#THETENTHMAN ⸻ a wickedly selective and private indie MULTIMUSE focusing on characters from HEATED RIVALRY with some non-request-able muses from MARVEL and THE BOYS. Center ice has Ilya ROZANOV, Scott HUNTER, and Eric BENNETT. Penned by Strange (she/her, 30+) here for multiverses, crossovers, and all the ocs. 25+ only, minors and personals dni.
He's on the rink, it's cold, bracing, and he's able to sneak a shot into the crease.
He's at a bar, there's a beer in his hand that he doesn't remember ordering, and this place doesn't look like anywhere he's gone before.
He's in Ireland, but it feels like a movie set, because the time period is all wrong but there's no lights or cameras anywhere.
Winning the cup. Losing the cup. Meeting fans. Back at the bar, where he's using the French he's picked up after years of playing in Canada. Pool. Darts. Beer. Dart. Pool.
Fuck he's bad at this game. He doesn't know why he plays, he's always preferred darts when he's in a bar. Pool feels like it's too much math, except that's not it. He does angles and physics all the time in his head for hockey. It's lonely. Pool's lonely. There's no one to slide a puck to, or who knows your moves and you know theirs.
But Scott doesn't know anything. He knows ice and cold and bar and closeness and the dark felt of the table and the rings on the dartboard. He knows the heft of his glass that never seems to get empty and he knows he can't remember the last time he went home.
Rink. Bar. Rink. Bar. Rink.
"Oh, hey." There's a man he's seen before. Or he hasn't. Scott both knows and doesn't. So Scott does what he'd always do and smiles like he means it, even as his thoughts churn to catch up. "Good night so far?"
There should be more questions. More concern. More caution. What about Gemma? What about after? What does all of this mean?
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.
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.
"'m twenty two, but it's kinda... late to be askin' that, right?" Another kiss stolen, his hand brought up to his lips. He sucks his thumb clean with eyes, hooded and dazed, resting on Scott's. "But I'm tall enough to ride the ride...so are we boardin' or what?"
“Twenty-two?” It takes Scott almost a full 30 seconds to process the words, computing time extended by the fact that Andrew’s hand was around his, and then by the way that Andrew was licking precome off his thumb.
“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.
“Hey, babydoll,” Scott said, feeling only a little insane, “Do uh. Do we need condoms? I’m clean.”
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.
He's soon pulled back to attention with Scott's question. Brows knit together, and he peers upward. His knows wrinkles, lip curls, and he shakes his head. "If you're good then why the fuck do we need a condom?" Andrew asks. " 'M fine too. " His toe gentle pokes at his Sac between his legs with a shit eating grin. "Thought ya wanted to fill me up, buttercup."
Nothing about this for Scott is easy. The conversation he’s having, the twenty-two year old in his bed, the distraction of him. In fact, Scott gets lost in the sight of him for a moment, distracted by Andrew stretched out and beautiful, toes dragging against Scott’s thighs. Is this what more feels like? Comfort. Contentment. Lack of a rush to just get to the finish line.
“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.
“Seriously,” Scott allows his hungry gaze to roam. “You have to be one of the most beautiful things i have ever seen.” Kisses pressed against hips, thighs, stomach, lips dragged up over Andrew’s chest, neck sucked at, mouth found. Scott kisses him for a while, soft and lazy. “Are you sure about this?” He says, finally, not even able to fully break away. “We can do other things, we can just go back to lying here…” Scott pulls back, looking down at Andrew again. “I mean, I want to take you apart. But I’m okay with just this too.”
There should be more questions. More concern. More caution. What about Gemma? What about after? What does all of this mean?
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.
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.
"'m twenty two, but it's kinda... late to be askin' that, right?" Another kiss stolen, his hand brought up to his lips. He sucks his thumb clean with eyes, hooded and dazed, resting on Scott's. "But I'm tall enough to ride the ride...so are we boardin' or what?"
“Twenty-two?” It takes Scott almost a full 30 seconds to process the words, computing time extended by the fact that Andrew’s hand was around his, and then by the way that Andrew was licking precome off his thumb.
“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.
“Hey, babydoll,” Scott said, feeling only a little insane, “Do uh. Do we need condoms? I’m clean.”
There’s another stutter in Scott’s thought as Andrew complies. No question, no clarification, just lips parted and spit dripping onto Scott’s hand. They shouldn’t be doing this. That keeps running around in Scott’s mind, lost there in the recesses. He acknowledges it, but doesn’t heed any kind of warning.
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.
