pitted ice and dulled skates

Andrew knows for certain that's not the case- not with Scott- but he hasn't had the privilege of being on the receiving end in so long, it's hard to bust out of that role so willingly. Easier said and done when he's sobbing against his shoulder, not so much when he's looking at him with clear vision.

This though, the way Andrew obeys, the joy that rolls from him followed by the quick shift into shy and bewildered desire.

“I’m sorry,” Scott’s voice is low, his gaze devious, tongue tracing farther and farther down over rarely touched skin. “Do you want me to stop?” He traces that most sensitive spot, but avoids it, only giving im enough to brush the pad of his thumb across it.

"I definitely don't want them back," Shane added quickly, and he meant it. It was much more intense without anything between them. And he liked it. He liked the feeling of being full of Scott's cock and his cum. He'll keep that information for when he wants to rile Scott up, at the moment he's going to need a little while to recover. He's happy to do it under Scott, wrapped up in one another. Shane is content to bask there for a few moments until Scott breaks the silence with a question.

"Hm?" He questioned, confusion evident. He couldn't think of what he would miss until the second question. Shane forces his eyes open and looks up at the ceiling, suddenly feeling a little cold. He pulls Scott closer, afraid that this information really is going to come between them. But still, he pinches Scott's ear in retaliation for asking such a question.

When pulled, Scott follows, curling himself impossibly closer against Shane. Scott knows it's a hard topic, but that doesn't mean he wants to avoid it. Hell, he hadn't even known that Rozanov was a threat. And that's what Ilya is. Because he's just bigger than life.

Something is tight at the back of his throat, something rough that makes his eyes fill. "I want to fucking hurt him when you tell me shit like that, I want to break his stupid fucking nose." And, honestly, next time they cross paths on the ice, he's likely to rough Rozanov up a little. "He's an asshole, he treated you horribly." Which Scott didn't know, really, not until now.

"But I'm no Rozanov," Scott sighs, vulnerable and broken open. "I'm not flashy, I'm just ... fuck, baby, you think you're the boring one? You know how boring I am." He liked nights in and healthy food and crossword puzzles. He hated clubs and loud music and being the center of attention. "I just want to play hockey and make love to you, and sleep with you in my arms, and learn what neat things I can make that are okay with your diet."

The stumbling words are only adding to Scott’s charm. He’s so… old. Andrew imagined him to be more firm, more confident in relationships- or whatever the hell this is. He should be brewing with gusto. But that’s not the man he’s seeing right then, it’s someone flustered and in the game of cat and mouse- Scott is mouse. 

His foot is taken in a grip and Andrew lets out a small boyish laugh, his toes wriggling as he settles up and brings a knee to his chest. He crosses his arms over and tugs his body close, watching every lip quirk and brow movement on Scott’s face all the way up to Scott hanging up. As his hand reaches for his leg, runs up the length of it, Andrew’s smile grows and his leg flops over to the side, exposing his body once again.  “I’ve never gotten someone off with just a foot before. Could be fun.” he teases back, nose pointed up with some smug demeener. 

The compliments come, interrupting his teasing with a blushing face. His hand reaches for Scott’s head, fingers twirled about in those strands to welcome him closer as he kisses the sensitive skin on his thighs, then his stomach that’s further stretched out as Andrew lays back. Soft and untoned beneath Scott’s lips. Then his neck, head tilting to gift more skin, turning just enough to kiss his lips in that same soft way he’s being lead. 

Then Scott moves, and asks, and Andrew’s eyes roll with the whine that he lets out as he sits up further. His hand pushes Scott’s shoulder to move him, back against the bed. His body follows and soon, hips are framed by Andrew’s thighs and he sits right on Scott’s lap.  “You wanna take me apart…I want to be taken apart. Why are you questionin’ it? Just do it.”

He was so, so fucked.

