Archive of Our Own

“You’re right,” Scott responds, fingers drumming absently on the table before him. “The last thing I want us to do is get in the habit of policing the students.”

Everything in the room feels heavy, loaded, atmosphere packed in with a variety of opinions and a general unease at the subject matter. There’s silence that’s descended, but not because anyone’s afraid to speak.

They’re just all considering, careful. Thinking through their words.

It makes Scott proud. Proud that they’ve learned to work like this, that they can disagree but still function as a team.

Well.

Most of them.

The door clicks open, knob turning before the latch is slipping free. A half dozen heads swivel, twice as many pairs of eyes flicking over to see who’s late.

They don’t need to look.

There’s only one of them missing from the meeting and he doesn’t even expend enough effort to appear so much as bothered by that fact.

Why would he?

“Kind of you to finally join us,” Scott says, tone tight but even as he watches Logan just shrug his shoulders before dropping into the seat between Pryde and Rogue.

“Traffic,” Logan drawls as he kicks back, fingers interlocking behind his head, elbows spread.

Pryde smiles, lips tight with badly restrained amusement, knowing just like everyone else in the room that Logan hasn’t left the mansion all day.

It irks Scott, burns at him, but they’re all in the middle of an important meeting and while Scott would like nothing more than to take Logan to task at that very moment, it isn’t the time.

It isn’t like it would matter anyways. Or change anything. Logan is as reliable as the laws of physics when it comes to how much he has been put on this Earth strictly for the purpose of annoying Scott.

So Scott breathes. He doesn’t even roll his eyes, he just takes in a little inhale through his nose - not too deep, not enough to be noticeable - before drumming his fingers once again.

“However in this situation,” all eyes turn back to him, the weight of their regard a mantle to which Scott is long accustomed. “I think we need to consider it as the only option.”

“You cannot tell the children that they are unable to pursue outlets such as this.” Out of everyone in the room, the last person Scott expected to be against his idea was Ororo.

“That’s just it.” Scott straightens as he speaks. “They’re children. This ‘outlet’ isn’t something that is safe for them to explore.”

“But they’re, well they’re here, ain’t they?” Rogue asks, absently chewing on her lower lip. “They’re not really given much safety to begin with.”

Confusion creases across Logan’s features as the rest of the staff continue to debate the pros and cons, Scott nodding at Hank’s agreement as Logan leans over to Pryde murmuring just loud enough for everyone to hear, “What the hell are they talking about?”

“Dating apps,” Pryde replies, the tightness in his face remaining even as the smile fades.

“Not just any dating app,” Hank cuts in with a gentle firmness. “Dare I say this is an app whose sole purpose is, well, carnal in nature.” If he wasn’t blue, Scott is certain that he’d be blushing, cheeks stained the same sort of red they had been years ago, decades, when Hank had been caught, gaze lingering for a moment too long on Jean.

“It is not our place—” Ororo begins, but Scott is distracted and not listening as Logan mouths the word carnal, probably trying to figure out what the hell it means.

“Hookups,” Bobby offers helpfully. “Specifically of the gay kind.”

Pryde’s gaze cuts to Scott as sharp as if it could wound, unsettling Scott in a manner he did not anticipate.

And he’s not one to not, well, anticipate.

“You know that’s not—“ Scott starts, but Logan’s still looking confused, turning to Pryde as though they’re the only two there.

“Hookups?” Logan asks, leaning into his palm, the entirety of his body language cut off from the rest of the table.

“Sex, Logan. It’s an app used for sex,” Scott snaps.

Scott hasn’t meant to bite the words out so sharply, and normally, truly, he’s much better at keeping his cool. But it’s possible Bobby (and maybe Pryde) think that Scott’s down on the app for the queerness of it, and Ororo certainly thinks Scott’s against it for the sex.

“Apps are the ones that go on your phone, right?” Logan isn’t so much as bothered by being singled out or snipped at, he’s just pulling out the device in question, having to lean up in an impressive show of core strength to pry the thing out of his too-tight jeans.

“Where do you expect the students to meet people? It isn’t like ah could go down to Salem Center and just expect to run into someone,” Rogue says.

It’s still new, Rogue and Bobby being members of the senior staff. She’s a little timid as she speaks, reserved in a way she hasn’t been in years. Scott needs to talk to her about that. She shouldn’t be. She’s more than earned her spot.

Bobby on the other hand…

“All of us are already out in one way just by living in this place,” the more frigid of all of them breaks in. “You can’t just expect them to out themselves more to get a date.”

“It isn’t the demographic of the intended user that I’m concerned with.” There’s another talk Scott’s going to need to have. He really didn’t think Bobby, much less any of them, would ever think that Scott would give a half damn about anyone’s sexual preference.

If they think that he does, then Scott’s doing something wrong. Especially because, well…

But all those thoughts, all those little notes, swirl around in his head for a later time.

Not now.

“So what’s this sex app called?” Logan asks, mostly apropos of nothing.

Scott really hates that man.

“Grindr,” Pryde replies, “no e.”

“Grindernoe,” Logan mumbles, typing away on his phone.

“No,” even through the tightness there’s a laugh from Pryde as he reaches to take Logan’s phone, waiting for the nod of permission before doing so. “Grindr, no e as in G R I N D R.”

“Don’t give a fuck how it’s spelled,” Logan growls, looking over as Pryde works.

“As long as the students are of legal age, we cannot ban them from the use of this, even if you do find it distasteful, Scott.” Normally, Ororo is the calm and sensible voice of reason. Normally, she is practically his other half, his balance, the closest thing that Scott has ever felt he’s had to a sister.

Does she seriously think he’d have an issue with sex?

That he’d consider it distasteful?

“That isn’t—“ Scott can feel himself fraying, feel that calm composure that he has worked so hard to perfect, that he strives to always keep in place, splintering. It’s all slipping because he is so misconceived by those who have known him the longest, by those who have fought with him side by side and endured unimaginable scenarios.

And, most damningly, Sxott’s feeling his composure implode because Logan is too infuriatingly busy all curled up with Pryde trying to get the app downloaded and hasn’t paid a damn bit of attention to anything that Scott has said.

“Can we save setting up Logan’s dating profile for another time?” Scott all but snarls.

“Not dating,” Logan corrects. “It’s a sex app, Slim.”

“Really we’ll need to get some pictures before we can finish setting it up anyways,” Pryde adds in.

“I don’t care that it’s an app predominantly used by the LGBT community,” Scott directs his speech first to Bobby. “While I want the students to be cautious in any activities they may undertake, I do not find the idea distasteful,” he continues, turning to Ororo. “I simply worry about their locations being in use while the students are in the mansion, or it being used to track them in any way.”

“Locations?” Pryde asks.

“Track them?” Ororo questions.

“Surely you do know that Pryde and I have installed a program on the phones of each student and staff member to prevent such instances,” Hank offers. He moves into some kind of technical explanation that Scott could likely follow if he wanted.

But that he doesn’t need to.

Hank and Pryde’s word is enough.

Besides, the only thing that Scott is thinking at that moment is: Oh.

That’s why he was having difficulty locating anyone within a twenty-mile radius.

The whole way that Scott discovered there were students on the app was, well, because he’d seen them.

It had been an accident, of course, the last thing that Scott wanted to do was end up crossing paths with a student on any kind of dating app.

But especially not this app.

This app that has one very prominent aim in mind.

This app that Scott has tried out a few times quite successfully when he’s been down in the city or off somewhere else in the world.

Because. Well. He can.

Things have been quiet lately, though, and Scott’s been kept home, on campus, with classes to teach and the boring drone of normalcy to which he has never become very accustomed.

Apparently, though, he isn’t the only one to have gotten bored.

Which is what led to stumbling across the students and Scott thanking his lucky stars that he’d gone for pics that didn’t include his face.

Especially since they contained a great deal of the rest of him.

Putting a picture of his ass on the internet had likely not been the best choice.

Extremely effective, though.

Which means he really hopes none of the students had run across him.

People don’t tend to be horribly observant, and he’s managed to keep the majority of his more memorable scars from showing up in any of the pictures he uses in his profile.

But there is a lot of him.

Right there.

In the open.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Scott falls into the chair by his bed with an audible oomph. He should delete the app, really, he should get rid of it, especially with the students being on it now.

Well, they may have been on it for a while. But especially with him knowing that they’re there.

It makes things different.

But as Scott pulls up the app, as he thumbs through the grid, scrolling through other like-minded and seeking individuals in the heart of the city - no students so far - there’s a petulant part of Scott that doesn’t want to give it up.

Why should he?

How much has he given up for all of them? How much has he dedicated his very existence to this school?

Ever since Jean left, choosing the universe over the rest of them, while Charles has equally been out in the black defending some Shi’ar outpost or another, it’s just been Scott.

A very lonely Scott.

A very lonely Scott who has been able to finally explore a side of himself he thoroughly enjoys.

A side that feels right and good and natural.

But that’s what the students are doing, too.

So who wins?

Who loses?

Sighing, Scott’s thumb moves over the phone, continuing to peruse the neatly lined squares of pictures, not really even looking. He’s not looking because he knows, knows that he’s going to give in and delete it.

It’s what he always does.

Even if the original issue he was worried about isn’t an issue at all, it isn’t fair to risk the students having to see him like that or, even potentially worse, him seeing the students in any sort of way that would be considered normal on Grindr.

Scott shudders dramatically at his own thoughts.

It isn’t like he’s had a hookup in a few months anyways. And he’s gone without before. There’s just been something so freeing about the whole thing. A moment, a time, a place where he wasn’t only the fearless leader.

Stolen pieces of existence where he’s allowed to be, well, to be Logan.

Feral, indulging in his base instincts, drowning happily in want and lust and need.

It’s addicting, and as such, the thought that flits through Scott’s mind is one more.

Just one more.

Just one more, just one more, just one more, Scott thinks as he scrolls seemingly endlessly, trying to find someone that sparks his interest enough to be what he’s looking for, to be one more.

His thoughts float between how ridiculous he is, and how that one isn’t quite right and this one is a little too much as he moves through a sea of bare chests and posed smiles. They’re okay, they’re more than okay, Scott’s forever been floored by just how attractive most people are in general, but none of them are what he wants.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

He just knows that none of them are the ones to scratch that itch.

There’s a sound in the hall that startles Scott, jerking him upright suddenly because it sounds like someone’s going to come bursting into his room.

He shares his headmaster duty with Ororo.

It isn’t like it hasn’t happened before.

It isn’t as though closed doors are exactly effective in their line of work.

But whatever is going on out there (and honestly he probably should get up and check) well it goes on and is loud — rollerblading? It sounds like someone is rollerblading down the hallway but do they even have rollerblades anymore? — it’s loud and distracting and seemingly destructive.

However, it exists as all those things at once as it goes past his door.

Before noisily traveling down the stairs.

Scott stares at his door, the closed one, for a minute.

He’s listening and waiting and hoping that there will be no sound, no cry, no need for him.

It’s horrible. He’s horrible. He’s the worst leader that has ever lived to lead but dammit he just needs a break sometimes.

Even if that break is just taking five minutes to pout at his phone before he deletes the only way he’s managed to get laid in years.

Except it seems that in all the excitement his thumb has done its own thing.

Sending a tap isn’t a big deal, Scott’s probably sent dozens.

Okay. That’s a lie. He’s Scott. He’s selective and exacting and studies their photos profiles in great detail before he engages in any form of communication.

He may or may not have a spreadsheet about it.

So no, having sent the tap without meaning to makes Scott get hot and tingly all over, and not in the way that in which Grindr is intended.

Unless feeling like you’ve made a very bad decision is your kind of kink.

Unclenching the several parts of him that are all clenched up, Scott allows himself to breathe, taking in a nice steady breath, as he looks over the profile he’s shown interest in.

The profile doesn’t get much of his attention.

Scott’s picky (of course) but he’s not picky.

Okay look he’s just really kind of shallow when it comes to this in a way he’s never allowed himself to be and absolutely all of his interest is based on desire and if the person in question makes him feel hot all over.

In the way intended.

So he unclenches.

He breathes.

He takes a moment to just look and finds himself suddenly quite pleased that this mistake has been made.

The first picture is poorly taken, a reflection in a mirror in what looks like a bar somewhere - maybe a club - the guy holding his phone in his hand.

He’s wearing a hoodie, it’s grey and nondescript.

But the hoodie doesn’t matter.

There’s a sexiness to this guy that’s effortless, unpracticed, almost disrespectful to what the rest of them have to do for how nonchalant he seems.

The zipper’s down, not open all the way, but right down to the bottom before it comes fully undone, before it breaks free, held in the grasp of the man like he’s mid-motion and, well, maybe he was. The image makes Scott sit up, makes that measured breath catch in his chest because he wants more.

Just like Scott, the guy hasn’t opted to share his face, and while Scott understands, he mourns it.

Not for long, though.

Soon his attention is fixed once again on what he can see, an impressive thatch of hair that spreads down that bare (bear?) chest, a chest that’s well muscled, but not too much. The kind that arrives from being well-earned, not vanity.

The guy works out. Or works hard. But Scott can tell in an instant that he’s not a gym rat, and for Scott that’s a good thing.

He’s had vain men before. But, well, Warren got frustrating pretty quick.

So this guy, he’s not that. From the ease of his stance, a stance that’s wide and relaxed and open, he’s comfortable in his body, comfortable in who he is and what he’s capable of.

That’s almost sexier than all that chest hair.

Scott thumbs at the screen wanting to see more, wanting to see what’s next. But that’s it.

There’s nothing else.

The profile is barely filled out, as well. But the user’s been online recently.

Scott pulls the picture up again, allows his mind to wander, sees the tilt of the man’s hips, the hint of denim below the fall of what has to be cotton.

Desire rushes through him, not entirely unbidden, imagination running wild as he thinks of himself, there, in that bathroom.

As he thinks of that hoodie, discarded onto the floor.

As he thinks to what comes next.

The coffee’s cold.

The coffee’s cold and it’s water weak which makes Scott think that Bobby was the last one to make it.

As is the status quo of the mansion, now, all these years later, when they are no longer the children running in the halls but the boring adults glancing blearily at them, well, Scott doesn’t remember where this train of thought is going, except that it has to do with the fact that the kitchen’s full.

They serve breakfast in the dining room, a huge spread, it isn’t like the students don’t have that option.

But somehow one of them (the students) decided to rebel or something by eating in the kitchen, and after one came more followed, meaning that Scott and Ororo and all the rest can either be forced into the dining room or be left eating over the sink.

Except no one else can eat over the sink because that’s where Scott’s standing.

Because nowadays the dining room is more empty than it isn’t, while the kitchen is much more packed than it should be, and as Scott takes a baleful bite of his toast - a dry heel of the loaf because the teenagers eat too much and Jubilation should have never been allowed to be in charge of the month’s shopping to begin with - they, the teenagers, young adults really as the clump of them in the kitchen are almost all in their twenties, ignore him completely.