“When’s the last time you were fucked?” Scott asks, gentle, tipping them both back, thinking for a second. “Have… have you ever? Taken dick?”
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.
"I did. High school. And once at a party." he steals another chaste kiss and pushes hips forward, body hugging tight against Scott's torso, his cock and Scott's hand hugged between their bodies. "Not like yours. But I've...yeah, I've taken it."
There should be more questions. More concern. More caution. What about Gemma? What about after? What does all of this mean?
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.
It’s the rutting, really, the little rolls of Andrew’s hips as he mimes fucking, as he looks for friction against his dick that seals it. Okay, thats not true, it’s a total lie, because the moment they walked into that hotel they were both done for.
Scott doesn’t care.
He loves Andrew. Loves Andrew in a way he has never felt for another human. It is fucked up and awful and it is going to mess up so, so many things, but all that matters is Scott gets these moments with him. This connection. Maybe more.
More like years together. Not just more like more.
But Scott wants that too. And that’s why he’s telling Andrew to stop, a look of absolute feral need etched into his features as spit strings it’s way between Andrew’s plush mouth and Scott’s swollen dick before his expression turns to shocked confusion.
“What?” Pushing up onto his elbows and then higher, Scott pulls Andrew into his lap. Thoughts stuttering at the compliment in there - good, it’ll be the last cock Andrew ever has - before rolling forward again. “Jesus we’re bad at this,” Scott sighs, holding his hand out, palm up, under Andrew’s chin.
“Spit,” Scott waits until Andrew complies before he’s leaning in to snag those spit-slicked and swollen lips, working Andrew’s dick as he does so. It’s experimental, at first, loose and exploratory until he finds the pressure and rhythm that draws noises from Andrew’s throat.
“Not. Complaining.” Each word punctuated with a bite to that pout. “But I need to know if I can fuck you.” Scott’s hand continues, working Drew as he leans back so he can watch his face. “Need to know if I can fill you up and come inside of you.” Something Scott’s never considered doing before in his whole life. “Think you can take one this big?” Scott’s smile slices. “Think you want to?”
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.
There’s another stutter in Scott’s thought as Andrew complies. No question, no clarification, just lips parted and spit dripping onto Scott’s hand. They shouldn’t be doing this. That keeps running around in Scott’s mind, lost there in the recesses. He acknowledges it, but doesn’t heed any kind of warning.
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.
“When’s the last time you were fucked?” Scott asks, gentle, tipping them both back, thinking for a second. “Have… have you ever? Taken dick?”
In Scott’s defense, it was just a question. Just one asked there within all the rest of them. He hadn’t really been thinking, but maybe part of him had and maybe he really, really wanted this. Fuck, this is so, so fucked.
“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.”
Restraint is one thing, but Scott’s no hero and those beautiful lips are on him, those doe eyes fixed on Scott’s gaze, who is he to say no, to tell Andrew they should stop. Until the gag. Until the little cough, Scott groaning like he’s been injured, tugging on that dark hair. “Drew,” Scott pants, tugging again, tugging up and away from his dick. “Drew you gotta stop.”
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.
"I-I'm sorry I haven't...like-I just- " he coughs, and wipes his mouth, then jostles up on the bed to sit on his knees between those thighs he just fawned over. "I-I've never had one so big so I-I'm not... use to it. I can do better."
It’s the rutting, really, the little rolls of Andrew’s hips as he mimes fucking, as he looks for friction against his dick that seals it. Okay, thats not true, it’s a total lie, because the moment they walked into that hotel they were both done for.
Scott doesn’t care.
He loves Andrew. Loves Andrew in a way he has never felt for another human. It is fucked up and awful and it is going to mess up so, so many things, but all that matters is Scott gets these moments with him. This connection. Maybe more.
More like years together. Not just more like more.
But Scott wants that too. And that’s why he’s telling Andrew to stop, a look of absolute feral need etched into his features as spit strings it’s way between Andrew’s plush mouth and Scott’s swollen dick before his expression turns to shocked confusion.
“What?” Pushing up onto his elbows and then higher, Scott pulls Andrew into his lap. Thoughts stuttering at the compliment in there - good, it’ll be the last cock Andrew ever has - before rolling forward again. “Jesus we’re bad at this,” Scott sighs, holding his hand out, palm up, under Andrew’s chin.
“Spit,” Scott waits until Andrew complies before he’s leaning in to snag those spit-slicked and swollen lips, working Andrew’s dick as he does so. It’s experimental, at first, loose and exploratory until he finds the pressure and rhythm that draws noises from Andrew’s throat.
