Rain does.

Tongue out. Eyes heavy. Mouth waiting.

Mountain spits slow and thick right onto his tongue, and Rain moans like it’s a gift, like he’d come from that alone.

“Swallow.”

Rain shudders as he does, tongue still out like he’s hoping for more. His hips stutter but don’t stop, grinding down in sloppy, desperate little pulses, slick dragging with every motion. The stretch of his leggings holds the stick snug between his thighs—soaked, filthy, unrelenting.

"Good boy," Mountain says low and dangerous, thumb brushing his spit-slick bottom lip. “Look at you. Fuckin’ leaking on your stick like a bitch in heat.”

Rain whines. The word—bitch—hits something deep and devastating. He grinds harder, chasing that unbearable friction, the stick nudging his cunt in a way that makes his thighs quake. His whole body sings with the tension, high and tight, his face flushed, chest heaving.

Mountain watches him like he’s studying prey. Or dinner.

“Gettin’ close, aren’t you.”

Rain nods frantically, eyes glassy. “Yes. Yes. Please—”

Mountain pulls his hair tighter, forcing another arch that sends Rain’s cunt grinding right over the thickest ridge of tape.

He yelps and grinds harder. He's there—he's there—he's right fucking there—

But Mountain stops him. Drops back into a crouch and pins him with one big palm pressing down into the small of his back.

"Don’t you dare.”

Rain freezes, breath catching. His cunt clenches around nothing, fluttering and wet.

“Wanna finish?” Mountain’s voice drops. “Wanna make a mess all over your gear like a spoiled little slut?”

Rain nods so hard he sees stars.

“Then you’d better start begging, sweetheart.”

Rain tries to move—just once, hips twitching forward on pure instinct—and Mountain growls, the sound low and thunderous, like an avalanche. His hand slams back down on Rain’s ass, broad palm gripping hard enough to bruise.

“What did I just say.”

Rain gasps, thighs trembling, cunt pulsing where it’s spread and soaking over the tape. The stick jerks under him, held tight by the stretch of his ruined leggings, so slick he can feel every textured ridge like it’s carved to fit him.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

Mountain cuts him off with another sharp tug to his hair, dragging him up until Rain’s back is bowed and his neck is bared, lips parted, chest heaving.

“Try again, sweetheart. Use your words.”

Rain sobs. “Please,” he manages, voice shaking. “Please, Mountain, I need it—fuck, I need it so bad—”

“Need what?”

He nearly chokes on it. On the humiliation. The ache.

“Need to come,” he whispers, wrecked.

Mountain hums low and cruel behind him, like he’s thinking about it.

Then he lets go.

Rain drops, flops forward, face down and ass up, hair tangled, breath caught on a sob.

He whimpers, legs trembling, slick dripping where he’s spread wide and helpless.

Mountain decides he's not quite wet enough. He spits, filthy and deliberate. Right onto Rain’s swollen cunt, watching it drip down over the mess already there.

“Beg better.”

Rain keens.

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Please, I’ve been good, I rode that fucking stick like you wanted, I’ll be your good bitch, I’ll make a mess just for you, I’ll do anything—please, I need to come, I need—”

Mountain presses forward, chest to Rain’s back, voice right in his ear.

“Then do it. Make it fuckin’ count.”

He lets Rain grind.

Lets him ride.

Lets him soak through the tape with a moan so loud it echoes off the locker room tile, a high, shattered sound that melts into sob-laughter as he finally—finally—comes, whole body shaking, thighs slick and twitching.

“Good boy,” he growls, kissing Rain’s temple. “Fuckin’ earned that.”

Rain’s still trembling when Mountain shifts behind him, dragging his hand down slow over the curve of Rain’s back. One broad palm cups his ass, squeezes possessively then dips lower, two fingers pressing in against the mess between his legs, just to feel.

Rain whines, overstimulated and leaking. The stick is soaked, leggings clinging to his thighs in ruined streaks of slick.

“You made such a mess, sweetheart.”

Mountain sounds almost amused. But there’s an edge under it, low and sharp, like hunger held on a leash.

He crouches behind Rain and slides one hand beneath the knot, slow and deliberate. Fingers work the damp stretch of fabric loose, peeling it away inch by inch—unwrapping his precious, ruined little gift.

The stick comes free with a wet little plop, clattering when it hits the floor. Rain moans at the loss—hips still rocking forward, chasing friction.

When Mountain glances up, he catches Rain’s gaze in the mirror.

Rain is wrecked.

Flushed and trembling, lips bitten red, thighs shaking where they’re spread. Slick gleams on his skin, his chest heaving with every desperate breath. His own reflection stares back like a stranger. Filthy, radiant, fucked-out.

“Nasty little bitch.” Mountain chuckles, eyes still locked on the mirror. “Could’ve kept going, huh?”

Rain nods frantically. “Mhm—fuck, yes—”

“Thought so.”

Mountain grabs his hips and flips him, the motion smooth and practiced, until Rain’s on his back across the mat, thighs falling open without needing to be told.

“All stretched out and aching," Mountain murmurs, crowding between his legs. "Ready for more.”

He presses in, knee nudging Rain wider, and leans over him, catching his chin in one massive hand. Tilts his face up.

Makes him look.

“You wanna be good?” he says, voice soft and dark like thunder at a distance. “That was a nice start.”

Rain’s lips part on a gasp.

"We’re not finished yet.”

Rain swallows hard.