Not as fucked, though, as Andrew was about to find himself. The lazy kisses are nice, building warmth in Scott’s belly, but the eagerness that Andrew offers is better. That simmer turns molten, Andrew trying to push Scott back, to rush him.

“Do you think you’re in charge?” There’s a cut to Scott’s smile as he shoves back, as he pushes, as he has Andrew back down on the bed again. “I had plans, little boy.” Shins are grabbed once more, directed towards Andrew’s core, folding him practically in half before sliding under them, allowing those long, long legs to drape over his back as Scott settles onto his stomach.

Scott keeps repeating it like it's something to be ashamed for, but Andrew takes no offence. Maybe it was just because he hadn't known, and didn't want to forget- not that he had a problem with it. Surely.

He maneuvers ragdoll like with Scott but once free, Andrew merely lays back on the bed, resting on elbows. His head turns to look to the window where light pulls in from passing cars, where sirens still wail, and where people walk not knowing how deep they have gone together and how deep they're willing to go.

As Scott calls the concierge, Andrew runs his toes along his thighs, the inner skin soft and sensitive and up to his groin. Head rolls around on his shoulders and he begins to close his eyes, listening to the rather sexy and blunt way Scott asks for something so intimate. Andrew can't imagine the balls is takes to be so outspoken to ask a strange for ...well, anything for sex. But Scott's got them, and they're working overtime.

“No uh,” Scott flushes brilliantly, stuttering over his words, grabbing at Andrew’s foot with his freehand. “No, we don’t, I mean lube will be just fine.” Told someone will have it upstairs momentarily, Scott leans back again to hang it up. “Looking to give me a foot job, beautiful?” Scott is not into feet, so it’s an absolute joke, Scott squeezing Andrew’s arch before sliding his hand up Andrew’s ankle and calf.

A moan bordering on a whimper leaves him when their cocks press together, his hips roll, his arms move again to readjust around his shoulders and pull Scott closer.

His eyes close in a daze as he drops his head back and his eyes screw tight as it goes warmer in the mix of precum and friction. His toes start to curl knowing how close both of them are to each other , how they could easily share an orgasm right there.

Andrew moves his hand between, his hand grips on Scott's, fingers curled around not to stroke but his thumb traces over the beading head. "Huh?" he hums, the slick coating thumb's pad.

“Twenty-two,” he says again, leaning down to lick his way into Andrew’s mouth, drowning in the sharp tang there. Twenty-two. Wasn’t there a weird thing where you were supposed to cut your age in half and add seven? That didn’t work out. And some of the rookies were younger than that. And wait, why did he think of that? Was it a good thing or a bad thing?

Was helping Andrew cheat a good thing? Was betraying the first friend Scott had found in a long time a good thing? No. The only good thing was this. Scott would freak out more, later. But not now.

Humming Scott sucked at Andrew’s lower lip, before pressing a hand in his chest and leaning back. Somehow they were facing the wrong way on the bed, and the phone was over there, and it took some maneuvering and bending for him to get it and jam the button for the concierge.

“Hey this is room,” Scott’s brow furrowed as he realize he didn’t know his room name. “The one that looks on the street. Yeah.” The concierge knew, of course she would. “I could use some uh,” Scott flushed, but the other option was getting it themselves or not getting it at all. “Do you have any lubricant in house. Uh,” Scott coughed. “The personal kind.” Asked if he wanted silicone or water based, Scott flushed more, the concierge adding helpfully that water was best for use with condoms. And asking if Scott needed those as well.

His face goes warm and his eyes shut with every name, sinking into him, rocking up, steady movements to feel that pull and pressure of his hand. Its so taboo and wrong it makes Andrew want to work for a release. His hips roll up and fingers scratch against his scalp.

Every question is answered with rapid nods, breath panted "yes Scott, fuck- yes, yes, yes," he kisses his temple, his cheek, his neck and nibbles gently on his skin. "Wanna feel it all inside me," He kisses the spot bitten, sucks gently to soothe but not mark.