“Not. Complaining.” Each word punctuated with a bite to that pout. “But I need to know if I can fuck you.” Scott’s hand continues, working Drew as he leans back so he can watch his face. “Need to know if I can fill you up and come inside of you.” Something Scott’s never considered doing before in his whole life. “Think you can take one this big?” Scott’s smile slices. “Think you want to?”
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.
His fingers circle up over Scott's thigh, palm rubs over the line of his v as Andrew's eyes catch the way cock grows heavy and wanting. His own, reacting in time with Scott's.
"Love your thighs..."Andrew mutters in answer, squeezing one in his palm. He doesn't go into how he loves them so much he'd gladly fuck them with zero penetration, just having them squeeze his cock between them would be enough.
And there it is. The last piece of the puzzle that has Andrew's own pressed straight up against his stomach and heavy and wanting.
Figure eights are drawn on Scott's skin as questions fall out of his mouth so easily, one in particular catching his attention and drawing an ache through shaft. "Can do it in color," he says, his fingers venturing back to the hip line as he traces the olive branch homes- hopefully. "Two...three hours maybe. Depends how big..."
Maybe seven... eight inches.
For the tattoo? Oh, maybe five.
His head rolls back into that grip and he wants to. So fucking bad he wants to. But Scott will say no, not because he doesn't want it, but because it's a horrible idea. And it is.
So he won't ask. Scott did ask if he sucked dick, anyway.
So Andrew moves over Scott's leg, moves so he's between his knees. His hands run over Scott's thighs , up his hips and down in slow movements. Andrew leans forward, eyes meeting up from between his legs, his lips kissing over the soft skin on his inner thighs, grazing and then pressing another.
His tongue draws a line up that skin and as his palms lay flat on Scott's hips, his tongue meets the base of his cock. Flattened, a stripe is licked slowly up along his length to the head where he hovers. Breathes the smallest sigh against his head before his head turns and takes the head between lips.
A whorish little moan leaves him, eyes briefly closing tight as the salt taste touches his tongue and one hand snakes under to take the base in his hand and guides it to his mouth. His mouth goes slack, his mouth goes slack as he drops his head down and presses it to the back of his throat. A small gag and cough hits him, but he'll fight to be the goodest boy Scott's ever seen. So he sinks lower, eyes focused on Scott's face as he closes his lips, sucks hollowed cheeks in and settles three quarters of the way down and holds the gaze.
In Scott’s defense, it was just a question. Just one asked there within all the rest of them. He hadn’t really been thinking, but maybe part of him had and maybe he really, really wanted this. Fuck, this is so, so fucked.
“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.”
Restraint is one thing, but Scott’s no hero and those beautiful lips are on him, those doe eyes fixed on Scott’s gaze, who is he to say no, to tell Andrew they should stop. Until the gag. Until the little cough, Scott groaning like he’s been injured, tugging on that dark hair. “Drew,” Scott pants, tugging again, tugging up and away from his dick. “Drew you gotta stop.”
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. "
Scott doesn’t know what he expects, but he feels playful, silly, as he lays back and exposes himself for Andrew to look over. There’d been hope that maybe Andrew would go grab his phone and pull up a portfolio, but not … whatever this is.
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.
“You like my thighs?” There’s a growl in Scott’s voice, deep and dark and threatening. Just got laid, Hunter. You weren’t even supposed to kiss this boy. “I like the olive branch thing.” There’s another hitch in his breathing. “Do you do them in like color?” God this was killing him. “Can you do that? Will it hurt? Have you ever sucked dick? How long would a tattoo like that take?” Questions, all rapid-fire, all stream of consciousness, Scott’s fingers tangled in Andrew’s hair and trying really, really hard not to shove him just where he wants.
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..."
Oh god, Andrew’s pouting. He’s pouting and it’s so fucking cute, and Scott honestly doesn’t know what to do about it. Not the pouting, itself, but the fact that he’s so fucking charmed by it. He wraps himself around Andrew more firmly, in part of hold him, but also to hide his smile.
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.
“So show me,” Scott says, finally, tapping Andrew on the ass. “Show me some of your work. You want to put a tattoo on me?” Scott starfishes out on his back, arms and legs spread. “Blank canvas or whatever. Pick a spot.”
The moment he speaks she knows exactly who is there. Weak as she is, that knowledge comforts her, almost makes her smile. Rogue could handle herself most of the time, but doing what they did felt less daunting with him around. Not because she expected him to save her, but because things just always went better when he was around.
