Chapter Text
As a general rule, Shane doesn’t do unprepared. When he leaves for away games, he packs a full medicine cabinet and a pocket toolkit. He brings two pairs of underwear for every day he’ll be gone. Hell, he even stashes an extra novel in his carry-on, just in case he finishes his airplane read too quickly.
So the first time he sucks Rozanov’s cock, he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what’s supposed to happen. He’s done his research on the subject, has meticulously pored through Cosmo articles for whatever tips he can find (even though most of them make him cringe when he pictures them happening to his own dick). He’s practiced, too—has squeezed his thumb tight while the silicone tip of his dildo pressured his gag reflex, has taught the muscles in his esophagus to slacken through brute force and repetition.
The problem is that none of it helps. All of the training he put himself through does nothing to prepare him for the reality of this. When Shane drops to his knees and takes Rozanov in his mouth, he realizes immediately how many variables he failed to account for. The angle is a big one. But the texture is different, too; soft and yielding and human, so unlike the body-safe purple plastic Shane’s used to throating.
Mostly, though, he’s caught off-guard by his total inability to strategize, to plan. The part of his brain that remembers 5 Crazy Tricks to Get Him Off Hands-Free! is currently being subsumed by hot, animal want.
He wants to do this well. Wants to shut Rozanov up for a bit, wants to make his pretty mouth do something other than taunt him for a change. Wants to savor the spitslick drag of Rozanov’s cock as it fucks into his mouth, how the stretch of it pulls his lips taut. Wants to feel Rozanov twitch and shudder when he comes. Wants to lose himself in the sweat-salt taste of boy. Wants, wants, wants—
Rozanov doesn’t let him, though. He pulls Shane up by the shoulders before he can get the hang of things, before he can even close his eyes and concentrate on the task at hand.
“Was that bad?” he asks, unable to help himself, and it should probably be shameful how relieved he is when Rozanov assures him that it wasn’t.
They move to the bed and Shane gets another shot at it, and this time Rozanov only stops him when he’s about to finish. Shane tries not to be disappointed as he watches, focuses on mouthing at Rozanov’s chest while he spills into his own hand.
After a minute, Rozanov teases, “Not bad for first time.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane shoots back, but the shallow praise warms him all the same.
He can work with not bad. He can work with anything, as long as Rozanov lets him try again. As long as he’s given the chance to get good at this.
Of course, Rozanov fucks whatever this moment is up in short order, pretending to leave for just long enough to give Shane the chance to stew in it. He makes up for it a little, though, when he pushes Shane onto his back and swallows him down to the base.
The sensation lights Shane’s whole body up, spasms through him like the jolt of an electrical current. And then Rozanov hollows his cheeks and sucks, writing nonsense words on the underside of his cock until his vision whites out entirely (on second thought, they might be Russian, he thinks, before the notion of thinking becomes an absurd impossibility).
It overwhelms him, the intensity of it ecstatic and almost too sharp. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.
Rozanov topples him with the same elegance of a building being demolished, a careful collapsing of Shane’s entire infrastructure, and he does it all with an infuriatingly smug glint in his eye.
He doesn’t stop when Shane warns him he’s close, doesn’t budge when Shane tries to push him off. Instead, he just continues to hold Shane’s gaze, like he refuses to miss a single second of Shane’s dismantling. It’s only a fraction of a moment before Shane comes in his mouth, before he watches Rozanov’s Adam’s apple bob as he gulps it down without hesitation. He imagines this is how it would feel to be ripped in half, how it would feel to hold a sun inside his stomach.
It’s incredible. It’s humiliating.
And afterwards, of course, Rozanov has to make fun of how quickly it happens.
Reflexively, Shane snipes back a quick “fuck you.” There’s little heat in it, though.
He’s got more important things to worry about, after all. Because as the last gasps of pleasure spark over his skin, he realizes what he has to do—he needs to ruin Rozanov the way Rozanov’s ruined him, make him feel the way he made Shane feel.
Actually, strike that; he needs to do it even better.
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The problem, as he realizes over the next few days, is that he isn’t exactly sure how to do that.
If he learned anything from his brief foray into the world of oral sex, it’s that it is entirely different to do it with a real person than any of the things he’s tried doing by himself (yes, okay, including that, but it hasn’t ever actually worked, and one time he ended up pulling a muscle in his back and had to figure out how to explain it to his teammates).
But it’s not like he can just go up to some guy and ask if he’d let Shane—what, practice? How would that even go? Hey, if it’s cool with you, I want to suck your cock. Why? Oh, because I’m trying to get so good at it that Ilya Rozanov’s brain explodes next time I give him head. By the way, I’m Shane Hollander of the Montreal Metros. Please don’t tell anyone about this.
Not fucking likely.
No, there’s no way around it: his only option is to keep practicing on Rozanov himself. Which creates an entirely different problem, namely that Shane has to talk to Rozanov again. Worse, he has to proposition him.
He can’t pretend it’s not a little terrifying.
But he’s brave at heart, okay, so it only takes him another few weeks to actually text the number Rozanov gave him.
Hey Lily! he types, and then he spends the next five minutes debating whether the exclamation point is too eager, before deciding to delete it. Once it’s been replaced with a way more nonchalant period, he adds, What’s up?
He reads it back: Hey Lily. What’s up?
Wait, actually, that might be too…maybe he’s just overthinking it, but it almost seems kind of aggressive? Like he’s looking to pick a fight or something.
After several more minutes of internal discourse on the implications of different punctuation marks, he eventually rewords the message to a nice, chill ‘Sup, Lily? and forces himself to hit send.
He immediately regrets it. Blind panic floods his skull with the same cold burn as if a bucket of icewater were poured inside it, and he scrambles to think of any way to salvage this.
Fuck, he can’t, can he? There’s just no chance. He’s too lame.
He’s in the middle of typing something—he has no idea what, exactly, except that it starts with the words ‘I’m sorry’—before he notices that Rozanov is doing the same, the grey ellipsis presumably having popped up at some point while Shane was freaking out. Immediately, he stills his fingers.
It’s a long and painful eternity before the text actually appears: Good timing. Was just thinking of you.
Then, in an instant, another one follows it: It made me cum hard.
Shane rolls his eyes at the vulgarity, but his chest does unclench a bit. He heaves a shaky breath and writes back, Yeah? Funny you should mention that…
He doesn’t say anything else. Just waits for Rozanov to take the bait.
Of course, he does. What is it Jane? Did you just cum too?
And Shane is brave at heart, so he compels himself to move his fingers over keys, to type the words, Not quite. But I want to make *you* come again. This time, he only agonizes briefly before managing to hit send.
Oh yeah? You do?
Yes.
Fuck Jane. What would you do?
All Shane has to do is say it, so he does. God help him, but he does. I want to suck your cock. I want you to train me how to do it.
There’s a pause, then, wherein Shane almost starts to panic again, before Rozanov responds: You want to train? Then we train.
Then, he adds, See you soon. Can’t wait to fuck your face, before finally capping it off with a kiss emoji.
And that’s how it starts.