The joys of getting old.

Scott feels like David Attenborough and would be thoroughly more amused by the comparison of the X-Mansion feeding rituals to those in the wilds of the Serengeti if he wasn’t just so damn tired.

Which is his own fault.

He didn’t sleep well last night.

Okay, that’s a lie. Scott actually slept well, too well, too deep, and too restful, and because of all of that he’d had a difficult time waking up that morning.

What he wouldn’t have given for an attack of some kind, intruders popping up or the like, that always gets him going quickly.

But no. He’d been foolish, acting like a teenager, having gotten way too … invested in his imaginings about the man in the picture, far too … tactical in his approach to that um, recon …

Oh okay in all honesty he had just jacked off like three times, which was a world away from that thrice weekly amount that he took care of in the shower for efficacy and cleanliness and mental health.

Last night was the closest he’d gotten to feeling like he’s out and hooking up with someone, the closest he’s gotten to that free fall, that spiral down into something dark and dangerous and delicious.

It was good, so good, and he’d been sweaty and sticky and took a shower in which he didn’t want to touch his dick at all because it was frankly against the idea, before he’d fallen into a sleep that it would have taken a Sentinel to wake him from.

Which is what gets him back to dropping crumbs in the sink while glaring at keeping an eye on the pack of wild mutant younglings as they laugh and chatter and sit at his table.

He’s plotting ideas of how to get them back to the dining room - a TV? Bright colors? Loud noises? - when a familiar sound echoes through the crowded space.

It’s like a trill, but it’s deeper, the frequency lower.

There’s a slight reverb to it.

It’s unmistakable.

The whole kitchen freezes.

Scott wants to reach for his phone, the one in his front right pocket, pressed against his thigh, but to do so would be to admit that the alert, the very loud alert, the one that is one hundred percent distinctive and one hundred perfect from Grindr, that it’s coming from him.

His heart pounds.

Once more Scott’s right back where he was last night. The guy had been online, the one in the picture, and Scott had not checked - but checked, but totally not - a few times throughout his marathon masturbation. He’d waited, because not to sound smug or anything, but so far everyone he did deign to tap or message tended to be quick in the way they messaged him back.

Except not this guy.

He looked at Scott’s profile, Scott was able to see that Picture Guy had checked it once, but then nothing.

No more alerts.

No taps.

No message.

Just Scott’s first possible rejection from a guy that had already blown his mind.

Until maybe now.

Until the alert sounds while he’s standing there with just the crust of his toast held lightly between his fingers, frozen halfway to his mouth, watching, observing, whatever, as every other person in the kitchen remains frozen too.

The alert sounds again.

Instead of inspiring silence this time, though, laughter cracks from one of the kids at the table, before the kid is reaching over to try and steal someone else’s phone. They then continue making loud, teenage/young adult noises about who’s on the other end of the app.

Oh.

Scott doesn’t reach down to his front pocket.

He doesn’t bother to check.

He just finishes his toast and his watery coffee and reminds himself that the children are safe and happy and that’s all that matters.

Even if there are no paper towels.

C’mon. Really?

And don’t get on him about paper versus cloth. The cloth ones keep disappearing and they’re not nearly as effective when it comes to a house full of insanity plus the amount of laundry they would have to do to keep up with it. Besides, the mansion went solar four years ago, they use geothermal for heat, and Hank’s been working with the government on some solar radiation mitigation.

So there’s no guilt as he reaches for a paper towel. Just disgust at the lack of them.

Maybe disgust is the wrong word. Maybe it isn’t. But maybe the disgust Scott feels is fully aimed at himself because he’s surprised how disappointed he is that one person didn’t bother to write him back.

He needs a vacation.

Maybe the Phoenix force can do road trips or intragalactic scenic tours.

Would Jean let him borrow it?

Who’s he kidding? Scott knows he’ll never so much as step an extended foot out of this place. These kids, this mission - the big one, the eternal one, the one that makes a difference for all mutantkind - mean everything to him.

It’s a lonely thing to love, though. A lonely thing to cherish as he does.

The love of your life should be a person. Not a purpose.

Sighing, Scott pushes up and away from the counter, taking long strides that he tries to make nonchalant as he heads for the pantry. He shouldn’t feel awkward around the students, he doesn’t normally, but the whole Grindr thing has thrown him off.

Not them being on it. While that’s not ideal (only because it means he can’t stay on it) Scott doesn’t care.

Just them getting alerts when he doesn’t.

That’s what sucks.

The door to the pantry slides soundlessly shut behind him, the whisper of it closing lost in the fact it dampens the rest of the ruckus.

Scott doesn’t mind the sound of the kids. Not really. On most days they make him happy, they give his life meaning.

Today he’s just tired and disappointed and yeah. Yeah, he just needs to delete the app.

Spotting the paper towels, Scott grabs for one, chiding himself for even having kept the app longer to begin with. What happened last night was as close as he was going to get to a tryst anytime soon.

It’s for the better. If he’s honest with himself he isn’t built like that.

Was fun, though.

Sighing, again, because that’s apparently how he breathes at the moment, determined now that he’s made the choice, Scott moves for his phone, getting so far as to press the tips of his fingers at the base of it, pushing up lightly to bring it out of his pocket.

Which is, of course, when it vibrates.

See, the sound of the alert couldn’t have been his anyways, because Scott’s had his phone on vibrate for the last ten years.

Maybe not that long. Well. He starts to do the math and then realizes that he’s not yet even gotten his phone out to see what the vibratory alert was for and isn’t that the whole reason he’s twisted up anyways?

But maybe he’s stalling. Because maybe he doesn’t want the disappointment. Maybe he doesn’t want to know that Hank’s finished something in the lab, or that Logan’s scarred yet another student for life.

Courage is a funny thing, isn’t it?

Giving in or nutting up or a little of both and some of neither, Scott finally gets his phone out.

There’s nothing on the lock-screen, other than letting him know there’s an alert, because he’s not stupid. It isn’t like he leaves his phone around, but he doesn’t need anyone running across any alerts which might be … unsavory isn’t the right word but it’s the only one he can think of at the moment.

Except he lets himself trail down the path of all the words that would fit it better because, once more, it’s easier than getting his hopes up and having them dashed.

No. He’s doing this. He’s unlocking his phone and seeing that it’s nothing important and then he’s going to delete Grindr once and for all.

Or maybe he isn’t.

Because, as the fingers of Scott’s free hand twitch a little at his side, as soon as Scott unlocks his phone he discovers that the alert, the one he’s been waiting for, is there.

Okay.

This is probably the longest it has ever taken Scott to do anything that has to do with his phone, or maybe anything at all, but his whole body is as tense as he gets when he’s on the battlefield, toeing the line and unwilling to yield as he opens it.

gretzkyshairysack: nice ass

That’s a pretty common response to Scott’s interest. His ass is pretty spectacular after all, but Scott had built this guy up in his head a little bit.

He expected more.

gretzkyshairysack: let me see your dick

Also not entirely unheard of, but not exactly the more that Scott was hoping for.

He knows better than to think anyone is there for conversation. They’re all (the majority, he’s not trying to be reductive, but really some things are just meant for some things) looking for the same outcome.

Could have been nice.

Doesn’t stop him from responding though.

attitudeadjustment: You have exactly one photo on your profile, and you’re asking to see my dick.

gretzkyshairysack: you’re the one that flamed me
gretzkyshairysack: or whatever the duck that thing is
gretzkyshairysack: fuck not duck

Scott tries to hide a smile, he doesn’t know why as there’s no one there, he’s in the tiniest room in existence surrounded by dry goods.

Okay they live in a mansion, someone could probably throw a slightly cramped dinner party in there.

But Scott is alone.

Which means he doesn’t have to bite back his smile like he currently is.

gretzkyshairysack: cmon
gretzkyshairysack: wanna see it if im gonna ride it

And that, that goes all over Scott. He can feel the flush that consumes him, running up his throat and down his chest, tinging his cheeks in brilliant rose.

Is it hot in there?

attitudeadjustment: I can’t right now.

Not that he won’t. Not that he wouldn’t. Just that he can’t.

Makes perfect sense. Totally smart. Talking to a person for less than two seconds and already totally willing to send them explicit photos.

Scott’s berating himself, but he’s also not stopping. He’s just standing there, leaning against the shelving, utterly and absolutely waiting for this guy to reply.

gretzkyshairysack: why not

attitudeadjustment: I’m currently at work.

gretzkyshairysack: with those pictures youve got up for everyone to see youre sayin you dont have a dick pic saved on your phone

Scott can’t help but to laugh. The guy isn’t wrong. Scott does have a good half dozen seductively posed pictures of himself. His ass, his legs, his chest, an outline of his crotch in his swim trunks.

It’s how you get what you need on a site like this.

But the guy is also utterly wrong, because Scott isn’t stupid enough to save photos like that.

Not of his dick.

Actually he’s never even taken a photo like that.

Which should give him more pause, because while Scott already gone pretty wild for who he is, while he’s already leaned fully into the frightening freedom of just putting it all out there, dick pics are different.

But this is the last call for Scott when it comes to Grindr and for whatever reason his brain says why not just pull the throttle to full?

It’s the zipper’s fault, really.

And that chest.

Scott desperately wants to leave teeth marks all across it.

attitudeadjustment: I don’t have a dick pic available.

gretzkyshairysack: so go take one

Scott snorts.

attitudeadjustment: I don’t think getting hard at work is appropriate.

gretzkyshairysack: dont gotta be hard. Ill take before and after. Let me see what youre working with.

This guy is relentless. And distressing in the way that it’s almost charming. Being wanted is a strong narcotic. Even if it is just from some unknown.

attitudeadjustment: What do I get in return?

At this rate Scott’s gonna chew a hole in his lip.

What is wrong with him? He knows nothing about this guy. But he is strongly considering undoing his belt and pulling his own zipper down.

The guy starts to type, but Scott beats him to it.

attitudeadjustment: Scratch that. I want to see you with the hoodie off.

gretzkyshairysack: im asking for a pic of your dick and you just wanna see more of my chest

attitudeadjustment: I like your chest. Plus, I’ll want more later.

gretzkyshairysack: later huh

Scott’s already thumbing at the tongue of his belt, glancing quickly at the pantry door.

gretzkyshairysack: can’t take it now

Scott hesitates briefly, frowning down at his phone.

gretzkyshairysack: im at work

attitudeadjustment: Yet you expect me to take a picture of my dick while I’m also at work.

gretzkyshairysack: if youd asked for me to drop trou itd be easier, but I cant just peel off my shirt right now

The mere words bring Scott back to imaginings last night, the gentle firmness of the other man’s musculature, the feel of his hair, the warmth of his skin.

gretzkyshairysack: gimme a couple hours though.

And that. That’s even worse though, it sounds like a promise, like a plan, like this guy is gonna do something for Scott and yeah it’s just trading explicit photos, but it tugs at something inside Scott.

It’s just a little thread, nothing major, but it runs through the whole of him, and it makes him feel insane.

attitudeadjustment: Then I guess you’ll see my dick in a couple hours.

gretzkyshairysack: don’t wanna wait

He’s very straightforward. Sure of himself.

It’s intoxicating.

attitudeadjustment: Has no one ever made you wait?
attitudeadjustment: Maybe you could use some patience.

This. This is crazy. It’s crazy and wonderful and Scott knows he’s red all over standing in the pantry but he hasn’t felt this way since the last time he was actually face to face with one of these guys and all he’s doing with this one is chatting.

gretzkyshairysack: what I can use is some dick
gretzkyshairysack: ill make it worth your while

Well, chatting and seriously considering sending him a dick pic.

Does he trust this guy?

There’s no reason to. But that’s half the fun of this, isn’t it?

The risk?

Can you even be a pilot if you’re not willing to reach for the reward? To chase the max height of your ceiling?

Fine.

Fine!

He’s so stupid.

Stupid or not, though, Scott stills, listening to the level of volume outside. They must not have noticed him go in there after all because he’s been in there for at least ten minutes and sure the pantry is big, but not big enough to get lost in.

But no one seems to have noticed or cared and that’s certainly not something that Scott’s going to worry about at the moment.

Because at the moment he’s just grateful they’re out there because he’s undoing his pants and trying to figure out how in the hell someone takes a picture of their own dick.

Should he pull it through his boxer briefs?

No, maybe, yeah okay. Rearranging a little - as quickly as possible - Scott tucks the elastic of his waistband under his testicles.

There’d been some stirring earlier, but he’s totally soft now. For all the times that Scott has seen his own dick, he tries to envision how it might be seen through the eyes of another. He finds men attractive, beautiful even, completely unaroused.

Is his penis nice?

Time is of the essence here, the students haven’t noticed, they probably don’t care, but someone is going to want something at some point in time and Scott can’t just stand there with his dick out.

He can change the fall of it through, trying to think about what would be seductive to him. He’s thick enough, without being too thick, lengthy without being too long. Jean paid enough worship to it, and always seemed like it got the job done.

Yeah. No. Just staring at his dick also isn’t the same as taking a picture of it, so Scott works some angles and tries for some lighting and finally ends up with something he’s kinda happy with.

His dick looks good. And that’s from a completely objective standpoint. It’s a dick he’d want to get to know better.

Even this train of thought in his head is a crazy one.

Which makes sense because he’s totally lost his mind.

He’s smart enough to tuck himself away and button up before he picks the right picture, he doesn’t go so far as to throw a filter on it or anything. But out of the five he’s taken - all of which are getting deleted - he picks the one he likes best.

For just a second his thumb hovers, waiting, unsure. Scott’s told the students dozens of times, once you send something on the internet there is no getting it back

Oh, what the hell. You can’t get to the top without the climb.

The second he decides, that he hits the button, the door opens.

“Mr. Summers?”

Well, thank goodness he’s all put togehter.

Shifting, snagging the paper towels from where he’d sat them, Scott straightens, rolling his shoulders once.

“Yes, Hisako. How can I help you?”

“You’ve just been in here a long time.” She shrugs a little and offers a half smile. “Wondered if you needed any help.”

“Got a phone call,” Scott says, sharply. He says it too sharply which she doesn’t deserve, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.

She’s one of Wolverine’s favored students, the ones he adopts and keeps under his wing like Jubilee and Pryde and Rogue.

So, Hisako is accustomed to hard words. After all, it’s all Logan knows.

Reprimanding himself, Scott turns once he walks back into the kitchen, offering a small tuck of his chin in Hisako’s direction.

“Thank you, though.”

Logan’s there now, over at Scott’s spot at the sink, and while he’s messing around with his phone his gaze pops up to snag Scott’s

He, too, gets a nod, along with Scott tossing the paper towels at him.

