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    Summary

    He blamed the league for the monster in his chest, the one that wanted to sink it's claws into Hollander’s neck, to see the red crescent marks that would be left when Ilya would finally retract his hand—only when Shane was spluttering and out of breath. He blamed the fact that they had been shoved into each other’s faces as young as seventeen for the intense burning flare that would explode in his chest every time he saw a glimpse of those dark doe eyes and freckles—a burning that wasn’t anything remotely close to hatred no matter how hard he had tried to convince himself otherwise. He blamed every single fucking person that hyped up their rivalry for the fact that all he wanted was to see Shane’s teary eyes as he plowed into him, making those little punched out *uh uh uh* sounds Ilya heard in his fucking dreams. 

    Or:

    Ilya explores his dominant tendencies through Shane and falls in love along the way (or, probably, was just in love all along)

    Language:
    English
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