He stills, eyes looking up and around the room as he tries to do the mental math of when the last time he was truly fucked, and comes up with "two years." He turns Scott's head to face him, locks his lips with his own, his lips catch his bottom lip between and Andrew sucks on it before his teeth catch.

None of it comes, Scott lost in the feeling of Andrew’s lips, his teeth. He doesn’t seem desperate anymore, just present. There, totally and absolutely meeting Scott where he is. It’s a heady feeling, damning. In that moment Scott isn’t a professional athlete or a celebrity. Andrew is giving him this gift, just being a man in love.

With someone who’s so, so young.

Even the words high school have Scott’s thoughts racing. He’s trying to do math to figure out how far out of it Andrew is. They haven’t swapped ages, but Scott’s is only a google search away. He’s pretty sure the kid can drink. Gemma talked about their sex life.

He’s not a minor.

Right?

At least 21.

Right?

Scott kisses back, steals his own, slots his cock in with Andrew’s, working both of them together. The math he’s doing is not mathing and so he stops, panting, flushed, leaking fucking everywhere propped up above Andrew.

Andrew gathers himself up between those thighs, follows Scott's lead to be sandwiched close where their dicks meet again between their bodies like before. His arms wrap around those shoulders and he runs one hand along Scott's shoulder, his bicep that he'd love to paint with ink, and his eyes flit over those lips in hopes he'll be forgiven.

He gathers spit in his mouth no questions asked, and his eyes remain on Scott's as he drips a large glob of saliva into his palm. Then as Scott drops his hand, a gasp is drawn out on contact. Eyes start to flutter, dropping his head into the crook of Scott's neck. Breaths draw in heavily, his eyes close tight and his fingers dig into skin.

"Mmmh- yes, fuck yes don't- don't stop,"

Pathetic and easy, as always, Andrew's eyes close and his hips roll upward into that hand. The arm still slung around his back is brought down and his fingers grip into Scott's hair loosely. "Mmm yeah, d-do it. Fuck, fill me." Thought alone brings another jolt to his cock, a dribble of precum from his head as he imagines what it would be like to be split open by Scott and taken for all he's worth.

How hard would Scott be on him? Or how easy? Would he want to see his face like he is now, watching every parted lip sigh and every wrinkle of forehead as he writhes in the palm of his hand? Or would he use those hands to force him face first down into the mattress?

Fuck- another twitch, another ache. Definitely wanting to be face first, hand pinning his shoulders down while the other fixes those fingers within his mouth to pry that desperate mouth open.

"Ff-fuck me Scott please." The whimper comes. He probably can't take it. But does he want to? Abso-fucking-lutely.

They shouldn’t be doing this. And yet…

Andrew curls to him, against him, and Scott feels his chest feel. “I’ve got you babydoll,” Scott croons, “you’re being so fucking good for me.” There’s a hum in Scott’s throat, a choked down whine at the words Andrew says. “That what you want?” Scott’s kips brush past Andrew’s. “Want me to fuck you baby? Stuff you with my cock?”

It’s what Scott wants. To take Andrew apart slowly. To make him writhe and beg. To fuck him hard and fast and leave his wrecked, all so that Scott can put him back together again.

He hums an answering mhm but doesn't do more than that. His eyes close as he sinks down, opening just enough to watch Scott. Thick and held so nicely in his mouth, warm, every smooth vein, every bit of skin running along his tongue so easily it's like it belongs.

Good boy- don't stop.

His cock twitches heavy beneath him, his thighs part and he lowers himself down to roll small ruts against the bed as he forces himself down lower with uncoordinated wobbly movements. The other hand touches over Scott's thigh as he pools spit in his mouth to prepare to swallow him further but before he can.

But that gag is his undoing, what makes Scott pull.

He shouldn't have gagged. He shouldn't have choked, he should have opened his throat up wider and looser because maybe then he would be good, maybe then Scott wouldn't have pulled him up with drool strings bridging his cock head to his lips.