Wolverine catches it, but only barely, attention popping down to his phone and eyes going dark as the roll of brawny sails across the room. Logan only manages to snag the things with his claws, effectively ruining them.

“I’m not getting another,” Scott tosses over his shoulder, walking into the main hall.

Scott jumps at each vibration of his phone for the rest of the day.

He wishes he’d gotten a message back, some kind of response after he was stupid and crazy and sent an actual picture of his actual penis across the internet. For all he frets about the outcome, though, for all he has worried about what’s happened and what hasn’t he still decides that yes, it was fun.

It was worth it.

For a few minutes there in the pantry, he was alive. He wasn’t just Scott, he wasn’t just the guy who spends his idle hours concerned about everyone else while making sure they do their homework or that there are enough paper towels in the house.

For a few moments, he just got to be him.

And if that’s all he got, even for those fleeting seconds, Scott knows that was enough.

However, he’s just as ecstatic to learn that those moments aren't actually the end of it.

The photos that show up throw Scott for a loop.

Whoever this guy is, for whatever reason, he ends up in the same dingy bar bathroom, with that same hoodie on again, sending Scott a montage of that very hoodie coming off.

Half unzipped.

A triangle of that chest hair curling outward, drawing Scott’s attention away from everything else, like the scrawling on the wall or the crumbling green paint that had been slapped on decades ago. None of it matters as Scott flicks to the next image.

Almost unzipped.

A shot so close to the first that Scott has to check between them. It’s not the same one, though. The guy is wearing different jeans. They’re tighter than the last pair. The way they hug his thighs makes Scott sweat.

Fully unzipped.

Every inch of that gorgeous chest on display. Covered with hair - which yes, okay, maybe Scott is learning some things about himself. Muscle that’s firm but with sloping softness. Places Scott could suck and bruise and sink his teeth into.

There’s another one. One more.

Scott’s grading papers and he knows he shouldn’t look, his skin already feels too hot and too tight and his balls are starting to perk up as much as his cock.

He should save it for later. For tonight. But he can’t seem to help himself.

Besides. It isn’t like there’s anyone in there with him.

Just him. At a desk, with his tablet, leaving little red marks all over his student’s work.

Plus he’s been at this for a few hours. He deserves a break, doesn’t he?

Surely it’ll improve his concentration.

As it turns out, it does not.

The last picture is damning. Damning and distracting and good enough that it literally pulls a groan from Scott’s throat as he presses the balls of his feet down into the floor.

Good god, he’s going to hyperventilate there, and for a moment he passes his palm over his visor before flipping his phone face down to give himself a breather.

Okay.

Okay, okay he can look at it again.

This time it’s just a sharp pull of breath without any actual sound, but then Scott’s biting down on his lip, trying to regulate his heart rate.

The hoodie’s gone.

Absently Scott hopes that it’s not on the floor - that bathroom did not look well kept so that would be disgusting - but any worries of cleanliness are soon vanquished in deference to the image before him.

He’s never seen shoulders that broad. Thick, but somehow still graceful, coiled in that same self-sure way that had drawn Scott’s attention before, screaming to the capability of this man.

And what a man he is.

His chest is wide, with a waist that tapers, those v-things that are sexy in a way that’s almost undefinable are present but not too prominent. Scott could run his thumb down them, nip at them, trace them with his tongue.

That hair, all of it, it with which Scott has accepted his obsession trails down too, tapering just like that waist, further until it reaches a waistband.

Or it would.

If there was one there.

But this guy has his jeans open, zipper down, denim folded back, completely commando with his palm in frozen movement, fingers just starting to card down through that dark thatch at his crotch.

Scott had literally never wanted anyone the way he wants this man.

Jesus.

Five pictures total.

A day of stilted, stolen conversation.

Scott just sends back one thing.

attitudeadjustment: You were right.
attitudeadjustment: It was worth the wait.

“What’s your problem?” Logan barks, bouncing back on his toes while dodging away from Scott’s too-wide swing.

“What problem?” Scott snaps in response, circling Logan while rubbing at his jaw.

Logan just nailed him.

Hard.

Hard enough that Scott is going to need to have Hank look at his teeth, to make sure nothing's loose.

Logan usually plays rough, he isn’t one to pull his punches, but Scott is usually paying enough attention so that the blows at least land a little off target.

Normally Scott manages to put up a pretty good defense.

They’ve been fighting each other for years, sparring too. Usually, the matches are closer to even than Scott would like to admit.

Except tonight.

Because tonight he can’t get those pictures out of his mind, or the fact that Gretzky (Scott refuses to refer to him as Gretzky’s hairy sack in his thoughts) had messaged that Scott could expect more later, so long as he sent some too.

They should meet.

It’s what Scott normally does. Normally there isn’t a lot of talk or conversation before, just a quick discussion dealing with logistics like location and expectations and testing before they’re meeting up at some dive or hotel and having quick hot sex that’s never discussed again.

Scott never goes back for a second round and politely turns down any offers.

This is supposed to be quick stress relief, a release for his physical and mental health.

It’s nothing more.

Except this one has started in an altogether different manner and now Scott thinks that they may be jacking off together tonight and it’s all he can think about even as Logan goes in for another blow.

This one doesn’t land, though.

No, Logan seems to just get frustrated at Scott’s inattention, changing his trajectory to shove Scott on the shoulders, hard.

Shoving Scott back two steps, before he’s turning on his heel and marching for the locker room.

“Get your head outta your ass, Slim.”

gretzkyshairysack: you up?

Scott is, but just barely.

It’s well past midnight, and he’s just dropped onto his bed still damp from the shower he finally got a minute to take.

This whole damn thing is like a rollercoaster and Scott doesn’t like it, feeling this needy, bordering on desperate like he’s never felt before.

Okay, he’s probably felt this way before. But it was a long time ago and it was completely different.

The high when there’s a response is incredible, when he’s chatting with this unknown person with an amazing chest who is capable of blowing Scott’s mind through a few photos.

But the waiting is horrible. That’s when the guilt and the second-guessing and the reality come in.

Is Scott putting himself out there too much?

Is he so invested in hooking up with this one person because he doesn’t plan for there to be any others?

After this he just gets to go back to being Scott Summers, fearless leader, left by his wife for phenomenal cosmic power (however her living space is just as endless.)

Dropping his phone back down on his stomach, Scott groans, running his fingers through drying strands.

He should not answer. Logan has already called him out on being distracted, he’s gone from being almost hard in his classroom to moping most of the night because there’s been no response to his message.

Not to mention the fact he already let this whole thing screw up his sleep schedule the night before.

He shouldn’t, he should not answer, he should delete the app, he should just cut it off. It was fun and it was wild and now it’s not.

Except he doesn’t.

Because the phone vibrates against his stomach again and the sensation just goes all the way straight down to his dick.

Oh, who is he kidding?

Jean would be laughing her ass off at him if she was there.

Rolling his eyes at himself Scott gives in, grabbing up the phone ready to type out some snarky statement.

He’s rehearsing what he’s going to say, coming up with something that’s both witty and sharp, but as he unlocks his phone, as he pulls up the alert, all is forgotten.

This man is going to kill him.

This picture is of Gretzky stretched out on a bed, from the neck down, of course. He’s not overly long, but he’s thick, every inch of him is made of that same strong muscle that looks like it could rip you apart while still being extraordinarily touchable.

He’s gorgeous. Stunning. Covered in dark hair that gathers in the center of his chest right over his sternum before tapering off and trailing down to bloom again right at the space above his pubic bone.

The picture moves, though, and Scott realizes it’s a video. Instantly he’s sitting up, scrambling to adjust his volume, but sadly there’s no sound.

It doesn’t matter because while Scott wants sound, while he’s craving the ability to hear the other man breathe as much as anything else, it's Scott whose breath catches in his chest.

Those thighs spread, Gretzky’s free hand sliding down, just like Scott had imagined with that last photo, moving smoothly over those gentle slopes, pushing down until the tips of his fingers are buried in dark black and his legs fall fully open.

That’s when the video stops.

Scott chokes, starting it up again, holding back a sob as he watches the travel of that hand once more and then a third time.

gretzkyshairysack: you know i can see it when you watch that right

Scott did, in fact, know about that feature.

Normally, he’s very careful about it.

But even as that message pops up, Scott watches the video for a fourth time.

gretzkyshairysack: so that’s a yes for being up then

Scott doesn’t even know what to say. Blurting out that he considers this man beautiful, virile, a perfect specimen is probably a little much.

attitudeadjustment: I masturbated in the shower.

That…

That is not better.

That is not what Scott has intended to say.

gretzkyshairysack: oh yeah
gretzkyshairysack: what were you thinking about

Why is Scott doing this?

Why is he having this conversation?

It’s not going in a way that he thinks he’s going to like because none of this is him.

That doesn’t stop him, though.

attitudeadjustment: You.
attitudeadjustment: I’ve thought about you all day.
attitudeadjustment: That stupid hoodie.

And even the mere thought of those photos makes Scott’s blood heat.

attitudeadjustment: Is there a reason we’re doing this virtually?

Scott’s been nervous about asking, but he’s glad he finally has, speaking life into the question that’s been bugging him.

gretzkyshairysack: videos not good enough for you?

attitudeadjustment: I want to touch you. I want to taste you.

Normally as Scott Summers, face to face, founding member of the X-Men, Scott would never say anything like this out loud. It had taken years for him to get to the point where he could think such thoughts at Jean, much less put his voice behind them.

With Grindr, though, things are different.

It’s part of the reason Scott loves it.

gretzkyshairysack: since im just as naked as I am horny I don’t plan on going anywhere

attitudeadjustment: I could come to you.

Could he? Could he even leave the mansion right now and drive into the city? It would take him until at least two thirty to get there, then he’d have to be back by six or people would start asking questions he wouldn’t want to have to answer.

The video plays again at Scott’s bidding.

Okay yeah. It would be worth the lack of sleep. And the drive. And the questions.

gretzkyshairysack: you cant

Scott didn’t really expect any different. This one’s been unlike the half dozen or so (ten. Scott’s had ten hookups in the last eight months) that have come before. Meeting up would seem too normal for this situation.

Still.

attitudeadjustment: Are you married?

People hide their faces on Grindr for a lot of reasons. But it was on hookup two that Scott learned about this one.

He’d struggled with his own comfort level being public with something he wasn’t even fully certain of, and he still needed to speak with Bobby because he was sure everyone in the mansion knew by now that Scott wasn’t straight.

So that he could get. Privacy he could get.

Being married though? Cheating on your spouse?

Scott’s not a perfect man, and he’s done a lot of bad things that have earned him a decent number of regrets. He’ll destroy his own relationships. He won’t, however, be part of the destruction of someone else’s.

Normally.

Because even knowing that, even knowing that he’s firmly drawn that line in the sand, Scott also knows that if Gretzky came back and said yes, Scott wouldn’t hesitate.

No. No, yes he would. No, even as his chest clenches at the thought of a missed opportunity for further exploration of whatever this is, Scott knows that would be too far.

gretzkyshairysack: nah
gretzkyshairysack: I sleep alone

He doesn’t offer more information, he doesn’t explain why Scott can’t come over, but at least he’s not married.

For now, that’s enough.

attitudeadjustment: Let me hear you.

Cold washes through Scott as he presses send. It feels like such a big ask, like an even bigger ask than getting to come to him.

There’s nothing for a moment.

Then the bubble pops up.

gretzkyshairysack: seeing my cunt not enough for you

Scott grins, leaning back into his pillows, stroking himself lightly as he types.

attitudeadjustment: I saw your hand more than anything else.
attitudeadjustment: I really did just come, I won’t be able to for a little while.

gretzkyshairysack: that a challenge?
gretzkyshairysack: you saying I can’t get you hard again?

That, of course, will not be a problem.

Scott’s dick has been filling out slowly since the video first arrived. It’s nothing like the rush that had happened in the shower, the visceral need he had to thrust into his hand as he thought about that hoodie and that bathroom and Gretzky bent over what was sure to be a disgusting sink.

attitudeadjustment: You make me plenty hard.
attitudeadjustment: I’ve had to fight all day not to be hard because of you.
attitudeadjustment: I just wasn’t planning on coming again tonight, is all.

gretzkyshairysack: you plan when youre gonna get off?
gretzkyshairysack: sounds like you could use some serious help.

Scott laughs, the sound startling him in the silence of his room.

attitudeadjustment: I’m just saying it’ll take a while.

gretzkyshairysack: let me see it

attitudeadjustment: See what?

gretzkyshairysack: your cock is what.
gretzkyshairysack: you said youve been wanting me all day
gretzkyshairysack: here I fucking am

Scott groans again, stroking himself more firmly, watching that video a few more times for good measure, imagining Gretzky watching the view count going up.

His dick has filled out nicely, it thick and deep red, precome pearling neatly at his tip.

Careful so as to not jostle himself, so as to not ruin the image there, Scott adjusts until he can take a quick picture, his thumb pressing into the base of his shaft, pushing his dick up higher.

He sends it without thought, without second guessing, watching the chat as he rolls his hips lightly, rocking into his fist.

gretzkyshairysack: fuck

That’s all that comes back for a moment. Scott grins broadly at the single word, watching the video a few more times, it’s only a few seconds after all, while lazily stroking his dick.

The next alert isn’t a message though, it’s another video, this one longer, the full eight seconds followed by fuck - to borrow a term - another one.

Sixteen seconds doesn’t seem like it should be much to be excited for, but Scott’s dizzy at the prospect.

gretzkyshairysack: make sure your volumes up

Scott isn't quite sure how Gretzky’s managed the angle, but it’s practically art.

His legs are as massive as the rest of him, thighs so big that Scott doesn’t even know if he could put both of his hands around them. They’re not the focus of the shot, yet it’s beyond Scott to not appreciate them.

He’s always been a leg man.

All that attention paid to those thighs, though, is swiftly stolen away as the image shifts a little further, those legs open wider and oh god, as Scott can hear a little grunt of breath.

It isn’t a lot.

It isn’t even a word.

But somehow that makes it all the more decadent and obscene because as Scott watches this man slide his fingers into his wet cunt - holy shit he’s slick and dripping and Scott literally wants to drown in it - there’s another little huff, met with an almost irritated groan, before Gretzky’s thumb is moving up to grind against his dick.

Then the video stops.

Scott’s frozen in a horrible moment of indecision as he can’t decide whether to watch that clip over again or to go for the next one.

The need to know wins out, Scott pausing only briefly enough to scramble for some lube to slick himself up as he starts up the second offering.

And oh god. Oh god damn, Gretzky is panting away using the slickness from his cunt to work away at his dick and Scott can’t pump his hand against himself fast enough.

