H2O2

you want it? shane shakes his head because of course—of course he fucking doesn't, what kind of question is that, only things feel kind of hazy so it takes him a second too long, and rozanov laughs at him again. lets go of his cock to slap him across the cheek. tell me you want to suck my cock, hollander. fucking say it.

shane swallows hard, watches rozanov take his cock back in his hand and jerk himself slow, foreskin rolling up over the head and a bead of precum leaking out at the tip. for me, shane thinks. out loud, quietly, he says: i want to.

yeah? beg for it, rozanov says, grinning. he looks mean. shane feels himself twitch and leak in his underwear.

please let me suck your cock. shane's voice is embarrassingly wobbly. tears gather in his lower lashes. he can smell rozanov's skin from here and it's only making his mouth water more and that only makes the tears come faster.

rozanov says fuck under his breath and hauls shane further forward by his hair and it hurts, makes shane whimper, and still when rozanov taps the tip of his leaking cock to shane's lips he licks at it and moans and sucks the head into his mouth. rozanov lets him tease his tongue under the foreskin for a few seconds. he gets to taste the precum pulsing onto his tongue and he knows he should be disgusted by that, by the sharp taste of rozanov's sweat and musk, by all of it, but all he can think about is rozanov in his throat, fucking all the way into him.

shane gasps when rozanov pulls him off like he really was that deep inside, then gasps again when he slaps his wet cock against shane's cheek, leaving a smear of saliva on his cheekbone.

wow, rozanov says, nowhere near as out of breath as shane, you really are a fucking cocksucker. he's jerking himself inches away from shane's face, teasing him, not letting him have what they both know he wants. you did this for your old coach too? your team?

no, shane says, recoiling but held firmly in place by the fist in his damp hair. no, i've never–

that's not what i have heard, hollander. rozanov's cock traces up his face, smearing precum across his forehead. shane is cross-eyed, staring. everyone says you are a faggot.

and—it's not like shane has never heard it before. but. a hot lump pushes up his throat.

rozanov shrugs. i think, no way, a fag will never be number one draft pick. is ridiculous. skin on skin dragging back down to his mouth, coming to rest on his lower lip. no opening his mouth to reply without opening up for cock, too. and then i see the way you look at me in the showers, and i think, ah. well. maybe so.

shane shakes his trembling head, tries to blink away his tears. crying makes you a fag, too, everyone knows that.

and look at you now. mock-tender, knuckles grazing his cheek. shane flinches. this desperate for your captain's cock and you think no one will notice.

a pathetic sound bubbles out of shane mostly through his nose, because his jaw is clenched firmly shut. one tear falls hot down his cheek, and rozanov's thumb swipes it away just to smear it around.

open your mouth, hollander, rozanov says, and what choice does he have? rozanov slides the head back onto his tongue and stays there, unmoving, letting shane feel its weight. it's different than shane imagined. his jaw feels tight already.

fuck, rozanov groans. he pulls shane down a few inches further, until the fat head is nearly pushing into his throat. shane lurches but doesn't quite gag. he manages to keep his tongue curled to the underside of rozanov's cock. gonna let me fuck your mouth? give you your first cock?

shane moans before he can even think about it, constricting his soft palate around the tip.

fuuuck, you fucking faggot, you love this dick, rozanov says, and finally pushes into shane's throat—not all the way, there are still inches left in front of him, but enough to make shane retch hard around him. shane grabs for rozanov's thighs in a panic, slaps at them, but rozanov only groans deep and thrusts back and forth shallowly enough to stay in his throat, forcing awful gagging sounds from his chest.

yeah, fuck, rozanov says, sounding just like the porn shane's been trying so hard not to watch lately, and despite the tears rolling down his face shane feels his cock pulse. shane blinks hard and looks blurrily up at rozanov to see him staring right back as he says take it, take this fucking cock, bitch.

rozanov chooses that moment to pull out, right as shane moans again—too loud even around his cock but even worse after the sloppy gluck of rozanov exiting his tight throat and then his mouth, too. shane heaves lungfuls of air, squeezing his eyes shut as rozanov smears the thick spit from the back of his throat onto his cheeks and into his hair, his eyebrows, across the delicate skin of his eyelids.