He knows exactly what he's doing. Scott's been telling him all evening how good he's been, maybe he can do better. Maybe Scott will allow him the privilege of being there to make him feel good.

“Do you think it would look better like that?” Scott’s still trying to have the conversation, holding onto the fact even as Andrew’s lips brush over his thighs. “I mean you’re the a-artist.” Oh, any chance of that sounding like a normal sentence is gone, Scott’s cock twitching violently in one sharp spasm as Andrew gets closer.

“Baby.” It’s a whisper, it’s pleading, Scott begging Andrew not to do this. Not to because Scott wants it and he wants it so bad and he’s not sure he can ever, ever go back from it.

But Scott doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t tug on that hair, doesn’t back away. Just arches up off the bed into the flat press of Andrew’s tongue before groaning “Fuck.” Far too loudly and drawn out as Andrew takes him down. “Fuck. Fuck, babydoll. Yes, that’s so fucking good. Such a good boy. Please. Don’t, just. Don’t stop.”

Still didn't feel like it...

But again, all fight is gone, and he's willing to let it go. Confrontation was never his favorite hobby, much unlike his father who seemed to thrive with pulse racing arguments and careless words thrown out. It's not uncommon to leave work hearing no less than a hundred fuck yours thrown and half of them being to customers who think it's fun to poke the bear.

He allows the empty space to settle around them. The two live vastly different lives with vastly different complications and neither would ever understand the other fully, but the attempt is welcome. Scott is welcome to make whatever assumptions he wants as long as he makes them with Andrew in his arm.

The tap pulls eyes and he raises a brow. Show me- he tilts head and lifts himself up to gaze down at Scott's naked body all on display for him. It is bare indeed, blank canvas, soft skin but Andrew's mind is anywhere but work. They'd been reckless enough but Andrew wants more.

"Hm... well," Andrew rests eyes on Scott's face in search of permission, but doesn't quite ask. Instead, he treads waters carefully with fingertips over that light hair scattered on Scott's chest. "I think... You'd look pretty good with something up here. Maybe a wolf. Or..." His voice lowers to a gravel mutter, "Or.. Demeter and Dionysus. Greek gods of fertility."

His bottom lip catches in his teeth as he trails his fingers between pecs and down stomach. "Maybe something framing the chest. Underneath the curve of these things. All this muscle... Or a nice strong, thick oak tree over here." His fingers trace over Scott's ribs, then along his stomach, his hip, down the cut of his v where Andrew's own breath catches in his throat. "I think... feminine tattoos look really good on male figures. Maybe an olive branch goin' down here. One on each side. "

Those fingers travel down the v, narrowly missing his cock as he traces just by the crease of his thigh. "Your thighs are really something. I think they're... they deserve something beautiful. Full... Dark. Something that's... just as striking as they are now. "

The first brush of his fingers make gooseflesh explode over Scott, his breath hitching at the contact. “No wolves,” the words are a breathy murmur. “Mascots for lots of junior leagues.” He’s trying to will his cock not to thicken, he’d gotten laid no more than twelve hours ago, right before Drew had begged him to come. It wasn’t like he was hard up.

But he was hard. Or, hardening, making an annoyed little groan as Andrew’s touch lingered. “Can you just tattoo Gods?” Scott couldn’t imagine what that would look like. But the oak tree sounded cool, Scott arching up into the graze of Andrew’s fingertips. Fuck.

They were having a good time (well, kind of) and Scott was loving the connection, the sweetness, the closeness. Now he was fucking throbbing again, making a frustrated noise as those fingers skirted over Scott’s body.

Babydoll and brat are one in the same, he feels. Because he's just as fragile as the former, but god it's so much more fun to act out for the ladder until he shatters. If only Scott hadn't taken it upon himself to do it first, doubling down on the words. His face burns hot, embarrassed by how Scott still think's he's some sort of spoiled heir.