“Please,” Scott whines although there’s no one to hear it. Please because he wants this man and he wants him now and god the noises that Gretzky’s making are hardly noises at all and more like actual growls and Scott wants to fuck him with his tongue until Gretzky is trying to pull out his hair.

Scott fumbles with his phone, losing purchase of it briefly before he’s got it back, smear of lube making the display filmy, but it’s only the camera that matters.

He’s only able to record eight seconds, so he’s going to have to time this right, fucking into his hand, getting close to that edge, closer than he ever would have imagined even moments ago because he just came in the shower but his feet are pressed against the mattress and his calves are tight when finally flicks on recording, huffing along his own breaths, careful not to say anything, because that feels too intimate, too strange, but he does let himself whine just before he spurts out and up, come falling back up onto his chest and stomach hot and sticky as it gets all over his phone.

He’s panting, breathless, giddy and much more messy than he had intended to be as he taps through lube and semen to send the video.

He imagines what Gretzky’s seeing, what he’s thinking, watching Scott come undone, watching Scott come.

gretzkyshairysack: thought you said you were spent for the night

Scott’s laughing again, sweaty, joyful, catching his breath as he feels his heart rate come down.

attitudeadjustment: I guess you proved me wrong.

gretzkyshairysack: no videos tonight hot stuff

This is new, the nickname.

It happened about a week ago, which was about a week after all of this started with the two of them egging each other on and swapping more and more videos.

Every single night.

Since that first one, there hasn’t been one missed.

Scott’s trying not to let himself think about it too much. He keeps wanting to ask about meeting up again, about finally getting to do this in person, but that urge wanes as he realizes that it would stop at that.

Just one. And then no more.

That’s what he’s always done with this.

attitudeadjustment: Did a cute little twink find you?

It’s funny, there’s not actually any dread in Scott about that. It isn’t the same smug certainty with which he had approached the possibility of being rejected. But there’s no anxiety at the notion of being found wanting.

There’s just, well there’s something more.

gretzkyshairysack: you could say that

Scott smiles, dipping his head as he does so, typing out his response quickly.

attitudeadjustment: I’m hardly a twink.

gretzkyshairysack: pretty sure only twinks show their asses like that
gretzkyshairysack: plus youre about as hairless as they come.

Scott scoffs, drawing the attention of Ororo from the co-pilot seat beside him.

attitudeadjustment: I am not hairless. I have chest hair. And other hair.

gretzkyshairysack: do you?
gretzkyshairysack: better send a pic so I can check

attitudeadjustment: You’d do anything to see me naked wouldn’t you?

gretzkyshairysack: already seen plenty of you, what makes you think I wanna see more?

“Scott,” Ororo states serenely, for what must be the second time, her fingers moving to rest lightly on his forearm.

Her touch makes him jerk, makes him flush, turning his phone over instantly so that it’s pressed down against his thigh as his hand moves once more to the yoke.

Not that he needs to.

They’re on autopilot.

“You seem distracted,” she continues, squeezing him lightly, running her thumb against his uniform.

He is distracted.

He knows he is.

He knows that he has been.

He knows he is yet again as the phone buzzes against his leg and another message comes through.

Scott flips it over without even thinking, desperate to read what Gretzky has to say.

gretzkyshairysack: but if youre taking off your clothes anyways I guess I wouldnt mind

“I —“ Scott begins, pressing his phone back down against his leg, turning it away, looking to apologize, to offer an excuse but Ororo stills his words with a shake of her head and another gentle squeeze.

“It is a good look on you.” Her fingers move up to gently brush his face. “You should be distracted more often.”

Scott smiles at her, though the expression is dimmed slightly by the clench in his chest. It’s amazing to have someone who knows you so well. Someone who loves you the way Scott knows Ororo loves him

Even if there are moments they don’t see eye to eye.

What would she think if she knew?

What would any of them?

His gaze drops down to the windscreen, taking in the Heads Up Display showing the cabin and those strapped in behind him. Pryde. Logan. Bobby. Hank.

Would they think less of Scott for this torrid affair? One in which he doesn’t know the other man’s name, has never seen his face, but knows the pattern of his breathing when he climaxes?

A shiver runs through Scott at that, thinking about last night, the way that Gretzky had been on his knees - they’d both really upped their camera game - with his chest pressed down into the mattress and legs spread open wide as he fucked himself on something he’d either picked up just for Scott and this, or that he’d had lying around.

Scott hopes for the former, thinking of Gretzky doing this for these stolen moments at night, moments that have been becoming longer, going from twenty or so minutes, to an hour, to Scott dozing sated and sleepy as they chat afterwards.

Always banter.

Always about sex.

But still there. Still them talking to each other.

Logan looks up briefly, catching the camera’s gaze, and Scott thinks for a moment how Logan would be the worst about this. Hank might be embarrassed, Pryde and Bobby would probably be oddly impressed, but Logan would just make Scott feel awful about it.

Or he could try.

Scott wouldn’t want his team to think badly of him, but he’s too far gone to care.

This makes him happy.

attitudeadjustment: Nothing from me tonight, either.
attitudeadjustment: I’m working late.

When Scott looks back, Logan’s attention is drawn away again, like Scott’s should be.

They have a mission after all.

gretzkyshairysack: id be bothered if i wasn’t otherwise occupied
gretzkyshairysack: might have to have a talk with your boss though
gretzkyshairysack: if he keeps this up
gretzkyshairysack: cause keeping you up is my job

attitudeadjustment: Would you be interested in having sex with me?

Scott still feels a little woozy, Gretzky’s goaded him into some horrible edging experiment that’s caused Scott to have the most intense orgasm he’s ever had in his life.

He’s showered, because he can’t stand lying there in sweat and come, but that’s just part of what they do now, too.

How they talk after.

Scott doesn’t know if Gretzky showers, or how he cleans up, or if he even does, but somehow in these almost high moments with oxytocin flooding through his system, Scott can almost pretend that Gretzky’s right there, curled up beside him, the two of them not quite touching but talking as sleep creeps in.

gretzkyshairysack: no im not interested in having sex with you at all

That’s not what Scott meant, and he thinks that Gretzky may know that, smiling groggily as he turns into his pillow.

There’s also an opening there, one to ask for them to meet again, to meet soon, but Scott’s stopped asking.

He doesn’t want to pressure.

He doesn’t want to lose this.

He doesn’t want to be as sad and pathetic as he is, but he is, and that’s that.

attitudeadjustment: I was referring to the possibility of penetration.

There’s been no laughter, no words, while each of their videos have sound sometimes and not others, neither of them have ever talked.

It’s weird. But it’s also just what their norm is.

Still, Scott can imagine the gruff of Gretzky’s laughter, close there with deep grunts he makes when he comes, tied with maybe that breathy little whine he makes when he’s just so close.

Scott wants him so bad.

Always.

gretzkyshairysack: oh youre talking about me fucking you

Scott laughs, imagining what Gretzky has to look like right now.

attitudeadjustment: Correct.

gretzkyshairysack: didn’t know you played that way hot stuff

Scott feels himself blush at the use of the nickname, feels that desperation in him boil as he wants it to be a term of endearment.

He wants them to have that. This. Whatever imagination-fueled hallucination it is.

Scott can now understand why people fall in love with cam workers.

It’s so easy.

attitudeadjustment: I haven’t. Not before. But as much as I’d like to

Scott stops himself short of writing make love to you.

It’s too much. There’s so much unknown. But half of the fantasies he crafts have to do with things that are soft and slow and easy.

Lazy mornings.

Comfortable and familiar.

attitudeadjustment: I’m just saying I could be interested in the possibility.

gretzkyshairysack: how sweet
gretzkyshairysack: id get to be your first

Scoff feels stupid, foolish, like he’s let too much of himself free, that he’s put too much of it out there.

But like he has a habit of doing, Gretzky soon puts Scott at ease. Even in his odd way.

gretzkyshairysack: id wanna tongue fuck you first.
gretzkyshairysack: get you good and loose
gretzkyshairysack: go until youre drooling on your sheets.

They need to meet. They need to have met. This man is pushing all of Scott’s buttons and he’s going to lose his mind.

gretzkyshairysack: you gonna work on coming for me while I tell you how I’m gonna wreck you?
gretzkyshairysack: I want video
gretzkyshairysack: and you better be fucking yourself on your hand

“Give me the sitrep.”

Scott’s just on the side of breathless, inhales coming in too fast and too hard. He’s in a polo and khakis, hasn’t even taken the time to get into his uniform.

How could he?

Minutes ago he’d been shopping in Salem Center, getting groceries and other supplies.

Stopping by the hardware store. They needed a different kind of washer for the faucet.

Yes, all those things can be ordered online. But also it’s important when you’re the monsters in the mansion on the hill to remind the townspeople you’re mostly human.

Lessens the pitchforks that way.

And no, he’s not breathless because he’s just parked his Porsche cattywampus across the lawn, or because he’s just run full tilt through the mansion and down into the sub-basement.

He’s breathless because of the message he just got from Gretzky as he was driving back, after he’d gotten the alert that he was needed home, as he was skidding to a stop in front of the mansion.

gretzkyshairysack: so about us meeting up
gretzkyshairysack: turns out I could use your dick in my mouth after all

It isn’t everything. But it is something. And that's more than Scott had five minutes ago and if the whole X-Men thing could keep being boring for just a few more seconds he really would have appreciated it.

Instead, Scott’s drawing a calming hand through his hair before sliding into his seat, looking at the maps that Pryde is busy pulling up.

Hank is explaining what each point of light means, as Bobby makes some tasteless crack, all while Scott is partitioning off that section of his mind, the one wholly and utterly obsessed with Gretzky, the one that is equal measures elated and terrified at the idea of them meeting.

Finally.

It won’t just be once.

It can’t just be once.

This is them. This is them and they have been doing this for well over a month.

It’s going to be something, a prospect as horrifying as the option of it being nothing.

But all that can wait. It has to wait because before Scott is anything else he is Cyclops and the rest of the world (and sometimes universe) comes first.

“Back up.” Scott’s voice echoes through the room made of metal and glass - except it’s not glass but some crystalline Shi’ar structure that makes up their displays.

Not that it matters.

Leaning forward, Scott flicks his wrist while sweeping his arm left, causing the map to move and twist, zooming in as Scott makes another motion with his fingers.

“You’re saying the warehouse is here?”

Scott makes a tapping gesture at a ghostly image of a building, projected in ephemeral 3D above the table. It lights up, glowing an eerie red as the blueprints bloom into display on the table below.

“No, not there,” Hank corrects with endless patience, pulling control of the map back, before turning it further towards the northeast, selecting a building in the same manner that Scott had just done. “Here.”

“That doesn’t seem right.” Pryde turns the map to him, pointing out each egress and ingress. “Everything’s choked off, there’s no way to get anything in or out.”

“But there is.” Scott stands, one palm pressed down onto the table as he moves the projection of the building up, bringing to life the configuration of the sewer systems below.

“Perhaps we should alert Callisto?” Ororo muses. “I do not feel she would be inclined to either help or hinder us, but I do know she would not respond well to our presence in her domain.”

“Perhaps you should,” Scott huffs out, sparing a glance to Ororo briefly, wry smile frozen on his lips.

“Yes,” Ororo allows her lips to curve softly in return, dipping her chin slightly. “I will be the one to contact her.”

Hank’s reaching for the map again, explaining the sewer layout, as well as going into too much detail about how they’ve obtained the most updated records, when a sound breaks through the laser-like focus held by the rest of the team.

It’s that sound. That one. The same one Scott had heard in the kitchen.

That very distinctive, very specific, belongs only to Grindr noise.

Instantly, Scott startles, hand going to his thigh, but the alert isn’t his.

There’s no new message from Grindr or Gretzky coming his way.

But there is to Logan.

That’s not bad, not too bad, the moment coming and going before Hank moves easily back into the discussion of tactics while Ororo and Bobby ask questions, but Logan - look he’s mostly silent during these damn meetings anyways, in a way that Scott has learned is him just taking the information in to use later.

Normally it doesn’t bother Scott. At least not anymore.

But when Logan goes for his phone.

When Logan unlocks it and starts to fiddle.

“I’m sorry,” Scott interrupts Rogue mid-sentence. “Is there something urgent happening?”

Straightening, Scott faces Logan, rolling his shoulders back.

“Is your sex life so important that it matters more than what’s being discussed right now?”

Scott could have let it go. He really should have. It’s interrupting things more for him to be railing on Logan about it at all, but he can’t seem to stop.

He knows it’s because he’s thrown by Gretzky’s message. He knows it’s because he’s just jealous and what he wants to be doing right then instead of saving the damn world or a piece of it is planning how to finally meet the man he’s obsessed with.

“I expected better.” Scott allows Logan one last glance, before turning back to the table. “Even from you, Logan.”

The war room is eerily silent, Rogue’s mouth is hanging open and Hank looks unreasonably uncomfortable, stuttering as he attempts to move back towards their normal conversation.

Logan, though, just stares at Scott. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t shift. He doesn’t check his phone or put it away. He just sits there, one leg crossed over the other, staring Scott down without saying a word.

“Alright, Slim. Message received loud and clear,” he finally drawls, tossing his phone in Pryde’s direction. “Delete that damn thing for me, would you?”

Pryde looks from Logan then to Scott and then back to the table as a whole. There’s a few quick movements of his thumbs before he’s done, lobbing the device back in Logan’s direction.

There’s just a shrug, a challenging gaze as Logan slides his phone back into his pocket and turns his attention to the map once more.

Ororo is the first to talk, Bobby following, before the whole team is back at it, planning the way to stop nuclear weapons and tainted methamphetamines targeted specifically for mutant DNA from getting out into the city.

Yes, it’s a weird mix. They’ve already discussed that.

Criminals these days.

attitudeadjustment: I would ask you out to dinner tonight, but I’m beat and sore.
attitudeadjustment: What are you doing tomorrow?
attitudeadjustment: I know this great place for breakfast, rooftop, amazing views.
attitudeadjustment: Do you like bellinis?

Scott waits.

He waits, after taking copious amounts of Tylenol and soaking in epsom salts for a good hour.

It doesn’t really help. It never does, but Scott likes to pretend that something so simple can ease the ache of being clotheslined into a solid brick wall.

He waits, allowing himself the leisure of air drying on his bed, gaze fixed listlessly on the ceiling. Normally they’ve talked by now. They’re both busy, both adults, so it isn’t like they always match up at the perfect time.

But there’s always something.

Scott waits all night, dozing lightly, snapping up into alertness at every imagined vibration against his skin before checking his phone.

Nothing.

He’d thought they’d come along far enough in all the ways that they had well, come together that dinner (Except the breakfast version) wouldn’t be too much.

He wants a meal. He wants to spend time with the man he’s been getting to know before finding some nice hotel in the city and utterly wrecking him.