it's quiet for a moment, both of them panting, and all shane can hear is the echo of his moan. rozanov's hand is tight around the base of his cock and shane feels dizzy with how badly he wants him to feed it back into his throat and fuck in all the way this time until he's coming straight into shane's stomach.

rozanov breaks the silence between them with a small, disbelieving laugh and tilts shane's head back to look him in the eyes. you are fucking desperate for it, hollander.

shane stays silent. swallows, feel the ache in his throat.

beg for it, rozanov says, leaning back and giving his cock a slow, loose tug. beg and i'll let you swallow my cum. is what faggots like you want, right?

shane inhales a shaky half-sob. please, i–

louder.

please, shane says, louder, wrecked voice catching on the vowel, his face burning. please, just—fuck, i want it, captain, want your cock. his tone shrinks almost to a whisper at the end.

rozanov tightens his grip in shane's hair. where. tell me where you want it.

in my mouth, shane says. want your cock in my mouth. captain.

fuck, rozanov says, his head tipping back as he jerks himself a few times before grabbing himself around the base again. fuck, you are fucking nasty. i've never even seen a girl this desperate. you will get addicted, i think.

shane doesn't reply. he stares helplessly at rozanov's cock. please, he thinks, please.

you are too desperate for cock, rozanov says, angling his dick up. faggot like you has to learn that nobody cares what you want.

suddenly, shane is tugged forward until his face is pressed flat to rozanov's crotch, nose to the base of his cock, curly trimmed hair prickling his skin.

suck my fucking balls, rozanov says, grin clear in his voice.

shane's cock throbs so hard he's sure for a moment that he's about to come entirely untouched. rozanov smells so fucking strong here, sharp and masculine and so dirty and shane knows it's disgusting, he does, but still he takes a long, deep, audible inhale of the hot skin against him and moans.

fuck, he hears rozanov groan. his head is shoved down further and he feels more than sees it when rozanov starts jerking himself again, his heavy, tight balls slapping against shane's cheek. he's so big, god, he's so fucking big everywhere—his arms, his chest, his thighs, his cock, his balls. rozanov's knuckles graze his forehead roughly as he jerks himself and shane feels out of his mind, he can't help it, he closes his eyes and kisses at rozanov's balls.

the skin is so hot against his lips, and then against his tongue. rozanov says something in russian above him, and shane can't even wonder what it is, he's too busy opening his mouth to suck and kiss wetly at rozanov's balls. it's like making out, almost, but making out with a girl has never made him feel hot all over like this, and he's never—never kissed a man, before.

rozanov keeps talking, keeps jerking himself faster. shane manages to catch bits and pieces—yes, fucking suck, bitch, like that...make you lick this whole team's balls...fucking faggot...bet you would lick my asshole too...where you belong...take a video, show everyone how much you love—but really it's hard to think of anything beyond how filthy he feels, drooling down his chin and ducking his head even lower to where his spit has run under rozanov's balls and licking firmly there at his taint too until he has to come up for air.

he's hauled back then, cool air rushing over the wet lower half of his face, rozanov jerking himself hard and fast above him. a wad of spit splatters across his cheek and nose. tell me what you are, rozanov demands.

shane shudders, nausea and pleasure swirling deep in his gut.

i'm a faggot, sir, he says breathlessly.

that's fucking right, rozanov says, and starts to come on shane's face.

shane opens his mouth for it immediately, and his eyes nearly roll back at the feeling of rozanov's cum landing on his tongue. he starts to come before he can get a hand in his boxers and quickly fumbles his hand down the waistband, swallowing and gasping and opening his mouth right back up while he works himself through his orgasm.

yes, fucking take my cum, bitch, rozanov grits. it's in shane's lashes, on his lips, on the bridge of his nose, and rozanov keeps jerking himself until there's nothing left to give. the last few dribbles land right on shane's tongue. shane's cock twitches in his hand.

rozanov tosses a towel toward shane as they both catch their breath, after. it hits him on the chest and lands on the floor.