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.
She pulls back from him slightly to look at his face, her jaw almost on the floor as she pieced it all together. "Is there... somethin' you wanna tell me?" She finally asked.
It feels like a fog that settles on him. Some kind of gauzy blanket falling over his awareness. Everything in his thoughts, his senses, dulled and covered and protected by cloth. He thinks of moving trucks and the way they wrap old armoires in all that black and blue to protect them. His mind shifts, wanders, the fog getting thicker. Something sways and he wonders if he’s all tied down in the back of the truck.
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.
“M’sorry,” he slurs, lost in the deep green of those eyes. “Shoulda made it better.” Leaning in he noses at her briefly, offers a light nuzzle, before his lips brush against hers. Chaste. Fleeting. But damning him past any kind of return.
Bear’s thrilled at the opportunity to get to sit face-to-face with Scott Hunter. The man’s a total fucking fox, and Bear’s not above indulging himself in eye-candy and ensuing fantasies while working.
He goes over all of the boring details of Scott’s contractual obligations with the (lucrative) company he’s representing and clicks his pen a few times, smiling from the swivel-backed wheeled chair opposite the other man. There are stacks of paper on the table that separates them but Bear’s all too happy to get up, close the gap between them, leaning over Scott to offer the other man his pen.
“Any questions before you start signing?” He asks, gaze trailing over Scott’s handsome face, the expanse of what Bear can see of his body, then back up, a self-satisfied little smirk on the lawyer’s full lips.
Normally, Scott doesn't go to these things alone. Normally, Scott doesn't do them mid-season when he had a game the night before and another one tomorrow. But he happens to be in D.C. and the deal happens to be a good one, and his lawyer has already looked over everything, hashed out the details and done ... all that stuff. All that's needed is Scott's tight, spidery scrawl, and this is easier than getting it by courier the following week.
And, being perfectly honest, Scott is not upset he's without his entourage. He doesn't love the idea of any lawyer's office - it's so boring - but at least three of his teammates had attempted to come along. They wanted to do lunch after. Scott was afraid they'd be loud and boisterous (they would have), especially Vaughny, especially after a win, and Scott was nursing a sore shoulder, an overextended knee and, oh yeah, the fact the lawyer was stunning.
Like beautiful. The lines of his face were strong, great bone structure, but the softness of his lips made the back of Scott's neck heat up. Especially how close they were. Especially how good the other man smelled. So much of Scott's life is lived wrapped in cotton batting - Scott trying his damndest to pretend his attraction to men wasn't there, trying to hold back anything that might be considered longing, or lustful.
But they're alone. They're alone and he's right there, and so Scott lets himself live a little. They won last night. Everyone else went out and got drunk, but all Scott does is lean toward this gorgeous, good-smelling, far too appealing man, nodding. Nodding too much. Until he realizes he's nodding when he should be shaking his head no because, "Uh, no, sorry." Scott reaches for that pen, allows their fingers to brush, tries not to shudder at the contact. "I uh, no," there's a tight laugh. "No," he repeats again, almost to himself. "I do not have any questions."
i have this headcanon that scott cannot drive. like he can! he has an suv! but he's so, so bad at it. the team gives him shit constantly. no one ever lets him drive on outings and they should not because he is very, very, very, very bad at it.
He holds his argument, because if he interrupts, it'll take too much energy to keep it up. Plus, hearing Scott speak is helpful. His voice is calming, a great difference from the deep, hollow boom of his fathers disappointment.
Against his will, his chin lifts. He allows his face to be cleaned, dabbed and what not. He must look ragged as all hell but Scott is there, picking up the pieces of his shattered ego and self worth. "You've had time to miss a lotta shots because you're old," Andrew tries to tease, a small lighten of mood to hopefully distract from what a total wreck he is in the palm of Scott's hands. "'m twenty two and messed up enough fora forty somethin'. The math don't add up."
His lip pouts and, though the talk helps, there's still a tear threatening to drip- how he has any left is beyond him. But there's Scott, down at eye level and grinning in his messed up face, all kindness and warmth.
Andrew doesn't deserve him.
So he shakes his head, soaks in the words he says and rests his forehead against Scott's shoulder. His eyes blink once, twice strong and he lets the words of advice linger in the air for a weighted moment.
