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The problem isn’t that Mitch isn’t used to giving head, because he certainly is. It’s normally hovering near the top of his greatest things known to man list, next to hockey and maybe Skittles. So, it’s not an issue. In fact, it’s the best part of this.

The problem is that Auston doesn’t shut up. Not once.

Sucking off Auston isn’t uncharted territory for Mitch, he’s tried it out a few times, but that was closer to his rookie season. This, however, is very much now and he’s way too fucking mature — maybe mature isn’t even the word, maybe it’s dignified — to deal with this.

Long story short, it’s a pity blowjob.

Because Auston was gloomy and on the edge of losing it in their goddamn hotel room and it was his only way of saying, “We’ll get ‘em next game,” without actually saying it.

So, that’s the scene. Minutes after losing game one to a midget, a dwarf, and a bench full of assholes, Auston’s sitting on the edge of his bed and Mitch is on his knees with his cock in his mouth, pulsing and wet.

Again, he has nothing to complain about.

He loves the sensation of it. The feel of Auston hard between his lips, the weight of his cock on his tongue, the sheer heat radiating off of him — it’s addicting, it drives him wild. He’s looking up at Auston, watching with with hungry eyes, dictating what exactly he can do to push him over the edge.

And its pretty fucking great, what Auston’s doing, too. He’s got his hand fisted tightly into Mitch’s hair, he’s cursing and groaning, loud enough that they can both hear it, but quiet enough that it doesn’t trespass through the walls. It makes him feel valued. He’s unravelling right there, right in front of Mitch, and that’s where it develops. The problem.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, that’s it. C’mon, baby, you’re doing so good. Always so good to me—“

Mitch sucks hard, the continued suction driving a sharp pain up his jaw. He sputters and coughs when he pulls off, choking on something. Maybe it’s the praise, or more likely, maybe it’s the overage of saliva. He can’t pick apart the differences, because they’d both feel equally as shocking, and this is pretty unexpected.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and it looks comical, he could just see it. Him panting hard, choking on the air for all he knows, Auston’s dick hard and unattended to in his hand. He wonders momentarily if he’s fucked this up to an extent where he can’t dive back, but his thoughts are punctuated by a calm hand threading through his hair.

“We good?” Auston asks, blatantly concerned. His voice is calm, an extreme contrast from how it’d been just moments earlier.

He doesn’t like it. It makes him feel shitty, lesser.

Mitch ducks his head sheepishly, curbing his response to instead dip back onto his cock, forcing himself to make up for the lost progress.

It doesn’t take long, he gets Auston off sloppy and quick — making obscene slurping sounds and they’re easy to keep up, plus they obscure Auston’s need to talk. It’s a win-win, Mitch guesses.

He feels a swell of excitement at the pleased noises that Auston makes as he comes, losing himself in the sudden tug on his arm and the salt-laced kisses they indulge in afterwards.

He doesn’t worry about it. Not for the time being.

* * *

They fuck it up again in game two, and Mitch ends up giving Auston another consolation prize.

He should stop, unless he’s trying to get him to deliberately throw his game for a quick blowie after each loss. At the rate they’re going, they’ll probably get swept, but it won’t be all that bad. He gets to suck off Toronto’s golden boy, which is pretty fucking great.

Auston’s pretty fucking great.

So, Mitch shouldn’t complain. But he still does and he should probably just shut the hell up.

“Did you get it all down?” Auston inquires, his voice weighed down with arousal.

He’s asking about his own cum, they both know it. Mitch can still taste bitter traces of it on his tongue, but he knows he’s gotten the majority of it swallowed. He parts his lips just slightly, nodding obediently like he’s agreeing to putting his toys away — he absolutely hates the imagery of that, but he goes along with it anyways.

It doesn’t make it better that Auston smiles down at him, nothing but pure affection and admiration, and goes, “That’s a good boy.”

Mitch feels gratified and unsure all at once. He has to bury anything he wants to say back, because this is just Auston being Auston. They’re young and hormonal, he just wants to try a swing at dirty talk, and it should wash over soon enough.

He misses when it was just panting and moans of Fuck and Oh, shit, but those days are long behind them, it seems. Mitch isn’t exactly not okay with it.

* * *

The next time is after ripping open game three, and Auston’s already half-hard when Mitch gets him out of his boxers.

It’s more of an adrenaline-fuelled handjob than it is a blowjob, because they beat those fuckers from Boston that time.

It’s quick and sends a thrill of pride rushing through Mitch. Getting Auston off in such a cramped time frame has him buzzing and, well, there’s the problem.

Neither of them say anything.

It’s fine. Until it isn’t. And when it isn’t is when they part with a chaste kiss to the forehead from Auston.

Mitch isn’t a fucking toddler. It’s irritating. He wonders if it’s just Auston thinking he can’t handle it, handle something more than a vanilla blowjob. He’d be half right, but Mitch wants more.

He wants.

Maybe he’s being clingy. Or maybe he’s being too needy. It’s frustrating; it hurts. He doesn’t know what he wants or why he wants it, but he knows Auston slots somewhere into the equation and he fits a little too perfectly.

* * *

They bomb game four and Auston’s back to talking, smooth and easy as he guides Mitch’s head roughly up and down the length of his cock. He feels used, rightfully so, and Auston’s eager to do it.