His chin lifts, eyes as well, all wide and shifting between Scott's. His bottom lip pouts outward just slightly and those words, that excuse doesn't do much to quell the pin in his stomach. None of those words add up, but Andrew is too tired to fight it. He's cried too much, too long, and the fight is taken out of him.

"Didn't feel like it..." he states, not to argue but to feel some transparency in feelings. He lifts his chin to kiss him again delicately. "Felt like... i 'unno. You.. were sayin' if it won't for my dad I- I wouldn't be here. No talent or...anything." Like when he had asked his opinion on the drawing he sent, and wasn't met with a compliment. It stung, because clearly it means he's not got what it takes.

His nose presses up into Scott's neck, his chin rests on his shoulder and his hand comes to Scott's back to pull him close. "Dunno if that's how you meant it but... Bein' told you're some nepobaby when you work your ass off every day kinda sucks..."

Scott scoffs, though, as Andrew keeps talking, pulling back to look down at him, letting temptation get the better of him, and biting Andrew’s nose. “When the fuck did I say any of that?” Scott tsks, and then sighs, the two of them melded together. The picture had only made Scott mad and then horny. And he wanted to avoid thinking about either of those things at all.

“I said being a nepobaby doesn’t make things simple or easy, those difficulties you face are often harder. And maybe I have my own chip.” Scott shrugs, musing to the ceiling. “Maybe I’ve got my own baggage about how I had to end up here, but I think thats an issue coming from the younger me.”

Silence settles, Scott thinking it over, one hand full with the swell of Andrew’s ass. Not lustful, or going anywhere, just happy to hold him like that, pressed against Scott’s body.

Then he's beside her, cradling her face in his hand and prompting her to let the powers she has worked so hard to control steal some of his healing factor. She hates this for him. It's uncomfortable for anyone to go through but especially for him given all he's been through. But she doesn't want to die so the choice is already made.

It feels slow at first, a sluggish tugging where their skin meets as the healing kicks in. It knits flesh and bone back together and as soon as she is able to sit up, she brushes his hand away from her face so that she can wrap her arms around him. Partially she wants to keep him steady, unsure of how much of an effect her powers would have on him, but also because she was scared. This helps to ground her.

"...You okay? Oh my god... Ah thought Ah really was a goner..." The words come out quickly, but end abruptly. Oh.

It had taken a minute for her process, assuming what she felt was just her own fear, but there was something else there too. It was him. He had been scared to lose her. They were friends, that wasn't entirely surprising. It wasn't just that though. Not even he had actually put words to it, but there was more to how he felt about her and he had been afraid he'd lost his chance to say something.

Awareness comes in arms that wrap around him. Strong and lithe, smelling like she always does. Sweat. Something sweet. Sunshine. Like she can pluck the damn thing from the heavens and bring it down to him.

“I should have kissed you.” At least thats what Logan attempts to say. What comes out though is more of a mumble. Words as drunk as his brain is, healing factor sputtering to catch up with the fact his life’s essence had been drained away.

Not that Logan gives a fuck about that. Or, really, the shit she’s seen in his head. If there’s a single person in the world that knows his mind inside and out, it’s her. More than Charlie. More than Jean. Fuck, maybe even more than him.

And that’s never freaked Logan out, least not in the way it should. He worries that she’s stuck with that weight, with that history of his, with bits of him rambling around inside her brain. Hell, he can’t even stand having himself in his own head most of the times.

The terrors, though, those weak moments. None of them embarrass him. Not with her. She understands, always has, in a way no one else could. Maybe it’s Carol in there. Hell, he doesn’t know.

What he does know, though, what Logan’s thoughts catch on like a splinter against a silk stocking, is that this moment could have been different. Some distant part of his mind allows for the fact that she knows, now. That this raw, visceral fear of his tipped his hand. All he can think of is it should have been better. He should have kissed her. Made the moment a romantic one. She could have hated it, but it isn’t like she hasn’t decked him before.

Hell, he really loves it when she hauls off and gets him in the jaw.