Slowly.

Multiple times.

But maybe that’s not what Gretzky wants.

Maybe all Gretzky wants is that quick blowjob, that fast fuck and then it’s over.

Okay.

Scott can do that.

Can’t he?

attitudeadjustment: I also know a place in midtown.

It’s been days.

Days, plural.

Scott’s gone from jacking off practically once every twenty-four hours with an equally masturbatory audience, to feeling a twist in his stomach at the idea of touching his dick.

There’s been nothing. No response. No message. Gretzky hasn’t even been online.

Scott’s grateful for that, he guesses.

Maybe.

The wondering is the worst.

“Hey,” Rogue’s voice is soft, gentle and curving and honeyed even with that one single syllable.

A syllable that says more than Scott wants it to.

One that says that she sees him, that she sees through his moping and whatever failed facade he’s trying to put in place.

Scott’s had thoughts about messaging Gretzky a third time. Plenty of them. Instead, all he does is haunt the library, alternating between trying to pretend he’s scanning through books as though he’s hoping to find something perfect for the next segment of class, or just giving in and looking at his phone.

Scott doesn’t know how to respond to Rouge, though, doesn’t know how to react to the kindness in her voice, the one tinged in pity.

He hates that kind voice. Always has. It makes him feel weak. So he doesn’t respond. Instead, he just opts to lift his chin a fraction in silent greeting.

“You alright?” She asks, moving further into the room, playing at the hem of her gloves like she almost always does.

Scott wishes that they were closer. That she didn’t have those nervous habits around him. That they were friends.

What he wouldn’t give for a friend right now. Someone to talk to. Someone who might understand, or even if they didn’t, that it wouldn’t matter.

“I’m fine,” Scott replies, giving up the ruse and pushing to stand from the old wingback, unnecessarily smoothing down the front of his khakis while deftly (and hopefully unobtrusively) tucking his phone into his pocket.

He goes to leave, to walk out, offering a slight nod that’s the reverse of the gesture he's greeted her with.

It isn’t that easy.

Because Rogue keeps talking.

“You sure, sugah?” She fidgets, again, and Scott knows she feels just as awkward talking about whatever she’s trying to talk to him about as he does with her.

“Perfectly.” The word comes out crisp, sharp, right on the side of cutting even though he wishes it wasn’t.

She should just let him go.

As much as he would love a friend, as much as he would cherish that kind of relationship with anyone on his team, Scott’s position makes it impossible.

So she shouldn’t try.

“You’ll have to forgive me for sayin’ so, but ah really don’t think you are.” Rogue winces as she speaks, shoulders pulling up to her ears.

Oh.

That explains it. She must have pulled the short straw. They’re all in on her attempt.

They’re all trying to fix him.

They couldn’t even begin to understand. Hell, he wouldn’t even know how to explain.

“Why do I have a feeling you would never corner Logan about something like this?” Scott asks, words waspish as he toes at some obscenely expensive rug that was probably hand-woven a couple of centuries ago, all while not bothering to turn back to look at her. “Oh wait.” He has a tone, Scott knows he has a tone, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. “That’s right, you can’t, because he just vanishes.”

Logan had vanished. He’d gotten back with all of them from their little Cold War and overdose-preventing jaunt into the city and just ripped off on a bike.

But that wasn’t abnormal.

Logan did that a lot.

It didn’t even need to be spurred on by anything.

If Scott wants to just be, what even is he? Disappointed? Sad? Mad at himself for messing things up? Disgusted by the fact he so desperately wanted more?

That’s it. Desperate. He’s feeling desperate and they just can’t leave well enough alone.

“Logan’s not you.” She’s closer now, standing right behind his back, close enough that he can feel the heat of her there, close enough to touch.

She doesn’t, though.

It can’t be because of her mutation anymore. She’s grown out of that, she’s become comfortable in her own skin, even as it is.

Nowadays, Rogue touches everyone.

Even him. Sometimes.

But never in a way like this. Not from a place of comfort. Not from a place of genuine love.

Because he’s their leader and that’s not how it works.

He doesn’t often mourn Jean’s choice to take the firebird and leave. They had evolved themselves as it was, far from the conjoined place they had as children.

Still.

Would be nice.

Scott hums in response, clearing his throat.

“I appreciate you checking on me.” Schooling his face into a normal expression, into the expected expression, Scott tries for a reassuring and knowing smile as he turns to face her. “All of you.”

“You shouldn’t give up,” Rogue blurts out quickly before she’s comically covering her mouth with her hands, green eyes wide with shock. “Ah mean,” she twirls a piece of hair. “You shouldn’t give up. On um, whatever has you … well, whatever has you like this.” She shrinks into herself, an unlikely place for the spitfire who is a solid backbone to the team. “You really should try again.”

Scott’s brows knit, confusion running rampant through his brain.

“What?” He asks, feeling cold all over.

“Nothing,” Rogue steps around him, heading for the exit, waving a hand in his direction. “Just we’re here for you, is all. If you um, need anything.”

“Has Pryde—“ Scott stops mid-sentence as a shiver rips through him. The sub-basement is always cold. It makes sense, all stark and metal as it is, but Scott has never understood why Hank chooses to spend all his time down there.

Couldn’t he do his research somewhere else?

Or move the lab upstairs?

“Has Pryde,” Scott starts again, having finally gotten Hank’s attention, the blue-furred mutant deigning to look up from his microscope, peering over his glasses at Scott. “Well, is it possible that Pryde looked into my phone? That he hacked into it or something?”

It was just a seed of doubt, a grain of sand. Nothing malicious, nothing untoward, just the idea that the rest of them would have snooped to help Scott or fix whatever is going on.

Solution-based individuals all of them, which tends to get them all in trouble. Pryde especially, as he’s been known to go where he shouldn’t before.

“Is it possible?” Hank answers, reaching up to stretch, likely uncurling from that position for the first time in hours. “Entirely.” He pauses, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Probable? I doubt it. No one wants to have in-depth knowledge of your search history, Scott.” An amused twinkle dances in Hank’s gaze. “After all, as John Dewey said, man lives in a world of surmise, of mystery, of uncertainties.”

On the list of things Scott shouldn’t do, this one ranks up there.

He drinks, as much as anyone does, as much as anyone who fights to save the world (universe) time and time again.

But not often to excess.

Tonight, though, he’s excessive.

Tonight he’s raided Logan’s stash because - yes - his beer does tend to be better than Scott’s, and also - yes - he’s pissed that Logan just gets to split.

Scott’s never had that option.

He’s never had a lot of options.

But he does have one.

attitudeadjustment: So what happened here?

He's going to sound desperate. He knows he’s going to sound desperate. But, in truth, he is. He’s desperate and he’s had too many and Rogue said he should try again and her suggestion likely didn’t have anything to do with his current predicament.

This is probably not at all what she was thinking of.

But.

attitudeadjustment: If you changed your mind and you don’t want to meet, that’s fine.

Scott stops short of typing out just come back.

But then, no.

attitudeadjustment: Just come back. I’m okay with whatever you’re comfortable with.

Scott waits.

Sweating through his tee-shirt in a bedroom that’s not hot, knees pulled up under his chin, beer in one hand, phone in the other.

There are bottles everywhere.

(There’s two, three counting the one held loosely in his grasp along with the duo that are gathered neatly on his bedside table. It’s hardly everywhere, but he’s feeling dramatic.)

He doesn’t have to wait for long.

gretskyshairsack: you confuse the shit out of me

“Me?” Scott asks out loud to an empty room, looking just as affronted as he is.

Affronted but totally grateful because Gretzky is talking to him again.

Kinda.

Scott’s still Scott though.

attitudeadjustment: How did I confuse you?

Wow that’s not a good way to start. It could come off as aggressive and that’s not what Scott’s intention is.

Even if it is how he feels. He’s the one confused.

His one and only relationship shouldn’t have been with a telepath.

attitudeadjustment: You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What do you want out of this?
attitudeadjustment: You know what I want.

gretskyshairsack: i dont have a fucking clue what you want

Scott’s brow furrows up at that. He thought he’s been pretty obvious. But maybe he hasn’t.

attitudeadjustment: I want whatever you want. Just tell me what that is.

He’s so desperate. So desperate and so liquor-lubricated that he doesn’t care.

Shh. Yes. He knows it’s just beer.

gretskyshairsack: i know i don’t want to do this shit anymore

Scott’s heart plummets.

gretskyshairsack: it’s been fun but weve moved past the time for this

Okay. Okay yeah. This is good. This is okay. Gretzky sounds kinda pissed, but he wants them to move further into whatever this is.

That’s good. Isn’t it?

Maybe?

Or not.

attitudeadjustment: Does that mean you, well what does that mean?

Scott doesn’t want to press too hard. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s pushing at all if their meeting isn’t something that Gretzky is actually interested in.

This was just supposed to be sex. Everything Grindr related was supposed to be just sex. A handful of one-night hookups that Scott didn’t have to worry about.

Not, well whatever this has become.

gretskyshairsack: theres an all-night diner in plattsburgh

Scott’s fingers squeeze tightly against his phone.

gretskyshairsack: since you were wanting breakfast and all
gretskyshairsack: they aint got that fruity shit you were asking about though
gretskyshairsack: why would you even have champagne at breakfast much less put peaches in it

Adrenaline flows in and the alcohol in Scott’s system feels like it eases slightly.

The instinct to correct comes out, to share that it’s Prosecco and peach juice and that many people have it all the time and they’re fantastic and Scott loves them.

But he doesn’t.

attitudeadjustment: Plattsburgh?
attitudeadjustment: That’s all the way upstate.

The actual Upstate. As in Upstate Upstate. Not whatever some crazy people have labeled Westchester.

An hour and some change out of the city is not Upstate.

gretskyshairsack: look at you, knowing your geography
gretskyshairsack: you coming up or not?

It’s late. And it’s a drive. Hours long. Probably four. Maybe a little less.

Maybe three if his foot’s feeling heavy and the conditions are right.

But no.

attitudeadjustment: I can’t. Not until tomorrow.
attitudeadjustment: I’m a little drunk.

gretskyshairsack: you’re drunk
gretskyshairsack: were you that nervous about all this mess

Scott doesn’t know how to answer a question like that.

Honestly, Scott doesn’t know how Gretzky knows that about Scott.

But his brain is a little liquified at the moment, so that thought comes and goes as the notion of answering the question pops back in.

Being honest is a risk. It could seem like too much.

What the hell. Scott’s got MUTANT right there on his profile and tomorrow once Gretzky spots Scott’s glasses, that alone could be too much.

Gretzky could just be okay with mutants who can pass.

Should they talk about that too?

attitudeadjustment: Maybe.

So that’s kinda honest. But a change of subject still feels like it fits right. Feels less vulnerable.

attitudeadjustment: I can be there in the morning though.
attitudeadjustment: How do you want to do this?

gretskyshairsack: the usual way i guess
gretskyshairsack: eggs and bacon and coffee
gretskyshairsack: no peach wine or whatever
gretskyshairsack: unless youre talking about fucking on the four top, but that doesn’t seem your speed

Scott snorts, leaning down against the sweating glass, shifting the bottle between his knees so he can type with both hands.

attitudeadjustment: I was referring to how we’re going to recognize each other.

As has been the pattern with them, when they’re like this, the chat bubble pops up immediately.

But then it vanishes, and no words follow.

It happens again.

And then again.

Scott starts sweating once more.

gretskyshairsack: what the fuck are you talking about

That furrow in Scott’s brow is back. What does Gretzky not understand about this?

attitudeadjustment: I think I’m pretty good at recognizing people, but unless you’re going to be laid out, legs spread, it might be easier if we swap photos or names or something.

A flush creeps up Scott's neck as heat coils in his belly. There’s a part of him that thinks he could recognize Gretzky anywhere, that he would simply know him.

gretskyshairsack: damn you are really set on playing this game aren’t you
gretskyshairsack: i mean we’ve been doing this for fucking months
gretskyshairsack: but alright hot stuff if you wanna keep it up this let’s do this
gretskyshairsack: you wanna wear a red carnation or should i

Scott laughs, turning his cheek into his knee, blaming the giddiness that’s building in his chest on the two and a half beers he has consumed and not on the man sitting just a few hours away.

A man he’s going to meet tomorrow.

attitudeadjustment: I’ll be wearing a leather jacket.
attitudeadjustment: Also am I bringing the condoms or are you?
attitudeadjustment: Do you have a preferred brand of them or lubricant or anything?

gretskyshairsack: half the fucking world is going to be wearing a leather jacket so that wouldnt fucking help
gretskyshairsack: and who says were going to need anything like that
gretskyshairsack: i thought we were going to breakfast and now youre talking about condoms and lube

Horror shoots through Scott like lightning. He bolts forward, beer spilling all over his sheets.

attitudeadjustment: No, I apologize I didn’t mean to imply at all.

gretskyshairsack: jesus calm down I don’t give a shit about anything so long as youre there

Scott wills his heart to slow, for his anxiety to fade, this would be so much easier in person. And once they’ve met…

Scott isn’t sure he’s ready to think about all of that yet.

attitudeadjustment: You’re not funny.

gretskyshairsack: if you tell me youre not smiling that dopey ass smile down at your phone right now ill get on my knees and suck your dick at the diner

He is though, even as he mourns the fact that he’s going to have to change his sheets.

attitudeadjustment: So if you were to be correct about that assumption, in what other ways could I go about getting you to blow me?
attitudeadjustment: Later, though. Not at the diner.
attitudeadjustment: When you’re on your knees for me, the only thing I’m going to want to focus on is you.

gretskyshairsack: yeah well how about I give you something to focus on tonight

Every time the bell above the door jingles, Scott jumps.

Yes, it’s one of those kinds of diners and yes it probably has been there since the fifties. Which feels just about as long as Scott has also been there because the weather was great and he was too excited or nervous or something which all boils down to the fact that he made it Upstate at a speed that he likely should not have been traveling.

So he’s been sitting there a while.

Waiting.

He’s got his leather jacket on, and well the rest of him is pretty much just him. He’s never really thought about what he’s wearing to a hook-up before, but now as he slides sweating palms down over the denim covering his thighs, Scott wonders if he should have done more.

He looks nice, right? Surreptitiously he tries to glance at himself in the window beside the booth, tilting his chin to better take in his reflection.

“Lookin’ good, hot stuff.”

It’s just four words. Four words in a voice he’s been waiting to hear, that he’s been dreaming of and trying to reason out.

The only problem is, it’s a voice Scott knows.

Logan’s there. Right there, in the reflection of the window, and yeah, yeah damn he also looks really good.

He’s buttoned up just right, dressed in a manner that he never bothers to around the mansion. With a flannel shirt that’s been ironed, one that’s tucked neatly into what looks like almost new jeans, sporting a belt buckle that’s polished to shine.