This time the talking doesn’t faze Mitch as much. The grabby touch on his skull, tight and foreceful, stroking his hair, pulling it.

His own hand is wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, stroking Auston where his lips fail to reach. He’s moving faster than he usually does, but that’s only because the grip on his hair is guiding him to. Auston’s spilling things like Yeah, Mitchy, you got it and Fuck, that’s perfect — you’re perfect.

It’s music to his ears, now. The praise encourages him like nothing else would. It’s exhilarating. It’s rewarding. It’s everything Mitch wants.

And then, it isn’t.

It all crashes, burning, and Mitch lets it, because that’s just the way he is. Something settles into the air around them that isn’t fucking cute. It’s humiliating. It sits like a white hot pang of realization that he’s being played like a fiddle and he just sits there, on his knees, letting it happen.

“A-ah, yeah, fucking shit, Mitchy. You gonna make daddy cum?”

Auston keeps breathing hard, oblivious for far too long, before the loss of sensation on his dick finally processes and his eyes jolt wider from where they were half-lidded.

Mitch stumbles back, getting to his feet just as Auston tucks himself back into his jeans. “Fuck you, man,” he snaps. His face twists into pain, like he’s just been punched in the gut — repeatedly. Auston blinks at him rapidly, obviously still confused, but he’s clearly concerned. Mitch hates it. He hates how easy it is for him to fall victim to Auston’s sweet side, almost forgetting his frustration entirely. Almost.

He’s making fun of you, his brain reminds him, cruel and brooding. Images of Auston laughing at him and mocking him flood through his thoughts.

“What happened?” Auston asks, all too innocently. His dumb doe eyes are wide and worried, incoherent emotions scrawled all along his features. It’s almost comforting, just that it’s not.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Mitch spits back. “Daddy? Are you serious? You’re younger than me!”

Auston’s closer now. He’s up from his chair, advancing him like a predator would his prey. “I didn’t — I didn’t think you’d care.” Mitch tries getting further away from him, but Auston catches his wrists and he lets him. He doesn’t forget to put up a struggle, the thought very well crosses his mind. He just doesn’t. Like he wants Auston to win. Like he wants to be back on his knees, dominated by him in every way possible.


“No, no, get the hell away from me. I can’t believe you,” he cries out, and Auston’s against him like they need each other to breathe.

One second he’s yelling at him and the next he’s melting under the damp envelop of Auston’s lips. As if that’s supposed to fix this.

Mitch is being irrational. He realizes that. It just never occurred to him to consider, for even a second, maybe Auston wasn’t trying to embarrass him and pull together a story he could tell his friends. Instead maybe he was searching for something outside of the run of the mill blowjob. He would’ve understood that, had his brain not been so clogged up with the bullshit he feeds it on his own.

Then Auston says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think the daddy thing would catch you so off guard. You seem like the kind of guy that would be open to it.

Mitch blinks twice, his jaw falling slack.

He knows Auston didn’t just assume he has daddy issues.

When he leaves the room that night, he fucking leaves.

* * *

Mitch knows what Auston’s doing. And at the same time, he doesn’t.

They win game five, but it feels like a loss, because he renames Auston’s contact in his phone to Don’t Answer and he doesn’t spare it a second glance.

* * *

Rough fingers dig into the divots of his hips, and Mitch can’t do anything but squirm against the wall. Auston’s on him like a second skin, and he won’t budge.

“Move,” Mitch protests, trying to come off as unfazed. Auston can still see right through him and expose him for just what he really is. Mitch has to pretend he doesn’t know that. “We’re gonna be late, he adds, and it sounds so half-hearted, even to his own ears. It’s almost like he couldn’t care less if they missed the free skate that morning, or even the game, as long as Auston would just wrap his arms around him and piece this back together.

“I guess I’m just one of those guys your daddy’s always warned you about, huh? One of those sick, twisted perverts who gets off to pretty boys begging on their knees,” Auston’s fingers dig deeper into his skin. Mitch could practically feel the bruises blossoming. “If you want me to stop, I get it. Just tell me.”

Mitch wants to shove him off and drag him back to his room where they can fool around and not have to worry about this. His heart is beating hard in his chest, he can hear the thrumming up in his ears. It’s like his entire rib cage is collapsing, all while Auston’s trying to comfort him.

He just doesn’t want to back away from this.

“Yeah. I — we can try this,” Mitch answers back after a prolonged beat of silence.

They win game six. Turns out Mitch can deal with it.

* * *

“F-fuck, yeah, you’re doing amazing, baby. Who’s daddy’s good boy?” Auston’s voice is sex-heavy, but it leaks past his lips with so much fluidity that there’s nothing Mitch can do but let it twirl around his head and sink deep into his muscles. He knows he could get off just like this, just on the idea that he knows he’s getting Auston there.

Mitch feels like he’s floating. He moans an affirmative sound around Auston and tries not to jerk back when hips buck up to meet his motions.

“Just like that, baby.”

Auston’s voice is clean, smooth, and praising. It lights him up in all the right ways. His skin prickles, but it feels good.

He knows Auston is younger than him, and that this is batshit fucking crazy. But it does things to him.

All along he’s been trying to fix a problem, but here’s the thing: there was never a problem to begin with.