"I know you think I'm some...nepobaby of the tattoo industry but... my blood don't mean nothin'." Spoken soft and timid against Scott's shoulder, he shakes his head. "If I don't have what it takes to run this place, it's bein' given to my coworker...'bout the only thing I had in my favor was not havin' to hunt for an apprenticeship. But I'm payin' the price for it by it bein' my dad. He's not gonna leave the place to me if I keep fucking up this bad... 'm not bein' treated no different than some kid off the streets. Hell, they'd probably get it easier than me. But it's the truth."
Andrew’s being so good for him. Talking. Letting himself be moved around, cleaned up. Scott’s proud of him, impressed at the way he’s coming apart. It isn’t a temper tantrum, it isn’t a melt down. It’s just too much thats flowing over, and Scott respects Andy’s resolve so much.
“Being so good for me, babydoll,” Scott hums, remembering to say what he’s thinking, making sure that Andrew can hear it. Process it. Another half-dozen kisses peppered all over whatever Scott can get close to.
“I take it back, you’re a brat.” Scott pops Andrew on the ass at the age comment, before his nails are dragging up and over Andrew’s spine. “Nuh uh,” Scott shakes his head. “This would be a big deal if you were having the same issue in twenty years. It’s a lot of money, but it isn’t the end of the world.”
Scott groans as Andrew brings up their previous … conversation. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, kinda, but I was just giving you a hard time.” Another tug on Andrew’s chin. “I’m in love with you here, okay? If I could buy your way through everything I would.” Although Scott has a feeling Andrew would never allow that.
“I was just giving you shit, baby.” It’s a love language between players, chirping at each other. “But what i was trying to say is there’s plenty of guys in the league whose dads came before them. And yeah, maybe they have better training, better resources, they’ve been doing it since they were practically born. But no one thinks it’s easy. Not me, not anybody. If anything it’s that inside track that makes things way fucking harder. The pressure is crazy. Internally, externally.”
Another kiss. “So I wasn’t picking on you, Drew.” Scott nuzzles down against him. “I was trying to say I get how difficult it is, being in the position you are, and I would do anything in the world to make it easier if I could.”
Good boy... But he doesn't feel very good. Not for multiple people. But at least Scott thinks so, right? Even if Andrew didn't- couldn't- make him come, he was still good. Even if sex was nonexistent right now, he's still good. Still good even when he's crying about how awful he's been at his own calling. The thing that should be easiest . It's in his blood for fucks sake.
As they gather beneath blankets, Andrew drapes his arm tight around Scott's body, his thumb caresses bare skin, along those beautiful abs of his that could do some damage to him if put to work correctly.
A snort leaves him, even in the wetness of dripping nose and chapped lips, he snorts at metaphor. His eyes rest on one specific knot in the wood of the nearby hotel desk, fearing the minute he looks at Scott's eyes he'll see someone not quite so good after all.
"I just...do better." Andrew shrugs, answered with murmur against warm skin. "I prove I can do it right. And... he waits until I do. I do it over and over again until it's perfect. And I-I hope I don't screw up again..." Which is how it usually goes. With set up, with sanitation, with studying, with shading and line work and needle labelling and and and-
"But the moneys gone...It's gone and- no matter how long it takes, how many times I get it right, we'll always be that five hundred short. In months, when we've made thirty five thousand- it coulda been thirty-five five if I hadn't fucked up. It doesn't change nothin'... always short..."
“Since when is perfect the expectation?” Scott asks, frowning down at the top of Andrew’s head. He reaches back and kind of sideways hand smacking blindly until he finds the Kleenex, grabbing a handful before reaching for Andrew’s chin, tipping his face off, wiping gently at his eyes, his nose, cleaning him up. Just like Scott would have after sex. Somehow - and Scott tries not to think too hard about it - this is so much better.
“I mean, perfection can be a goal.” Scott’s brow is furrowed and his mouth twisted as he blots at Andy’s face. “But it can’t be always. Do you know how many shots I’ve missed? How many injuries I’ve caused? I’ve cost my team games, championships.” Scott’s thumb runs over the pout of those chapped lips. “But I win them too.”
“It’s the math of it all, right?” Scott leans down, brushing his lips lightly against Andrew’s. “You make mistakes. You learn. You don’t do it again. I’m not a coach,” although he’d like to be, after, “but I see how people take those moments, how they can be used to build up instead of break down.”
“That money’s gone, but you’ll never do it again. They have you practice on the orange so you can make mistakes. Because that’s what people do! I don’t think you’re some seasoned pro. Right?” Dipping his chin, Scott smiles. “You’re just a rookie, baby. And your dad has to let you be that, fuck ups and all, or you’re never even going to have the chance to be the man you can.”