His thumbs are hooked behind it, and there’s that stance, that wide, relaxed, sure of himself stance that had Scott practically melting into the floor.

But it’s not Gretzky, not some handsome unknown who has been wrecking Scott’s life in the best way.

It’s Logan.

He’s wearing a hat, one he takes it off quickly, dipping his head as he does so, standing there behind Scott, twisting the material nervously in his hands.

Scott doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Logan nervous.

But what does Scott know at all? He’s frozen there in front of the window, unable to think much less move because, honestly, he doesn’t know what’s happening.

Logan touches him, reaches out to slide his hand along Scott’s shoulder like someone who knows him would, like someone who knows him intimately, but Scott starts and jerks away.

Which just means Logan’s standing there looking as confused as Scott’s feeling.

Does he smell like … orange peel and cedar? He smells really, really good even if it is really, really faint and for a second Scott leans in toward it before moving back once more.

“Logan.” His name is a question, wrapped in confusion and misunderstanding as Scott feels unbelievably trapped in the booth, stuck both in the space and in his mind because he has no idea what to do.

First and foremost he doesn’t want to cause a scene, but Logan is there where Scott’s date is supposed to be, except Logan just called him hot stuff and that’s what Gretzky has been calling him and what, what is happening.

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I—?” Logan’s hands are still on his hat, still seemingly insecure, but the look that crosses Logan’s features says more that he’s heading toward being pissed off. “What the fuck do you mean what am I doing here? Look, Slim, I’ve played your game this whole time, but this is just fucking crazy.”

Game?

What game?

There’s been no game.

“Is this a joke?” Everything in Scott is shattering. This is the first time in a long time, the first time ever really, that he’s let himself be free, that he’s just been Scott and not anything else. Never in a million years would he have done this with someone he knew.

With someone he worked with.

With Logan.

“Which fucking part?” Logan bites out loudly, too loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the establishment.

“Any of it, all of it.” Scott wants to stand. He wants to push Logan out of his way but he can tell that Logan’s in the mood to push back and the last thing Scott wants to do is start a brawl in the middle of the diner.

Plus Scott is so confused he doesn’t know if he wants to touch Logan.

He’d wanted so badly, for so many nights, to feel the heat of Gretzky’s skin, to run his fingers over every gently sloping inch of him.

To run his lips along the same path.

His tongue.

It’s a confusing sensation. To both want and not want. Revulsion and fear and need.

“Sure you can’t narrow it down?” Logan snaps. “You saying I’m joking when I’m going on and on about how I wanna choke on your dick, or maybe it’s the part where I’ve been begging you to fuck me?”

Scott really wishes that Logan wasn’t saying these things, that he wasn’t snarling them out in a public place where everyone is watching and listening and observing as a room full of eggs go cold.

“Did you do this just to make fun of me?” Scott’s voice cracks as he asks the question, finally unable to stand it, unable to sit there anymore, getting up and waiting for Logan to move back so he can leave.

But Logan doesn’t move back.

“How the fuck would me doing that, us doing this, be me making fun of you?”

Scott shoves him, and then braces for Logan’s counterattack, but there’s nothing. Just Logan looking, well he looks hurt and confused as he remains for a moment longer.

“Because isn’t it funny, to get me like that, to get video of me like that.” Scott’s chest is too tight and he’s too hot and it feels like the room is spinning.

Jesus, Logan has video of him, of him doing those things.

“You think that I’m laughing when it’s all I can think bout? You working your cock like that about me, you wanting me like that? You wanting me to fuck you?”

Scott can’t do this anymore. He hardly feels like any of this is real. No one in the restaurant is moving, other than the two of them shouting you could hear a pin drop, he’s just lucky everyone in there is over forty because at least no one is recording this.

Scott shoves again, wordlessly, and Logan steps back, letting out a rush of air as he does so. Logan lets Scott get two steps before he’s reaching out and grabbing Scott’s wrist, spinning him around to face him.

“Are you sayin’ you had no idea that was me?” There’s pain there, laced in Logan’s words, hurt and vulnerability and a dozen other things as his fingers flex into the leather wrapped around Scott’s arm.

“How did you even know it was me?” Scott yells back as his mind races. Is he that obvious? Is it that evident?

“You make that stupid attitude joke anytime we head anywhere in the ‘bird.”

It comes back like an overplayed sitcom montage. Each and every moment of him snickering at himself as he says it, leveling off the jet after cutting up out of the trees.

“Plus we’ve been seeing each other naked for years,” Logan continues, face crumbling. “You’re hard to miss.”

A titter sounds from the back of the restaurant, drawing Scott’s attention away.

He pulls on Logan’s hold hard, harder than he needs to because Logan just lets him go.

“I’m not talking about this in here,” Scott hisses, storming out, hearing the happy little noise of the bell and hating it, whereas a moment before all he’d wanted was to hear its gleeful trill.

“How did you not know it was me?” Logan asks, more calmly now that they’re outside, tapping his hat against his thigh.

“I just didn’t. I’ve never,” something in Scott twists so bad it hurts. “I’ve never looked at you like that.” He can’t seem to let his gaze settle anywhere other than the cement of the sidewalk beneath his feet. “I don’t look at you like that,” he adds quietly.

“You’ve sure as been fuck looking a hell of a lot lately,” Logan rips out, voice rising sharply. “Do you mean to tell me you’d send shit like that to anyone out there? There’s no telling who I could have been. I thought this was just how we were finally getting past whatever—“

“Why’d you stop talking to me, if you knew it was me?” Scott asks out of nowhere, trying his damndest to put all the pieces together.

“What?” Logan asks, face screwed up into a scowl.

“After you said you wanted,” Scott swallows, remembering exactly what Gretz… Logan had said. “After you said you wanted to meet you just vanished.”

“What?” Logan barks out again. “Because you were on my ass that night about me prioritizin’ my sex life so I figured you were done with whatever that was. Instead,” Logan just increases in volume as he stalks closer, “you didn’t even know it was me, because you don’t fucking want me like that.”

“You don’t want me like that,” Scott shouts back, surprising himself with the ferocity of his voice.

“Fucking years Scott,” Logan’s voice drops, a softness edging around each part of it, that vulnerability snapping back into play. “That you haven’t known I’ve wanted your dumb ass for years just fucks me up.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. This has been some stranger who has made his way into Scott’s life, someone who has become something to Scott. Companion. Lover. Friend.

But Logan was his own set of things. Teammate. Splinter. Bulldog.

Not this. Not those things. Never.

“But you don’t look at me like that.” Logan pulls himself up to his full height, straightening the brim of his hat before he replaces it. “Because you don’t wanna look at me like that. Even if you’ve been looking a fucking ton these last weeks but now it’s fucking different.”

There are no words in Scott’s mind, much less in his throat. Nothing helpful trapped behind the safety of his teeth.

Logan hesitates, hooking a thumb into his belt loop, jutting a hip, waiting for Scott to reply.

He doesn’t wait long.

He just turns on the heel of his cowboy boots, and walks with unerring calm back to his jeep.

But the calm is just there in Logan’s steps, because his shoulders are a tense line. They stay like that as he pulls out of the parking lot. They stay like that until he takes a corner and disappears. And Scott knows they stay like that because once he starts looking, he can’t seem to look away.

The kitchen’s packed.

Again.

Today Scott has opted to perch over the sink while he eats a bowl of cereal. A bowl that contains far too many colors and an astonishing amount of marshmallows.

There’s no way that this can be nutritious.

They need to not have this in the school anymore.

But Jubilee has been back on shopping duty because Scott had taken a business trip to Colorado which was really just him hiding out at Warren’s Aerie with neither Warren nor business and instead just Scott trying to figure out what he was going to do.

Something like this could fracture the team.

It may have already.

Neither of them has tried to message the other. Scott’s installed and deleted the app five times in the last week.

He doesn’t know why. He knows it’s Logan. He could just text him. Or call him.

Or walk down the hall.

Scott doesn’t do any of those things.

Instead when he hears Logan coming he ducks behind a corner or turns down a hall or, that one time, slides into a supply closet.

Scott knows Logan knows. Logan has that stupid nose that detects pretty much anything, so there’s no doubt that Logan was grinning some horrible grin as he walked by the door.

All at Scott’s expense.

“Man,” Bobby drawls, sliding into a spot that’s too close for Scott’s liking, interrupting that thought spiral that Scott’s been practically living in. “You really made a mess of this didn’t you.”

Scott’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. Fruity pebbles and their marshmallow compatriots seize hold of this opportunity to escape and leap into the sink.

“Excuse me?” Scott responds, voice as tense as the entirety of his body.

“Letting the kids into the kitchen.” Bobby waves a pop tart over his shoulder, gesturing at the stools filled on the island and the table that’s overflowing.

Things ease in Scott, relax, each muscle unclenching one by one as he straightens, eyeing what’s left of his soggy sugar vehicle, before tipping it over into the polished metal.

Without a word, Bobby turns on the faucet before flicking the garbage disposal, letting it run for a few seconds before reversing the process.

Scott just watches, standing there dumbly with his now empty bowl, thinking about how this is proof they can still work as a team.

Them being able to know what’s needed, not having to communicate. Maybe it’s that easy. Maybe they can just continue on without anything changing.

“You totally screwed up the other thing, too,” Bobby comments dryly, crumbs going everywhere as he speaks. “With Logan.”

Scott’s bowl makes a noise loud enough to startle the rest of the kitchen, silence dropping down like a wall as he glares at Bobby.

Suddenly, Scott feels cold, cold all over, but this time isn’t just a physical reaction to feeling like the rug has been pulled out from underneath him.

No, this time it’s because Bobby’s gone cold, neat crystals of ice forming on the counter.

Scott must look as ticked off as he feels, rage coursing through him, mixing with embarrassment and hurt and a dozen things he can’t name because he never thought he’d end up in this position.

Not for the first time in their life he wants to pummel Bobby, but while Scott’s fingers curl into his palm, he knows he actually isn’t going to lash out.

Not Scott.

That’s something Logan would do.

So Scott sets his jaw. He can feel the pressure and strain on each muscle of his face, can feel the eyes of the majority of the student body on them. Eyes that will forever capture this moment, they will engrave it into their minds and use it as a mold for how they too respond to conflict.

Sometimes, Scott hates being himself.

Swallowing down all that rage, all that pain, Scott breathes. He takes a breath in, and then a breath out, and then he laughs.

It’s fake.

It’s bad.

It’s just the one.

A tiny little chuckle before he’s rinsing his bowl and spoon and putting them in the dishwasher, shaking his head like this is the funniest most adorable little thing he’s ever heard and not his very private very personal business fueling the gossip mill at the mansion.

He didn’t expect walking out to be so difficult, but with Bobby gaping at him, and all those pairs of eyes following there was nothing he could do.

Just tamp it down.

Just forget it.

Just move on.

“What did you mean?” Scott pants, sweeping his leg under Bobby’s before rolling to utilize their shared momentum and pin the shorter man’s shoulder to the floor, arm held tight behind his back.

“What?” Bobby groans or squeaks or something because whatever Scott’s doing must be uncomfortable.

Oops.

“The other day.” Scott twists his grip and Bobby’s whole body winces as he makes a gargled kind of noise before tapping the floor. “At breakfast.” Scott releases Bobby in a fluid movement, bouncing back on the balls of his feet. “What did you mean?”

“What do you mean what did I mean?” Bobby’s panting, part of Scott’s mind, the leader part of his mind, knows that Bobby is itching to use his powers.

But that’s the point of this exercise. They need to train without them. Scott expects it of himself. He also expects it of everyone else.

“About Logan,” Scott gets close enough to swing and he does so, but Bobby catches a weakness, a gap, and gets Scott in the ribs.

Scott knows better.

He should be focused here, now, not worrying about something that … well it’s pretty much ruining his life.

“How much do you know?” Scott snaps out, pressing a hand to his side but reassured there’s no actual damage.

“Not much.” Bobby’s voice is high, strained, he’s nervous.

The room dips in temperature.

“I wasn’t supposed to know anything anyways. None of us were.”

That makes Scott stop. Makes him feel like the entire floor has opened up beneath him.

“Us?” Scott croaks.

“Well, it’s all Rogue’s fault. The time we went out, not this last one, or that other one with the birds, but when we ended up in Norway.”

They’ve both stopped acting like they’re even trying to spar anymore. Scott’s really just trying not to bolt.

He wants to know this.

He needs to know this.

“I guess she got too up close and personal with Logan, and picked up some surface stuff.” Bobby pulls in on himself, obvious in the way he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“And she…” Scott can’t swallow. They’re teammates. He’s their leader. He thought they respected him more than this. “She told you this.”

“What? No.” Bobby holds up his hands in defense against Scott’s misinterpretation. “No, I overheard it when she was telling Logan he needed to try talking to you instead of,” Bobby’s face turns crimson, “instead of what you were doing.”

Scott can feel himself pale.

“Not that I know. What. What you were doing. I mean I didn’t know what. I don’t know what. But then Pryde caught me in the hall and then everyone was yelling, well Pryde was laughing at Logan, and then Hank showed up and I guess Logan’s in love with you or something.”

Except it comes out like Iguesslogansinlovewithyouorsomething as Bobby talks into his chest.

Scott just stands there.

There’s nothing to say.

So he doesn’t.

He just leaves.

Scott continues not to speak.

He doesn’t talk outside of his classes.

He doesn’t answer direct questions.

The closest he gets to communication is catching Logan’s gaze across the lawn.

Logan stops. His fingers twitch at his side but neither of them say anything.

Scott's steps don't even slow.

A week passes.

Half of another.

Scott’s started talking again, he has to. You can’t not when you’re the one giving orders.

Orders that are followed even if everyone else is a little more subdued. Even if all their glances are wary ones.

Everything is the same for all that it’s not.

It never will be again.

It isn't.

Logan gets hit, right in the back, the wound angry and gaping and crawling like an ember on paper over his left shoulder.

He keeps going.

Just like he always does

Scott’s gaze lingers too long, his mind clouded after, heart racing, chest clenching, confusion coursing through him.

He’s made a choice.

He can't do this anymore.

Scott whimpers as he rocks back onto his hand.

This is still new to him, this, right here, the feel of his fingers, the stretch around them. It’s a lot, it’s tight and strange but it feels good.

It could feel better.

It would feel better if he wasn’t trying to balance himself just so, trying to get the right angle, making certain that he’s framed well in the camera with his chest pressed down into the matress, placing himself almost exactly the way Logan had all those weeks ago.

Logan.

Scott laughs, bitterly, turning his wrist and hitting that spot that causes fireworks, pulling in air with a hiss.

“Logan,” he pants, voice breaking around the other man’s name. “Please.”

This is how they started.

Scott just doesn’t want it to be the way they end.

Scott’s just about to come as the door opens.

He’s taken his time. He’s stretched out each moment along with himself (just like he’d thoroughly researched.) He’s waited and waited and waited until he’s decided that his gamble hasn’t paid out.

Honestly, he doesn’t even feel like getting off anymore.

Not now, not after, because it hasn’t worked, and Logan hasn’t shown up, and isn’t it really great because there’s yet another video of him - and this time it is very definitely him - opening himself on his fingers just sitting on Logan’s phone.

Not even through Grindr.

Just a text.

Probably not the smartest way to go about it but hey…

Scott’s been desperate this whole time.

Desperate and feeling stupid, wondering why he’s still curled up like that, freezing cold, ass in the air, cock heavy and hot and leaking into his fist as he pants little huffs into his sheets.

At the first click of the doorknob, though, Scott stills.

It’s been at least an hour since he sent the text.

It has to be three in the morning. Maybe later. Maybe more time has passed. It was already late when they got back.

It wasn’t like Scott could sleep.

All he could think of was Logan.

Logan getting hit. Just like he always does. It wasn’t special. Logan puts himself in the line of fire all the time.

It’s an actual part of their strategy.

But Logan.

Logan and that wound knitting together.

Logan who, well Logan who apparently said out loud that he might love Scott.

Logan who comes in now, quiet as a shadow, the sound of his jeans crumpling and hitting the floor all that breaks into the silence of the room.

Scott doesn’t know what he expects, he doesn’t know what he wants, but he finds out quick that Logan’s ready for him. Something hard and thick and slick presses against Scott’s thigh before it finds its way to that stretched, loose muscle.

He could look back, could see, could witness what’s happening but it’s easier to have his face turned away.

Hidden.

Logan slides home without pausing. Without saying hello, without doing much more than putting a claiming hand on Scott’s hip and fucking forward.

He presses Scott down, palm centered in the small of Scott’s back and running up his spine as he lets out a growl, thrusting relentlessly into Scott, filling him up.

Scott loves it. He shoves his face further into the bed and revels in the feel of it, the feel of Logan, the heat of his body, the power of his thrust, Scott’s fingers clawing frantically into the sheet as Logan takes him.

Except that’s not what happens.

Not even a little bit.

It may be what Scott’s been busy dreaming up, but that’s not anywhere near the truth of it.

To begin with there are no jeans hitting the floor, just the feather-soft sound of Logan’s steps as he crosses the hardwood. Scott can hear him breathing, can tell that he’s there, but neither of them says anything.

That’s kind of the same. From there on out, though, it’s all different. A thousand miles away from expectation.

Even expectation that wasn’t actually expected, just half thought of.

When Logan touches him, when he finally does - and it takes him a moment, a handful of seconds before his hand glides over the curve of Scott’s spine, up further, high past his shoulder, journeying over his neck, until he combs his fingers reverently through Scott’s hair.

He thumbs at Scott’s nape for a second, before he leans down and Scott can feel the heat of him, the actual real and there and not a figment of Scott’s imagination heat of him, can feel the roughness of the fabric he’s wearing against the naked vulnerability of Scott’s skin.

There’s a drag of Logan’s mouth along Scott’s neck, followed by the coarseness of his sideburns and the flick of his tongue right below Scott’s ear.

“You think I was just gonna come in here and wreck you?” Logan purrs, voice thick and low and devastating. “Roll over.” He taps Scott lightly on the ass. “M’sick of not seeing your face.”

Scott whines. His own fantasy made much more sense, was so much more palatable than this possibility.

Facing this.

Facing Logan.

Facing the reality of it all.

Logan doesn’t stop touching him, won’t seem to settle for being separated from him, dragging that same hand down over Scott’s chest, before he’s cupping Scott’s jaw.

There’s a second, a heartbeat, a breath, where his gaze is anxious as it searches Scott’s, his thumb trailing over Scott’s cheekbone.

“You’re beautiful,” Logan murmurs, moving onto the bed, the weight of him straining the frame, as he crawls between Scott’s legs. Legs that open readily for him, that invite him in, wrapping around Logan and bringing him closer.

To Scott, this moment is even more surreal than the one he's just imagined.

“It isn’t supposed to be like this,” Scott breathes out, only to catch sight of half of Logan’s mouth curving up before he’s closing the space between them, lips soft and insistent, that first kiss far more gentle than Scott could have ever envisioned.

Not from a man like Logan.

But that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? He is just as much an individual as Scott is. Logan may be the Wolverine but he’s still Logan. Scott may be their fearless leader, but at the end of the day, he’s still just Scott.

Which means that Scott should be able to understand this.

But he can’t.

This isn’t something rushed or panicked, it isn’t anything like Scott had with his other hookups. An action that’s just a means to an end. A fun one, one that helps you get revved up and into it, but nothing more.

This is everything.

This is cruel and dangerous and threatens to shatter Scott into innumerable pieces.

He cracks, breaking into splinters that spread into the deepest chasms, as he feels the way that Logan smiles into their kiss, as he feels the curving of Logan’s lips as he settles against Scott’s body, patient and determined as he explores each new way to elicit a gasp or harsh intake of breath.

Forever, Scott could stay like this forever, orgasm be damned, but just as he laces his fingers into Logan’s hair - that stupid hair, hair that’s soft and silky and thick, Logan pulls away.

Scott whines, it’s horrible, embarrassing, the way he’s grabbing at Logan, the way he’s trying to stop him from moving, but all Logan does is chuckle as he sits back on his heels.

“You getting a good look at me now?” Logan asks. And, for the first time, Scott recognizes that Logan is wearing sweats.

Sweats and a hoodie.

The hoodie.

Scott whines again, hating himself but also not because somehow this is Logan, it’s always been Logan, Logan who is the biggest pain in Scott’s ass, Logan who always has his back.

Logan who has now seen a side of Scott no one else ever has.

Who has seen that, and who saw it all, all of it, but who is still sitting on Scott’s bed working on slowly lowering the zipper on that damn hoodie and making Scott lose his mind.

It comes down, tooth by tooth, Logan grinning a blatant and shit-eating grin as he does it, revealing more and more of his chest with each passing and very rapid beat of Scott’s heart.

“You’re such an asshole,” Scott grumbles, hoping he doesn’t look too awed, biting down into his lower lip as he curls his fingers into the sheets.

“You love it,” Logan responds, shrugging the cloth off of one shoulder and then another.

He’s gorgeous.

He was gorgeous in the photos, in each video, but there’s been nothing like this, even with all their shared attraction and chemistry.

Scott feels drunk on it.

“You finally got me right here and you're just gonna sit there and look?”

The hoodie slides down Logan’s arms, falling to the ground, leaving him naked from the waist up. Bare, exposed, waiting.

“Can I?” Scott asks, still leaning on his elbows.

It’s different. This is different. Being able to actually touch him after all this time.

For a second, Scott feels shy. Nervous. Worried that he might be found wanting.

“Can you what?” Logan’s voice is deep and delicious, as dangerous as he is, crawling forward, pushing Scott back.

“Touch you,” Scott all but whispers, hands hovering beside Logan’s arms, waiting and unsure. “I don’t know what, well..” he shrugs, feeling foolish. He’s naked, naked and well he was hard, he’s not quite anymore, but he’s naked and stretched out and loose and Logan is there between his legs and Scott’s asking if he can touch him.

It’s stupid. But this whole thing is stupid and it shouldn’t be happening.

Scott’s so grateful that it is.

Logan bends to nip at Scott’s jaw, grinding down against him, as his hands roam hungrily all over Scott. “You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself on that app.”

“That was different.” And it was, it so was, because as Scott lets his fingertips move tremulously across Logan’s cheekbone, the truth of this is amazing to him.

The reality seems to be something else to Logan.

He stops, pulling his mouth abruptly away from the bruise he was busy sucking into Scott’s skin. That smirk is gone, that smugness replaced by a blankness on his features that spell impending disaster, like the shift in wind before a storm.

“Different how?” Logan’s voice is still rough, but instead of being rough like amber whiskey, this tone is sharp, grating, likely to wound. “Because it’s me? Because you know it’s me now?”

“Yes,” Scott answers without hesitation, but as Logan moves to jerk away, as he moves back, as hurt and frustration and anger all cross his face, Scott’s legs wrap around him once more.

And Scott’s got strong legs.

“Because it’s you, everything is different.”

Logan still pulls back though, lips curving harshly into a sneer, flashing sharp teeth.

Scott lets him go, but doesn’t stop talking, pushing up onto his elbows once more. “I thought it meant something. With, well,” it feels crazy to call Logan Gretzky. “Before I knew. I thought it meant something. But now, because it’s you, I mean it’s you Logan. This whole time it’s been you.”

“Yeah?” That edge is there, one that Scott’s heard a hundred times or more in all the conflicts he’s had with Logan over the years. “And what does it being me mean?”

“It means I started looking and I can’t stop.”

All the air goes out of Logan. Scott can actually see it happen in real-time, the shift in all of him, the ease that soaks into his very pores.

“Damn,” Logan clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And here I thought you were about to really fuck things up.”

The sweatpants drop a lot faster than the hoodie did, Logan hooking into the waistband swiftly with his thumbs and guiding them down over the thickness of his thighs. Scott’s breath freezes in his chest, gets stuck there, because Logan’s standing there, before him, naked and glorious and holy fucking shit.

Because Logan isn’t naked.

Because there’s a harness strapped neatly around him, dark leather tight against his skin, a duo of straps snaking around his hips and back around his ass.

Logan did come here to fuck him.

A whimper breaks out of Scott’s throat that has Logan laughing, the depth of his chuckle filling the room.

“You make a lot of pretty noises.”

Scott wishes that there were a significant enough set of words in any language to describe each of Logan’s tones. The sound that curves around each of his words. The way all of them feel like there’s a threat behind them. Sometimes they’re like coffee that’s ground fresh and brewed too strong. Other times he’s like a smooth brandy, all well-aged and spiced.

Right now all Scott can think is that Logan sounds raw. Like he’s worn down and fraying at the edges and that gives Scott the littlest victory because at least that means he’s not alone.

“You got lube?” Logan’s all bravado, all surety, as he attaches the phallus. There’s a deftness to his movements, not that he’s generally clumsy, but this is practiced.

He’s done this before.

Scott feels jealousy spike fiercely through him, cutting through the haze of his desire.

But only for a moment.

“I mean I brought some.” Logan lifts a shoulder, just one, shrugging as he gestures at the floor. “But you were talking about preferences or favorites and shit and I figured that means you had yours.”

Logan’s nervous.

He’s nervous and he wants to do this right.

For Scott.

Turning to reach behind, Scott feels around for the stuff he was using earlier. It’s under his pillow, likely having escaped there as he was testing out the limits of his dexterity.

Gambit’s gotta be good at that. Fingering himself. Or anyone else.

That thought comes, and then goes, replaced by the only thing Scott can think of. The only person he’s been able to think of for weeks.

Spilling lube onto his hand - there’s no such thing as too much, that’s what his research told him - feeling it dribble over his wrist and down his arm, Scott moves to kneel on the mattress, kneeling right in front of Logan, smiling his own soft little knowing smile up into a face he’s known for ages but never like this.

“You should have said something earlier,” Scott tuts, reaching forward to grab Logan’s dick, slicking it shamelessly, working it with his hand as he leans up, chasing a kiss.

“Yeah?” Logan replies into Scott’s mouth, the word a growl or a snarl or a purr. Something. Something heady and deep and perfect.

“Mhmm,” Scott agrees, feeling the slide of the hardness in his hand, feeling his own cock throb and leak from anticipation.

“You really never do this before?” Logan’s always been good at backing Scott into corners. Tonight, though he’s good at backing Scott further onto the bed, good at herding him with his body.

Before Scott would never have given him an inch, but it turns out that giving up to Logan, that giving himself to Logan might not be such a bad thing after all.

“Who was gonna fuck me, Warren?” There’s a tease in Scott’s tone, an easiness. This isn’t what he expected. This isn’t rough and fast and over and done.

This is common, relaxed, anxious and nervous but all because this is new.

Not because of who it’s with.

Scott trusts Logan. He knows Logan. He knows that Logan wouldn’t be here unless…

“You just say fuck?” Logan asks, smirking, looking down at Scott like he’s … well like he’s valuable, like this moment is meaningful, like this moment means something to Logan and Logan doesn’t know how to process it.

“I swear,” Scott defends, but that’s the only fight he’s got in him, because there’s no resistance as he leans back onto the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head, tucked against the coolness of his pillow.

“Uh-huh.” Logan’s smirk is still present, as he tilts his head thoughtfully. “Warren, eh?” Logan teases, sliding between Scott’s legs with ease. “I don’t buy it, he’s too pretty for you.”

Something clenches in Scott’s chest, something that threatens to snap at the connection between them.

It was like this with Jean. But she was his best friend, his wife, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

She was his person.

What does that make Logan?

“Are you trying to say I’m not pretty?” Scott feigns affront as Logan guides his thighs to open further. “Because you’ve been spouting off the opposite since you walked in here. You’re not making a very convincing case.”

“Not sayin’ that at all, darlin’.” Logan’s words barely make sense to Scott because he can’t hear them, not with the gentle brush of Logan’s slicked fingers as he tests Scott’s give. “I’m sayin’ you got a type, and that ain’t it.”

A kiss is pressed against Scott’s calf, and then his ankle, as Logan positions him, draping one of Scott’s legs over his shoulder.

Even Scott, conscientious and thorough as he is, is not nearly as tender a lover.

No, it’s never been like this.

“Scott.” The use of his name is startling. It shouldn’t be, but it is, jerking Scott’s gaze from where it’s been fixated on each of Logan’s movements back up to his face.

In a breath, Logan enters him, slow and steady and sure, drawing his hand down over Scott’s thigh to settle on the dip there, thumb moving in soothing slow circles.

“That’s it, darlin’” he coos, drawing back before pressing in further, each roll of his hips taking him deeper than the last. “That’s it.”

Finally, finally, Scott gives in, or lets go, or sinks into whatever strange universe they’ve somehow fallen into, panting out little tight breaths as he reaches up to touch Logan.

Not with his leg. Not with his thighs. Not even considering the fact that Logan is inside him. Instead Scott reaches up to touch Logan with his hands, to drag them over his chest, to feel the soft slopes there backed with hard muscle, dragging his nails through thick, dark hair.

“Is this,” Scott cries out as he arches off the bed, stars shooting through his vision, blinding and white. “Is this okay?” He eventually manages, trying to catch Logan’s gaze, trying to search his features, looking for some kind of guideline before he snags on a perfect nipple and twists.

The gasp from Logan is amazing, it shoots straight down to Scott’s dick but it evidently does things for Logan too, as his thrusts because deeper, fiercer, Logan bending low to cover Scott with his body.

And Scott? Scott has no complaints, wrapping his arms around Logan’s back and pulling him closer.

God it’s good, it’s so good, Scott’s never been fucked before, and yet it’s far better than he could have imagined. Logan continues to purr sweet things at him, into his skin, his neck, his jaw, the soft spot under his chin.

“Logan,” Scott whines out, threading his fingers through Logan’s hair and pulling hard. It’s supposed to stop him, to get his attention, to alert him so that Scott can ask him a question.

It just makes Logan snarl. Snarl and fuck into Scott harder, taking Scott’s breath away deliciously with each thrust.

“Logan,” Scott tries again, feeling broken and unraveled, both wanting to try and piece himself together but also not giving a single damn.

There’s another growl before the solid surety of Logan’s hand is wrapping around Scott’s dick, slick with lube, stroking him at the same rhythm of each thrust.

“Logan,” Scott snaps, leaning forward to bite his neck, before he realizes that’s not going to stop anything but would probably make Logan even more wild and while Scott is entirely there for that, he also needs to know. “Is this alright?” Scott pants. “It this… is it good for you?”

Logan stops, you can almost hear the burning rubber in his mind from skidding to a halt, before he’s pulling out of Scott slowly, so slowly, watching transfixed as Scott stretches around his cock.

“You wanna know if this is good for me?” There’s that danger again, that threat, as Logan’s gaze drags up Scott’s body.

Scott just nods, legs wrapped loosely around Logan as he sits back a little, as he reaches down, sliding his hand between his legs, making an altogether unfair expression as his fingers delve into that dark thatch, huffing softly as he lazily fucks himself on his hand.

A hand that Logan’s soon holding up, spreading fingers that are glistening with slick, allowing Scott to see the viscous fluid there.

It’s so hot that Scott can’t help but to groan.

A groan that gets deeper still as Logan leans forward, as he guides his cock back into Scott’s ass all while shoving those come-coated fingers into Scott’s mouth.

Fingers that Scott laps at greedily, that he sucks and bites.

“You like that?” Logan grumbles, slowing each roll of his hips. “You wanna taste more of me?”

Scott’s mouth is full or he’d be begging, instead all he does is suck harder, craning his neck to lean up after Logan’s fingers as he pulls them away.

When the snikt sounds in the bedroom Scott’s not quite expecting it. It’s certainly a noise he hears plenty of in the day-to-day, but not ever in an instance like this.

He doesn’t wonder for long, though, because Logan’s cutting those straps free, tossing the harness aside and retracting his claws, before crawling up the bed.

His knees land somewhere around the top of Scott’s head, and immediately Scott knows what’s about to happen. Not that he didn’t know. Not that he wasn’t aware and he didn’t have an inkling but damn.

Logan’s good, dropping his dripping cunt down on Scott’s mouth with precise aim and care. Care because Logan weighs far too much to be doing this, enough to seriously damage Scott with the addition of super strength thrown in the mix.

But this, too, is something that Logan’s obviously done before.

Fortunate for them both, this is also an area in which Scott has years of practice.

The taste of Logan is unbelievable, sharp and musky, and as Logan grinds his dick down into Scott’s mouth, Scott rises to the challenge, wrapping his arms around Logan’s thighs and dragging him down.

Logan’s dick is swollen, slick with spit and come, but Scott needs in it his mouth, needs to find his way under the hood with the tip of his tongue and suck, hard, hearing the frame of the bed protest as Logan’s hips jerk.

As far as sounds go, it’s nothing compared to the one Logan makes.

Seriously, it has to be the best sound that Scott’s ever heard. He laughs into Logan’s cunt, pressing his heels down onto the bed to gain better purchase, focusing everything he is on being the best at this.

Listening to each little gasp, each strangled cry, Logan caught somewhere between that balance of not breaking Scott’s neck and chasing after his own pleasure.

Trying his hand at tongue-fucking Logan, lips swollen, chin dripping, Scott risks touch, intimacy, running his fingertips gentle and reassuring over Logan’s thigh. Logan grunts, but the noise is approval, as Scott continues his expiration, moving until he can thumb at Logan’s dick while tasting all of him.

“Fuck,” Logan pants out, one hand squeezing too sharply into Scott’s headboard while the other curls viciously into Scott’s hair. “C’mon,” Logan growls, “make me come.”

Scott obliges, knowing that all of him is going to ache in about ten minutes, but for now doing this, giving Logan this, is all that matters.

It’s predictable and stereotypical and unbelievably stupid, but when Logan grinds his hips down hard, when his mindless chant of cmoncmoncmon starts to stutter, when the set of his claws not next to Scott’s head pop out, cutting into the drywall, as that taste gushes into Scott's mouth, Scott feels like he’s the one that’s going to come, he’s so filled with lust and need, happiness and connection.

Logan lingers for a moment, taking in deep breaths as Scott turns his face to leave a trail of kisses along Logan’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Scott pants, moving to wipe his mouth with his hand but Logan stops him, sliding back down his body, grabbing his wrist. “Whenever you wanna do that…”

There’s no answer from Logan, though. Just the rough press of his lips and the curve of his tongue as he’s cleaning himself off of Scott’s face.

And lowering himself onto Scott’s cock.

“Mphnnh,” Scott groans articulately into Logan’s mouth, trying to gasp for breath as Logan breaks free. “Condom?”

God but Logan is fucking wet and tight already, he’s riding Scott like some pro, fucking down onto him while arching his spine.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Think you can pull out?” Logan grumbles, wincing slightly as his oversensitive dick makes contact with Scott.

It’s not Scott’s preferred method. It’s flawed and dangerous and really Logan knows better. Doesn’t he?

However, it’s funny how quickly reason goes out the window when the Wolverine is sheathed around your dick.

This time it’s Scott who growls, grabbing onto Logan’s hips and thrusting up, fucking mercilessly into him, living for each flex of Logan’s fingers, each toss of his head.

In a breath Scott’s flipping them over, and it’s Logan’s legs that are wrapping around Scott’s back, as his nails claw into Scott’s skin.

“Fuck,” Scott hisses, doing so only to see the sly way Logan smiles, “didn’t expect you to feel so good.”

“Oh?” Logan asks, combing gently at Scott’s sweat-soaked hair.

Scott just hums into Logan’s neck, making each thrust deeper, trying to pour himself into Logan, lost in the feel of him.

But Scott’s far from selfish, his hand sneaking down to the place between them.

“If you touch my dick right now, I’ll break your fucking hand.”

Logan has been making these delicious little breathy whimpers every time Scott bottoms out.

“Too much?” Smug and satisfied and feeling like he’s on top of the world for giving the Wolverine a good lay, Scott smiles down at the man beneath him.

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Logan growls.

So Scott does.

He wraps himself fully around Logan’s glorious body and kisses him gently, his mouth languid and exploring as he rocks into Logan in a slow and steady and never-ending rhythm.

It’s crazy to be like this, to be with Logan like this, to share his breath and to feel his heart be so full as their gazes catch.

Logan gasps into Scott’s mouth, stealing the air from his lungs as Logan clenches around him. There’s so much Scott wants to say, but there are no words that would ever be enough.

“Logan,” Scott groans, curving down and around him, burying his face in the other man’s neck. “Logan,” he says again, because it’s easier saying that than anything else.

But Logan knows, he has to, his arms wrap around Scott’s back as he nuzzles into his cheek. “S’alright. I got you.”

The kiss that follows is fierce, harsh, demanding and needy and Logan gives just as good as he takes, keening lightly into Scott’s mouth as Scott thrusts wildly into Logan, hips jerking and close before he’s pulling away and out, stroking himself quickly, still warm and dripping from Logan’s cunt, before he’s spilling onto him, come striping all that dark hair covering Logan’s chest.

“Fuck,” Scott grumbles as he falls onto his back beside Logan, both of them catching their breath for a moment.

Tentative fingertips play at Scott’s before their hands are joined, tangled together.

“Who was that anyways?” Scott asks after a moment, breathing almost restored to normal but long before he’s willing to start the process of cleaning up.

“Hmm?” It’s more a sound than a response.

“You got the alert in the war room, the one I, well the one that I responded badly to.” Scott turns onto his side, scooting close enough to Logan to throw a leg over him. “But I hadn’t responded to your message yet.”

“You think you were the only one messaging me?” Logan turns and smiles, slow and sinful, as Scott’s mind races and his heart does the same. “Oh calm down, Slim,” Logan reaches over to brush his fingers against Scott’s lips. “You were the only one I messaged back.”

epilogue

Scott smells like money.

From the second he gets back in the mansion, the second he lands the ‘bird, all the air from that little cabin dissipating back into the house.

Molecules of Scott’s scent finding their way to Logan’s overactive olfactory senses.

It’s not like Logan’s been waiting.

Watching.

Unsatisfied with the time and distance that had separated them.

Scott smells like money. Like expensive leather and high-quality oil and some kind of dark oak that’s been aged and soaked in booze.

He went out playing with Warren.

It was supposed to be business. Something with someone, Scott had been talking about it for weeks on end, the two of them scrunched up in bed.

After.

Logan trying to read a book while Scott makes too big, excited movements.

Logan nods. A lot. He kinda listens. He just knew meeting, Warren, lobbyists, something else.

Not high-grade motor oil and expensive leather and whiskey.

Later he’ll find out that they raced some cars. That someone from somewhere like Lamborghini or Bugatti or something ended up wherever the hell they were.

How Scott ends up playing Mario Andretti while Logan gets to mind the brats, know one knows.

Logan will get him back for that later.

For now, though, Logan settles for stalking down the hall. It’s not in Scott’s direction.

But it’s also not not in Scott’s direction.

He’s tall, long, chestnut hair tousled in a way he never lets it get, leather jacket well worn and loose on his shoulders. He’s smiling, it’s an easy smile, one that screams happiness and relaxation and Logan fucking hates it.

That’s his smile.

His. The one he sees last thing at night. The one he sees first thing in the morning.

It’s a smile that opens, broadens, Scott suddenly not even bothering to pay attention to Bobby who’s walking beside him, but who’s smart enough to get the fuck out of dodge as Logan’s steps bring him closer.

“He—“ Scott begins, that smile opening up wider, lightness seeming to root into his whole body, joy and calm just radiating off of him in waves.

Logan slams him against a wall.

Arm twisted up behind his back, pretty lips pressed hard onto the wainscoting Scott’s trying to hiss something, but Logan won’t let him.

“Logan,” Scott finally manages, a few seconds later, as Logan is placating himself burying his face in the curve of Scott's throat.

Just smells like Scott.

No one else.

Scott’s still bitching, grumbling loudly, trying to shove back and away but Logan’s not having it.

No. Not now. Not like this.

There’s a frustrated yank against Logan’s hold, causing Logan to bare his teeth, snarl, to press even closer to Scott, curling his tongue along the line of Scott’s jugular.

A broken sound escapes into the hall, one that shoots like lightning down Logan’s spine, spurring him forward even further.

Or well back, a step or two, where he’s dragging Scott by the wrist a few paces down before jerking open a door.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Scott grouses, looking up at Logan with utter disbelief as Logan pulls him into the closet.

They’ve talked about this closet.

The one Scott hid in. The one where he thought Logan was laughing at him or some shit.

Logan’s not laughing.

But neither is Scott grumbling anymore.

Instead, he’s kicking off his shoes and undoing his pants. There isn’t so much as a whisper of a complaint as Logan does the same, the two of them stripping down in silent synchronization.

Logan huffs a rough laugh as Scott rests his elbows against the nearest shelf, back hinged slightly, ass out.

They’ve gotten good at this.

Good at the way that Scott whimpers at the first chilled press of fingers slicked with cold lube against his entrance.

Good at the way Logan adjusts a little, hooking an arm around Scott’s waist and taking his weight as Logan works him loose.

Good at the way Scott opens up to him, as he stretches eagerly and easily, free from tension or nervousness as he rocks back to meet each thrust of Logan’s hand.

“Mine,” Logan murmurs into Scott’s skin, hearing that little breathy gasp as his cock slides in. It’s bigger now. Just for them. Just for Scott. Made the way he likes it.

Scott allows his head to hang forward, seeking out Logan’s hand and tangling their fingers together as Logan fucks into him. It’s rough and brutal and Logan’s sweating from the effort and he can feel the slickness of Scott’s skin as the small room becomes suffocating with the scent of their sex.

Them.

Together.

No leather or motor oil or money.

Scott’s practically sobbing, knowing enough not to reach for himself, knowing enough to wait, just taking it, taking all of it, taking everything that Logan can give him, and more.

He starts to stutter, breath coming in hiccups, and Logan knows that he should pull out and he should quit because Scott is about to pop off like a fucking bottle, and Scott knows he shouldn’t. That he can’t. Not yet.

But Logan pushes it. He pushes it further and harder, nosing up against Scott’s skin, against his neck, sucking blossoms of color above Scott’s collar line, teeth breaking through skin.

It goes with the other marks, the ones Logan always leaves. The proof. The reminder. So everyone always knows.

A cracked and broken noise comes out of Scott’s throat, making Logan back out, fast, before he’s ripping the strap off and shoving Scott down in the same movement.

Scott falls to his knees with little encouragement. Turning up his chin he waits as Logan hooks a leg over his shoulder, pressing his sopping cunt down against Scott’s face.

He’s hard, fucking aching and swollen, the friction from the strap has been almost too much but Scott knows, he knows, because each kiss from his lips is soft and reverent, each drag of his tongue gentle and devastating, he sucks and licks and fucks into Logan with such skill and care it almost breaks Logan in two.

All Logan does though, is grab hard onto Scott’s hair, shoving him further, deeper, growling low as Scott intensifies everything he’s doing.

Logan’s close, he’s so fucking close, he feels like he could tear himself apart from the need to come as Scott’s tongue fills him again and again.

There’s a moment when everything stops, when each muscle in Logan’s body goes taught and he has to struggle to keep enough wherewithal to not pop his claws because Scott’s too close.

Release comes in a torrent, Logan panting out harshly, making soft whispers of a whimper as he loses control of himself.

It’s okay. Scott’s there. Scott who makes soothing noises and who kisses each thigh like it means something, who has his arms wrapped firmly around Logan keeping him upright while he noses under Logan’s shirt to lay more kisses against Logan’s stomach.

The scent of their come drives Logan wild as he pulls Scott to his feet by his hair. He finds Scott’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and licking it clean.

“Say it,” Logan growls, not giving Scott a chance to answer before he’s pressed against the shelving again, Logan mingling their tastes together in a needy kiss.

Eventually, they slow. Hearts race less fiercely. Breathing steadies.

“Yours,” Scott says as he smiles, that smile, Logan’s smile, all swollen and marked and sated, curling his fingers lazily into the hair at Logan’s nape.